“Pfft,” I say around a mouthful of moon muffin, brushing crumbs off my boobs. “Enemies. Quiz over; give me another muffin.” I wiggle my ngers in his face.
He laughs and bats away my ngers. “No muffin until we answer the rst question. Ready? Question one.” He starts reading. “ ‘When we ght, (A) it’s like World War ?ree, and takes days for us to speak again; (B) we ght hard but make up fast; (C) we never ght.’ What do you think? A, B, or C?”
God, what is it with him and quizzes? Grace wasn’t wrong; he’s obsessed. “Not C, that’s for sure,” I say. “But not A, either. I guess we’re B. We ght hard, but we make up fast. But that’s mainly because you bribe me with food. Keep that up, and we’ll be okay.”
“B it is.” He holds out another muffin without looking up from his phone. I take it while he reads the next question. “ ‘Our favorite way to spend our downtime is: (A) surrounded by friends at parties, the more the merrier; (B) always on the go, never staying still; (C) chilling alone.’ ”
“I’m guessing you’ll say one of the rst two things, but I’m more of a C kind of girl. Does that ruin our score?”
“Nope. I’m C too, actually.”
Umm, okay. I’m not sure I believe that. ?en again, it’s his day off, and he’s hanging out in a video store by himself, which isn’t how I pictured him. “Oh, look!” I say, gazing down my side of the chairlift. “We’re almost above the Ferris wheel now.”
?e boardwalk looks weird from here, just small bursts of color, and the tops of buildings. Cars rush by on my left, but who wants to look at the town? Unfortunately, I can’t help but glance forward and catch the couple in front of us with their hands all over each other. I think there’s more than kissing happening—wow. I quickly look away.
“?ese lifts sure are slow, aren’t they?” I complain.
“I’ve taken naps on here,” Porter says. “No lie. Next question. ‘If one of us has a problem, we will: (A) keep it to ourselves; (B) immediately come to the other for advice; (C) drop hints and hope the other gures it out eventually.’ ”
“Put me down for selection A.” Delicately, I dip my hand into Porter’s gaping jacket until my ngertips hit the waxed-paper bag and nd another muffin. It isn’t until I’m pulling it out that I look at Porter’s face and hesitate.
“No, please, go on,” he says. “Do help yourself.”
I give him a self-conscious grin. “Oops.”
“You always go around sticking your hands down boys’ clothes?” he asks.
“When they’re full of baked goods.”
“Tomorrow I’m coming to work with ten pounds of pastries in my pants,” he mumbles to himself, making an ooaff! noise when I punch him lightly in the arm.
“Next question, for the love of vanilla,” I beg. “How long is this quiz, anyway?”
“Back up—you chose A for the last one? I chose B,” he says, and I struggle to remember what the question was. “?at probably screws up our compatibility factor. Last one. ‘?e most important quality in a … uh, friendship is: (A) that we share the same interests; (B) that we like each other; (C) that we’re always there for each other, no matter what.’ ”
I swallow the last of my muffin. “What kind of question is that? Shouldn’t there be another option, like, (D) All of the above?”
“Well, there isn’t. So you have to pick one.”
“I refuse.”
“You can’t refuse.”
“?ink I just did, Hot Stuff.”
He snorts at that. “But how will we know if we’re compatible?” he moans. I can’t tell if he’s only teasing me, or if there’s something more beneath the silliness.
“Gee, I don’t know. Guess we’ll have to actually be friends and
nd out for ourselves instead of taking a quiz.”
He shuts his phone off dramatically and shoves it in his pocket. “No one appreciates the ne art of a good quiz anymore. Oh, here we go. Buckle your seat belt; it’s about to get weird. Hope you’re not scared of the dark, or anything. Feel free to stick your hand inside my jacket again if you need to.”
Just in time, I turn my head forward as the lift enters the thick bank of fog that’s rolling off the ocean. Porter was exaggerating. It’s not pea-soup fog. We can still see each other. But the couple in front of us is a little hazier, and except for the occasional truck or tall building, the ground below, too. And it doesn’t really have a scent, exactly, and it’s not wet, either. But it feels different in my lungs.
“Why is it so foggy here in the summer?”
“You really want to know?”
