like Natalie Portman to him? “She has brown eyes.”
“Shape of the face. That exquisite little chin.”
Exquisite? “She’s … pretty.”
“My point exactly.” He puts his elbows on the table and drops his chin on his knuckles. “Trust me, it was worse when my mom was around.”
What was? I blink at the rapid subject volley, trying to keep up with him. “Do you have ADD or something?”
“Something.” He’s still staring at me, comparing me to Natalie Portman. “I’m dyslexic.”
Oh, again. “You like to drop bombs,” I say. “Is that for dramatic effect?”
“I want to be honest and open with you.”
I can’t help it. I have to know. “Why?”
He’s not surprised by the question; I think he thrives on directness. A slow smile pulls at his lips. “Because I believe I can trust you.”
“You can,” I tell him. “Don’t other people know about … your mom? Your dyslexia?”
He doesn’t answer right away, taking the cup and twirling the brown sleeve around as he thinks. “I moved here last year from Pittsburgh.”
At the beginning of the spring semester. “I remember.” When he arrived at Vienna High, a tremor went through the female population.
“You do?” Now that surprises him.
“Of course I do. You seemed …” Experienced. Dangerous. Hot. “Older than most of us.”
“Held back a few times,” he admits with no shame. “I’ll be eighteen in four months.”
I nod, trying not to show how that affects me. Eighteen seems so much older than my just-turned-sixteen. Mom would explode. And, I have to acknowledge the obvious: he’s just about Conner’s age. And this boy couldn’t possibly be more different from my positive, gregarious, universally adored brother.
“So, you moved here because of your family?”
“It was here or more time in juvie.”
I laugh quietly.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because you’re so up front about these things.”
He shrugs. “I speak the truth, always.”
I like that. “But most kids would either try to hide that or … I don’t know. I guess I don’t hang around kids who’ve been in juvie, so I really don’t know. So what happened?”
“I drag raced.”
“That’s enough to put you in juvie?”
He shrugs, then closes his eyes. “And wrecked.”
“Oh.”
“A stolen car.”
Ouch. “That was dumb.”
“You have no idea.”
“Did you get hurt?” I ask.
Color slowly drains from his cheeks. “No, but …” He shifts in his seat and blows out a slow breath. “There was a girl in the car with me and she … did. She got hurt.” He mumbles the last words.
After a beat of silence, he looks directly at me. “She can’t walk.”
I freeze for a second, then fall back against my chair. “That’s horrible.”
“Yep. I’m on probation now, and my aunt convinced my officer to let me have a license and live with her. Good thing, since my dad thinks I’m the devil incarnate and my mom doesn’t know who I am half the time.”
Probation. Juvenile detention. Mental institutions. A paralyzed passenger in a stolen car. Jeez, this guy is trouble—and yet I feel more comfortable with him than with the boy who lives with a millionaire grandfather and tried to make out with me in his billiard room.
“How long are you on probation?” I ask.
“Till I’m eighteen.” He looks a little wistful, as if the idea of leaving his aunt doesn’t appeal to him. Maybe he’s tired of moving around.
“Then where?”
“No clue, Mack.” He leans closer. “So, did you have fun?”
The way he jumps topics is like dancing with someone who keeps changing the rhythm—I don’t know what to expect. “Fun doing what?”
“At Collier’s party.”
“How do you know I was there?”
He puts his elbows on the table again, but this time flattens his palms together, looking at me over long, strong, tanned fingers. “Vienna’s not that big a place. And there were more Instagram pictures. Hashtag kissing number five.”
My cheeks burn again but I refuse to look away from him. “Yeah,” I say. “That happened.”
He still stares, unnerving me.
“Look, I came here to help you,” I say. “If you have problems with math, I can. If you just want to … to … share coffee? Then …” I trail off and wait for him to help me out.
“Then you have a boyfriend already.”
“Not technically.” Dang, that might have been too fast.
“Just random make-out sessions with good-looking jocks?”
“We didn’t make out. Exactly.”
He leans forward, surprising me when he snags my hand. “You be careful, Mack.”
“I …” I want to pull my hand away, I really do, but there’s something so incredibly comforting about the feel of his palm and fingers over my knuckles. It’s like