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She blushed in humiliation, and flattery, at the thought of him watching her race. “No, but my grandmother was. Since when do you go to cross-country meets?”
He chewed his thumb as if to temper his bashful smile.
“I love the name Isa,” she confessed. “People automatically call me Ana, but Ana feels so common. I guess it fits me better that way.”
“You’re anything but common,” he said with such conviction that it skipped her breath. She quickly covered it with, “Taylor is your middle name, isn’t it?”
“How’d you know?”
She rolled her eyes. “Missy.”
Instead of returning her smile, his face fell. “I hate my first name,” he said, looking away. “I’m named after my dad.”
She searched for an appropriate response. All she had was, “Sorry.” Their connection, or what felt like the beginning of one, started coming apart. “I should go. Thanks for the ride.”
“Wait—you have my number?”
Analise thought of his card tucked in a box underneath her bed. Safe. She nodded, hopeful. “Yes?”
“Good.”
Analise waited for him to elaborate. Instead, he held up his phone. “I won’t go to bed for a while.”
She grinned and stepped out of the car onto what felt like clouds. She thanked him for the ride again and said goodnight.
When she floated inside, a full eighteen minutes before curfew, Analise pulled the patchwork afghan over a sleeping Ulla on the couch and turned off Jay Leno on the Tonight Show. She kissed her forehead and got ready for bed.
Analise lay atop her covers, hands pressed onto her jittery stomach. Waiting.
She waited for Ulla to get up and pad to her own bedroom. Waited for the cadence of heavy breathing. Waited until she could no longer wait and slipped quietly to get the portable phone.
She grabbed her bedspread, dragged it into her closet, wrapped it around her body, and encased herself inside the darkness and privacy.
Analise dialed Taylor’s number.
He answered on the first ring.
They said, “Hi,” shyly at first, followed by, “What are you doing?” and then this eased into school gossip, their life stories, a recounting of childhood with parents that both seemed to enjoy their secrets, including her great-godparents, whom she adored and laughed at when they argued with one another in German. Taylor practiced some of his fourth-year German with her. “I’d love to go there someday,” he said, “find a college where I can study abroad.” But then this veered into silly things like, “How bad was the Lost finale? Did that make any sense to you? Did they all die?” It was just before dawn when the battery on the phone finally gave up, exhausted, and forced them to say goodbye to one another.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Analise
Homecoming at Wayzata High School was a royal affair, complete with all the pomp of expensive coattails and white-ruffled gowns to put a million-dollar wedding to shame.
Though Analise secretly died to be a royal court nominee, especially as a senior, her anxiety would protect her from that ever happening.
With two weeks left before the event, the student body gathered at a pep rally to announce nominees. Analise had apparently gone from untouchable to Dave Laviolet’s girlfriend, thanks to his public stamps of ownership that included waist grabbing and the most abhorred—from-the-behind neck kissing. She tolerated these displays of affection but avoided any more parties with him, and she warded off his attempts to come over. They’d had three official dates: a forgettable action-thriller at the movie theater starring half-naked actors, then bowling, and, finally, Camp Snoopy at the Mall of America. She went to his house once, met his parents, both doctors, and saw pictures of his two brothers, with Dave being the middle child. He took her to his bedroom, undressed her while she traveled her attention along the walls with ticket stubs and photographs from concerts and vacations. He was in a mid-tear of the condom wrapper with his teeth when his parents bellowed his name from downstairs, demanding to know who’d put a dent in their Range Rover.
The school’s fight song finished with a blast from the trumpets in the pep band, and she sat next to Dave on the gym bleachers. He slid his arm around her waist, and she rested her head against the smell of Old Spice laced into his sweatshirt.
She saw Taylor three bleachers down next to Fiona Hayes, the class president. He must’ve made a joke because she laughed and nudged his shoulder. Analise couldn’t take her eyes off him.
They announced the names of the nominees. Missy was a no-brainer. And there were the usual suspects, those with the most visibility, which meant if you weren’t in sports, you’d better be on every club or student council board imaginable.
“Taylor Barnes!”
No surprise there. The boys’ soccer team was undefeated, thanks to Taylor.
