“What? No.”
But I say the words far too quickly for them to be believable.
Idohave her schedule memorized, and I hate myself for it. I don’t know why I care, other than to be able to ask her about the kitchen again. Still, I shouldn’t know it. I should just wait to run into her, and that’s it.
“I’m covering for Warner,” she explains, letting me have my crappy lie. “He said he had a thing again with his grandmother.”
“His otherothergrandmother?”
She wrinkles her nose. “He’s totally lying, isn’t he?”
“Big-time.” I make a mental note to have a chat with him about that. If he doesn’t want the hours, I’ll happily give them to someone else.
“Well, whatever,” she says, coming into the arcade and standing at the machine next to me. I dig into my pocket, then pop a few quarters into the change slot for her. “I knew the place could use the extra hands with trivia night. Not like I had anything else going on anyway.”
There’s no missing the bitterness in her words. I bet Port Harbor is nothing compared to the fun she was used to having in Chicago.
“I mean, it’s not like I used to go out a lot before coming back here,” she says, pulling back the plunger and letting the ball fly. “But at least I had a few friends to hang out with. Here, all I have is Odette and Noah, and no offense to them, but I have no desire to be their third wheel.”
“That’s what I tell them every time Odette is on my ass about not hanging out with them. Right.”
“Huh?”
She looks over at me just as her ball goes soaring right between the flippers.
She frowns, and I chuckle.
“Shut up,” she practically growls. “That was your fault.”
“Was not. And you get another, so suck it up and do better.”
Summer shoots me a dirty look before launching the ball again. She doesn’t miss it the first few times it comes toward her, but she doesn’t do a good job of hitting it either. It goes nowhere near where it should.
“Left,” I say, and she hits the button a second too late. “Faster.”
“Faster? What do you mean?”
“I mean, press the button faster. Sooner. Right.”
“Stop telling me what to do!” she yells as she hits the left button.
“Right, right.”
“Shut up!”
“Left.”
“I swear—”
“Right.”
“Ezra!”
She panics and smashes both buttons repeatedly. The ball flies all over the playfield, hitting bumpers and spinners, and I laugh at the absolute terror on her face as she tries to keep it in play.
Honestly, it’s not the worst strategy I’ve seen, but I’m not shocked when she loses again.
“Ugh, this is all your fault!” She points an accusatory finger at me. “You made me suck.”
