Furious - By Jill Wolfson Page 0,58
off-balance because I’m so close to him and I can’t believe he’s talking to me, and I can smell his piney, oceany smell. We knock shoulders and bump heads, and it’s a total, horrible disaster.
This encounter firms up my double reputation as a klutz and the girl who hates everyone. I wouldn’t blame him if he ran off screaming. So I’m surprised and relieved that he helps me pick things up. His eyes glide over the invitation. “I got one of those, too.” He comments on the papers. “Furies. Interesting.”
“I’m not always like that,” I blurt.
“Not always like what? Interesting?”
“No, clumsy. Well, actually I am. Clumsy, I mean, not interesting.”
Idiot! Shut up!
He flashes one of his rarely given grins. I almost drop the papers again. Eye crinkles appear, which cut off any possibility of me responding. Brain dead. Lips numb. My mouth won’t do a thing except to smile back way too broadly, a creepy clown grin that makes the muscles in my face hurt. Several more uncomfortable smiling seconds pass, and then, thankfully, he picks up the slack.
“I saw you in the ocean yesterday.”
“I was in the ocean yesterday.” This is the brilliant response that I manage to get out.
“Looking good on that board.”
Does he mean looking good as in I look good to him? My hands begin a mad dash around my body. I can’t stop them. They scratch my upper arm, rip the elastic band out of my hair and put it back in, cover my mouth in a fake cough, and then massage the back of my neck. Stop fidgeting! My left arm finally goes limp at my side and the right hand lands on my hip. I feel the brand-new curve of my waist in my hand and hold it there like a good-luck charm.
“You like to surf?” he asks. “I didn’t know that.”
“I like to surf.”
“Been surfing long?”
“I haven’t been surfing long.” More brilliance by the brilliant conversationalist.
“Maybe you’d like to…”
He hesitates. His eyes drop. He’s shy. I didn’t know that about him. But I imagined that he might be shy. Why not? Popular people can be shy, too. That’s what I saw in his expression! I’m glad he’s shy. I like that he’s shy. It makes him even cuter. So what is he trying to say? Maybe I’d like to what? What? What would I like to do?
“… to go surfing sometime.”
Be cool, Meg. Steady, girl. “Surfing? Me? With you? Together?”
“Yeah, with me. I want you to know…” He jams his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
“About the mini-golf thing. The way you asked me … your invitation was pretty random. ’Cause we never talked before or anything. You took me by surprise.”
“It was weird.”
Something happens to his face then. It scrunches in on itself, a wince, like he’s reminding himself of something he’d rather forget. “No, I want to be more honest. I wasn’t just surprised. I was rude. I was an asshole. When I get uncomfortable, that’s sometimes my default mode.”
My hands start their flutter dance again. “Oh, that’s okay. I didn’t actually expect you to say yes, even though I asked. I’m always doing things like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like…” Shut up! “Like nothing. I had the coupon and I saw you and I thought … anyway, it was just a whim. Dumb.”
“No, it wasn’t dumb at all. It was kinda cool. Nobody ever does anything like that. We stay with the same group of friends forever, never step out of our comfort zone. You tried. I’m flattered.”
I feel my cheeks getting hot. Ambrosia is definitely wrong about him. Here’s the hard evidence she wanted. He actually apologized for being a jerk. On his own. We didn’t do a thing to make this happen.
A couple of his friends walk by. Brendon’s right hand comes out of his pocket, and I figure that’s that, now he’s going to signal them to wait up for him. Apology over. Good-bye, Brendon. But instead, he pulls out a bag of jelly beans and holds it open for me. I take my time to select pineapple and coconut. He chooses the same piña colada flavors. I can tell he does that on purpose. That’s so adorable.
Chew, swallow. “I also want to apologize for my friends—about the golf-club swinging. So immature. They can be real jerks.”
I shrug. “That’s okay. You’re not your friends.”
“I know, but it’s no excuse.” Another wince moves over his face. “My friends do things, and I just go along with