Furious - By Jill Wolfson Page 0,13
I wonder what she wants from you.”
“Why do you think she wants something?”
“Of course, she wants something! Meg, under Ambrosia’s flawless patina of impeccable mystery beats a core of pure emotional manipulation. Surely you’ve noticed that.”
“Maybe she…” I pause a second, remind myself of the pull of her perfume, the tickle of her breath whispering in my ear. I take a leap over Raymond’s logic. “I don’t know, maybe she wants to hang out with me. Maybe we”—I struggle to find the right word for what happened between us—“clicked.”
I immediately catch myself. Saying this might hurt his feelings because of the special Meg-Raymond bond that we’re both so protective and proud of. “Not click like you and I click. You know I don’t mean that.”
He extends his pinkie and I hook it to mine, and at the same time we say “Pinkie Pull of Trust.”
I go on. “But maybe she, you know, likes me.”
He lifts an eyebrow suggestively.
“Not that way! Maybe she thinks I’m cool.”
“Ambrosia? Don’t be ridiculous!”
Ouch. That hurts. The word ridiculous seems to echo in the damp air. At the corner we wait for a car to turn and then cross the street. At the curb there’s a big puddle that Raymond leaps over and easily clears with his long legs. I jump, too, and wind up soaking the cuffs of my jeans. Ridiculous. He talks on, either ignoring or not noticing the impact of that word on me.
“Earth to Meg. You spy with your sharp little eye the type Ambrosia surrounds herself with. Those girls date college guys. Not community college, four-year college. Sophomores. I’ve taken the time to look beneath your surface to discover and appreciate your core of pure wondrousness. But Ambrosia? Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not in her league.”
A knot in my throat tightens, twists. Things get quiet after that, and it’s not the comfortable silence between two close friends who agree on everything. With each step down the street, I flip between two feelings that shouldn’t even exist at the same time in the same mind together: I’m pathetic. (Of course he’s right about me not being in Ambrosia’s league. Nobody is really in her league. How stupid can I be?) I’m pissed off! (But Raymond didn’t feel what I felt. It happened! Ambrosia felt it, too. Raymond must be jealous of her. I bet that’s it! She didn’t call him a treasure.)
The next block is where we split off in different directions, and I’m more than ready to go. But Raymond holds me back by wrapping his arm around my shoulder. I start to push it off, but instead stand rigid to show him that I am not returning the hug.
“Meg-o-mania, don’t be mad at me. You know how my mouth works. I can’t help myself sometimes. When I said that you’re not in Ambrosia’s league, I meant it as a compliment. Take it that way. There’s something so cold and calculating about her, and you’re … you’re so warm and not calculating.”
I shrug, won’t meet his eye.
“Come on! Don’t be stubborn.”
I shrug again. I’m sure I’ll get over the sting of his insult eventually. That’s me. I always get over anything. Forgive and forget. Turn the other cheek. But right now, I don’t want to. I don’t feel like it. I’m glad that we live on opposite sides of town. He gives me his pleading puppy-dog look, and in return I lift my hand in a quick half-wave, show him my back, and walk away. I hope that motion says to him: I get to be mad sometimes, too.
I’m definitely in no rush to get back to the Land of the Leech, so I take the long way. I have a lot to think about besides Raymond. Something is going on. Ambrosia. Ms. Pallas. How do they fit together? Alix is part of this something, too. I feel it. And what is Stephanie’s place? Is she part of it? I weave west through some neighborhoods and eventually wind up on the single-lane walkway that borders the cliff along the coast. Being here clears my head a little. I can never get enough of the kelpy, salty smell and the cold fog on my face and in my hair.
I head north, my left hand tingling cold from the wind off the ocean. Ahead of me, I spot the town’s famous surfer statue that stands on a pedestal on a spit of land that protrudes above the water. The statue’s a little corny—a