“Thank you.”
“It’s so curly . . .”
“There’s a lot of product in it.”
He moved his face closer. “Do you want me to kiss you?” he whispered.
Julia nodded. “Yeah.”
Wyatt kissed her.
She didn’t kiss him back at first—she didn’t think of it.
She was thinking about how his mouth was bigger than hers. And how he tasted like Chloe’s Twizzlers. She was thinking about how much she’d always liked him from a distance. A short distance. From three chairs back or across the cafeteria. And how he was even better like this, close-up and one-on-one. Messier than he looked. And even nicer.
Julia was seizing the moment. She was living a little. (A lot!) She wasn’t trying to solve tomorrow’s problems ... Monday morning’s problems ... Julia Kimball’s problems ...
She was a strange girl at the edge of darkness.
She was a figment of Wyatt Hardy’s imagination.
He pulled his mouth away a little. “Yeah?” he asked.
Julia nodded. Her mouth touched his. She tried kissing him. He kissed her back.
She squeezed his hand. Wyatt touched her cheek. And then her hair.
She thought that maybe she should be afraid. No one knew where she was. No one could see her.
She wasn’t afraid.
She wanted more of this—every part of it.
The lights came up over the cars when the movie credits rolled.
Julia and Wyatt were sitting under a huge floodlight. They pulled away from each other, blinking and smiling and trying to turn their heads away from the light.
Wyatt kept hold of her shoulders. He laughed out loud.
Julia had been so lost in the kissing, she hadn’t even realized the movie was ending. She hadn’t heard any of the dinosaurs shrieking. She tried to smooth down her hair. “I should text my friend.”
“Yeah ...” Wyatt said. “Maybe she wants to stay for the next movie.”
“Maybe . . .”
It occurred to Julia then—Why hadn’t this occurred to her earlier? Did kissing make her stupid?—that Wyatt might ask to see her again. He might ask for her number or to follow her on Instagram. (She didn’t have an Instagram.) He might finally ask her name. Should shelie to him? Should sherun?
The theater manager was making announcements over the sound system:
“The speed limit is five miles per hour. Don’t forget to turn on your lights. If you’re staying with us forThe Lost World, please wait to move your car. Julia Kimball, if you’re listening, please meet your ride at the snack bar.”
Julia took out her phone—she had a dozen missed texts. She didn’t move to open them.
“That’s Juuulia Kim-ball”—the guy sounded like an old-fashioned disc jockey—“meet your ride at the snack bar.”
She didn’t move.
Wyatt shook her shoulders a little. “Hey, did you hear that? You’re famous.”
