“Oh my God.”
He laughs. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll meet you on the swings.”
Imagine my shock when I get to the playground at 3:20 p.m., and Zan-the-Man (that’s another one I hear in the hallways) is already there. Literally on a swing.
His too-long legs pump-pump-pump, and he flies so high, the chains go slack at the top. When he sees me, he jumps out at the peak of his next arc. His arms lift, and his dark hair flutters in the breeze as he drops.
I can’t look away.
He dusts off his pants, spreads his arms, and smiles. “Rico!” he says. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Totally roll my eyes, but if I’m honest, it’s a cover for how wildly uncomfortable I am. Talking to Zan Macklin in the dim-ish hallways of Norcross High School with other people milling around was one thing….This? Out in the open, sun blazing, one-on-one? It’s like I can feel how dingy and overworn my clothes are—jacket, shirt, skirt, the whole nine.
He heads over to a bench to sit and pats the space beside him, so I take a deep breath and comply, putting my hands beneath my thighs and staring down at our feet. The contrast between his pristine brown wing tips (what high school senior even wears those?) and my scuffed thrift-store boots would be enough to make me literally run away were I not so desperate.
One. Hun. Dred. Six. Milllllll…
Which is probably about how much this guy has in his trust fu—
“Speakest thou to the Zan, O Avoidant One,” he says, flicking a neon-yellow fidget spinner that seems to have appeared out of thin air.
“Oh my God, will you let that go?” My face is a raging inferno of mortification.
“I will not.” He sticks his nose in the air. “What did I ever do to you, huh?”
“I didn’t think you even knew who I was.”
Didn’t mean to say that aloud, but when he doesn’t respond, I turn to him. Like on some strange instinct.
One of those thick eyebrows is practically making out with his hairline. “You’re not serious.”
“Why wouldn’t I be serious?”
“Well, for one, you’ve been in nine of my classes over the years.”
“Has it really been that many?” And is he really keeping count?
“It has.”
Hmm. “Go on.”
“For two, your name is Rico Danger.”
“It’s actually DON-gur—”
He’s…aghast, it seems. “Why would you ever tell anyone that?”
“Because it’s true?”
He shakes his head, gives the spinner another flick. “Do you have any idea how awesome it is to have Danger for a last name? If your future husband doesn’t take your name, he’s a dumbass.”
“Future husband?”
“Or wife,” he amends. “Spouse. Future spouse.” His cheeks are pinkening, and okay, maybe I chuckle a little. Partially because Zan Macklin just suggested I’ll get married one day. Pffft.
“Is that a laugh I hear? Is the Avoidant One warming up to ol’ Zanny Zan?”
“You might have an ego problem, Zanny Zan. That’s a lot of self-nicknaming.”
Now he laughs. “Touché, Ice Queen.”
He slouches down and stretches his arms across the back of the bench. The cologne punches me in the olfactory receptors and my head goes a little fuzzy. Man, what is in that stuff?
I swallow. “So what’s three?”
“Three?” he says.
“You gave me a for one and a for two…which implies a for three, doesn’t it? Don’t things like this usually come in trios?” Also, am I really sitting here talking to Zan Macklin like I know him, know him?
Wild.
“Who’s got the ego problem now, huh, Danger?”
The corner of my mouth lifts despite my inner protestations. “Whatever.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Cut it out.”
Gotta say: Zan Macklin’s way down-er-to-earth than I expected. I’m (cautiously) pleasantly surprised—and optimistic.
He’s smiling now. And looking at me. I can see it in my peripheral.
“There actually is a for three,” he says.
“Okay…”
A couple of seconds pass. Then a couple more.
Nothin’.
Another instinctive nonresponse-provoked head turn…He’s full-on blushing now. “Well?” I say.
“Well what?”
“What’s for three?”
“Well, for three, you’re…” He looks at me. “Well. You’re you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re like…aesthetically unique.”
“Unique.” I hate that word.
“Yeah. Different. Singular. Whatever you want to call it.”
“Okay…”
“It’s a compliment. Let’s get down to business, yeah?”
I gulp then. And notice his watch. Which pretty much blasts a big-ass hole in whatever tenuous web of connection I was feeling with good ol’ Zanny Zan. Despite the fact that he’s playing with a fidget spinner my nine-year-old brother would be really into.
God, what the hell was I thinking putting my grubby little hands on the Sultan of Sanitary Supplies? Are my nails even clean?
I totally peek down at them.
“What’d you wanna talk to me about?” he says.
I can’t respond. It’s like the letters all tumble apart when the words reach the tip of my tongue.
“Rico, if you wanted me to take you on a park date, all you had to do was ask—”
“Whoa, that is not what this is about.”
He grins. “So?”
Why is this so hard?
“Okay,” I say. Deep breath. He’s just a dude. With hella money, yes, but also a crater of a former zit giving me stank-eye from the side of his nose. “Remember how when you were coming into the store on Christmas Eve, there was a cute little old lady going out?”