“For schooling you about bats and birds?” She ducks her head. “You’re welcome, I guess.”
“No, for—”
She waves me off. “My mom used to tell me random facts whenever I got nervous before recitals. We had a giant book of weird facts she’d cart around—worked like a charm every time.”
“Recitals?”
“It’s a long story. So, was it the dancing or the crowds?”
“Crowds.” I wince. “But I also can’t dance.”
“Can’t or don’t?”
I shrug. “Is there a difference?”
“There’s definitely a difference.” She laughs and pulls her phone out of her tiny purse thing. “Hang on, I promised Jayla I’d tell her where we went. If I don’t, she’ll have the police swarming the place. So, if you’re, like, a secret murderer or whatever and this was all a trap, you should probably just go now.”
“I’m not,” I say, trying hard not to overthink the fact that it’s probably exactly what a secret murderer would say. “But I’m in awe that you essentially implemented a dead man’s switch during our two-minute walk to this lounge. Very impressive.”
“Yeah, well, I’m nothing if not resourceful.” She smiles again, and it’s a little bit contagious. “You have a dimple,” she says, like it’s something new and noteworthy.
“Nothing gets past you,” I answer, and then bite the inside of my cheek. Was that rude? I was going for playful. Did she think it was rude? She probably did. I should stop talking. I should go.
“I like it,” she says, and leans forward to poke her finger in it. I pull back, not because I don’t like it. I just . . . wasn’t expecting her to touch me.
“Sorry.” She shoves her hands under her knees, and no, no, don’t make that face. It was fine, maybe. I don’t know. But nothing really comes out, so I just sort of shrug.
“You’re fine,” I say after too long because I’m awful at this. “It just caught me off guard.”
“I find it hard to believe that you’re ever off guard.”
“I’m trying to be. Right now, anyway.” I shake my head again. “I suck at meeting new people, sorry.” Wow, nice, Ridley, nothing says flirting like dumping your social anxiety all over someone you just met.
“Same,” she says, which seems fake, but okay. She waves her hand in front of me. “I’m digging this whole shy, stammering thing you have going on, if that helps you relax any.”
I laugh; I can’t help it. “You are definitely the first person who’s ever said that.”
“Well, it’s true.”
I narrow my eyes, looking for any hint that she’s lying, and finding none. “I’m really glad you lost that feather.”
“I’m really glad you picked it up.” She leans forward and flicks the side of my mask again.
And I know she wants me to take it off. Hell, I even sort of want to take it off—like it’s probably really fucking weird that I haven’t—but it still feels safer in here. Like I’m watching it unfold somehow. Like maybe there’s a chance I won’t overanalyze every second of this conversation after it’s over, because it happened to Office Batman instead of shithead Ridley. Also, I probably have those annoying red indents all over my face from wearing it all night, so.
We sit in silence for a second, just looking at each other—her through her feathers and me through my mask—but it doesn’t feel weird. It feels . . . nice? Until she clears her throat and sits a little straighter, and I stare down at my shoes, willing my foot not to tap.
“How did you end up working for Satan’s Comics with your sister tonight? Is it some kind of, like, sibling purgatory program or something?” she asks. “Did you do something really awful?”
“Satan’s Comics?”
“Sorry, sorry, The Geekery.” She rolls her eyes. “‘Satan’s Comics’ is just our little family nickname for it.”
My stomach tenses. Right, she hates us, like everyone else. Shit, even I do, and I own shares. Or will own shares someday. Maybe. If I’m in the will. Which I might not be, actually, but. “They aren’t that bad, are they?”
“Oh my god.” She frowns. “They’ve brainwashed you. Don’t worry, I can help. Hurry, let’s run away together. I’ll introduce you to some real artists and a good comic shop, and we’ll do our best to deprogram you before our evil overlords ever find out.”
I do this snort-chuckle thing that I will definitely be cringing over for the rest of my life and shake my head. “Come on, they can’t be as terrible as all that.”
“You poor thing,” she says, clutching her heart in mock horror. “Yes, they are. Do you know how many people they’ve put out of business? Not to mention the sort of events they promote.” She makes a gagging face. “Plus, the way they go after Vera Flores now. I mean, come on.”
Shit. Of course she would know about that—she’s dressed as one of Vera’s characters. She’s probably as big a fan of hers as I am. If this girl finds out who my dad is, I’m totally screwed.
thinkthinkthinkthinkthink
“They do a lot of charity work,” I point out, which sounds pathetic, but.
“Probably just for the PR,” she says, which, fair. I should probably care that she’s trash-talking my family’s legacy, but the way she gets all animated and her eyes get all sparkly while she rants is a little bit addicting.
“Seriously, if you ever want to run away . . .” She laughs.
“Watch out, I might take you up on that,” I say, the words just slipping out, and she smiles the kind of smile you can’t fake, with the tip of her tongue sneaking out between her teeth. And I feel happy and sad at the same time and wish I was anyone else, because anyone else would be going in for the kiss right now, and I’m just sitting here staring.
Her phone dings. She reads a text message and frowns. “Shit. I have to go.”
“You do?” I ask, trying to swallow the disappointment that’s building like bile in my throat.
waitwaitwaitplease
Music starts playing—violins, maybe?—and it takes me a second to realize it’s her ringtone. Which is surprising. I don’t know what I expected, really, but I guess not classical music.
“Hello?” she says, wincing as she answers her phone. “Mom, I’m fine. . . . No. No! You do not have to come find me. Why are you even at the prom? . . . Uh-huh, sure, drink tickets, I completely believe that. I’m fi—okay, okay! Ten minutes? . . . Fine, five. Five. I’ll be there. . . . Love you too. Bye.”