Emmy & Oliver - Robin Benway Page 0,39
Caro plunked herself in Oliver’s empty seat. “I just got you date number two with your childhood sweetheart–slash–tragic love story—”
“My what?” I uncovered my face to look at her.
“—and you get to go to the party afterward and hang out with both of your cool friends and Oliver.”
“Don’t call him that.”
She frowned. “That’s sort of his name.”
“No, my ‘childhood tragic love whatever’ thing you just said. Don’t say that. It’s not funny, Caro.” I hadn’t meant my words to sound that vehement, and judging from her expression, neither did Caro.
“Fine, sorry. But you know what I mean.”
I did and I didn’t. I didn’t know what any of it meant, or even if I wanted to.
“Um, Emmy?” she said, then glanced down at my now-shredded note card, pieces of je ferais still between my fingers. “What did the French language ever do to you?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
After school, Drew’s wet suit and surfboard slung into the back of my car next to mine, my parents texted about my change in plans (“have fun!! Thank u for telling me and BE SAFE!” my mom wrote back), and Oliver in the passenger seat next to me, I peeled out of the school parking lot and headed west.
“So what’d you tell your mom?” I asked him. The windows were down and the wind made it hard to hear, so I just yelled louder instead of rolling them up. The fresh air smelled good, like clean laundry and salt, a reminder that we were only a few minutes away from the ocean.
“I just said I was hanging out with you,” Oliver said. His elbow was resting on the car door, and his hand was cupped against the wind, forcing his fingers apart.
“No, you did not!” I gasped.
“What?”
“Oliver!” I screeched. “My mom talks to your mom, like, every five minutes! If she—”
Oliver grinned wickedly at me. “Kidding.”
I tried to stop a smile as I punched him in the arm. “You have a real violent streak, you know that?” He laughed, trying to block my fist as I socked him again. “Ow! Okay, uncle, I’m sorry.”
“You’re a weenie,” I told him.
“Weenie? Wow, my delicate ears. Ow, okay! Sorry again! Eyes on the road, by the way. You’re operating heavy machinery with me in it. And I asked Rick, not my mom. I just said that Drew and some guys and I were going to the movies.”
I glanced at him. “Is Rick, you know, cool about that?”
“I guess. I don’t know, he’s cooler than my mom sometimes. He doesn’t act like the roof is going to cave in every five minutes.”
I sat back in my seat, putting both hands on the wheel once again. “Do you know what would happen if my mom found out I was at a party?” I asked him.
“Is that rhetorical?”
“Yes. But just so you know, they would lock me in the basement forever.”
“I don’t believe that,” Oliver scoffed, sticking his arm out the window once again. “That’s not even possible.”
“Oh, trust me, it would happen. And then you would feel bad for me.”
“It wouldn’t happen,” Oliver insisted. “You don’t even have a basement.”
“Fine. The attic, then. They would lock me in a cold, dark place and feed me nothing but gruel. Like a mash-up of Jane Eyre and Oliver Twist. My mom was an English major, she could make it happen.”
Oliver looked at me, tucking his hair behind his ears.
“What?” I asked, glancing at him before checking my mirrors and turning right.
“You’re just a weirdo,” he said. “That’s all.” But his voice was soft, probably muted by the wind. He looked at me for a few more seconds before sticking his head out the window like a dog, smiling into the air when I laughed at him.
“Now who’s the weirdo?” I yelled, but either he didn’t hear me or he just agreed, because he smiled again and didn’t say anything more.
Oliver and I had both been right about the swells: they were just baby waves that day, the hot weather and dry wind making the horizon look both still and shimmery at the same time. They were perfect for Oliver.
Unfortunately, he was still a far from perfect surfer.
“Paddle, paddle, paddle, PADDLE!” I screamed, sitting astride my board as I watched him try to get ahead of a wave. His arms moved fast like propellers, but as soon as the wave caught up to him, he planted his feet on the board . . . and immediately fell over.
“Have you considered a different sport?” I asked