“I haven’t slept very well,” I say, adding to the hard sell.
Her gaze lingers on me for a few long seconds, and I sense she’s running her bullshit meter. I might not be passing.
We both startle when the front bell rings. I sit up and run my fingers through my tangled nest of hair while my mom rushes over to look through the side window. I’ve been wearing the same sweatpants and unicorn shirt since I left the Buick, but anyone who comes to our door wouldn’t care, so I get to my feet in case it’s something my mom needs help with.
“It’s a . . . boy?” She says that as if she’s not sure, so I move a little closer.
“Like, one we know?” My response sounds amused.
“Well, the only one I know lives next door, and this isn’t him, but he looks like Lucas. Maybe one of his friends?”
Shit.
I glance down at my unicorn shirt with a new perspective. There’s a chocolate ice cream stain right where the horn is, like magic popping out of the magic unicorn tip. I don’t have to peek through the window to know, but I do anyway, just as Tory cups his eyes and peeks inside. He laughs when our eyes meet, then waves.
“Friend of yours?” My mom lifts a brow, teasingly. I don’t get male visitors. I’ve had one boyfriend, and he was from my Montessori school and lived more than twenty miles away. We either met in the middle at the mall, or my mom dropped me off at his house.
“He’s in my fifth hour,” I say, moving past my mom to answer the door. “I’ll get rid of him,” I add, opening the door and hoping Tory didn’t hear me dismiss him like that. I’m not out to purposely hurt feelings—at least, not everyone’s feelings.
Only a few people’s feelings.
“Getting rid of me, huh?”
“Sorry.” I wince. “I didn’t want my mom to get all . . . nosy?”
He smirks at my response.
“No, no, I’m not flirting.” I stop any ideas he might have about a me and him, expecting him to laugh it off with me. When he doesn’t, I shrink my chin into my chest and back up toward the door, a little freaked out.
“Why would that be so bad?” He leans into the post of our front porch, thumbs hooked in his front pockets, hair combed to the side and one eyebrow raised. Basically, he’s a character from Grease the way he stands in his letter jacket.
“Tory . . .” A nervous giggle is the only thing I can seem to get out after his name.
He stares at me long enough for my anxious laughter to subside, then moves down a step and sits, gesturing for me to sit with him. I do, resting with my back against the guardrail so I’m as far from him as I can be while sharing a step. He laughs at my invisible wall, mocking me a little by moving close enough to his side of the wooden stair to cling to the post. I relax a little when he does it and shrug off my overreaction.
“Look, I’m not saying date me. I don’t date,” he begins. I puff out a laugh.
“How romantic.”
He glares at me with straight-lined lips.
“I can be very romantic. I promise you, romance is all over this body,” he says, running his hand around his chest. I laugh genuinely at his expense.
“Fuck off,” he says, standing and walking down my walkway.
“Tory, I’m sorry,” I say, feeling guilty. He stops and turns a few yards away, facing me as he exhales.
“I like your company. And honestly? I could use a friend who isn’t . . . your jackass neighbor. Or my twin. Or some other jock who thinks and acts like I do.”
I wait him out for a beat, surveying the nuances of his expression, but they never betray his words. I think he honestly just wants to spend time with me.
I look down at my shirt and pull the unicorn out from my chest. “Even if I decide to go somewhere with you while wearing this?”
His eyes dip down and his mouth hangs open.
“No, on second thought, forget it. I mean, I was digging your vibe and all, but then I noticed that little chocolate stain and—” He pauses, stepping closer and pointing at my shirt. I look down and he flicks his finger up at my nose, a joke my mom’s brother, my uncle John, does every single freaking time he sees me. I roll my eyes and stand to face off with him.
“Come on, let’s go get burgers. Drive-thru, clearly,” he says, waving an arm up and down at my appearance. I laugh, but I also want to go. I want to get out of here, out of my funk.
“All right, let me get some shoes and tell my mom,” I say, padding up the step and back to the door.
“Meet you in my car,” Tory says over his shoulder.
I wave in acknowledgement as I step inside. My mom is waiting right where I left her, probably overtly watching out the window.
“Don’t stare like that,” I say, walking by her and toward the sofa, where my flip flops have lived for two days. I’m doing my best to combat her gooey, mushy boy-crush eyes. My mom has long had hopes for some normalcy in my coming-of-age story. It’s never been about being a busybody, or a matchmaker, but more that she’s afraid her story has changed the course of mine. I’d never tell her this, but I think maybe it has.
I toss my hoodie on over my makeshift pajamas, my phone and wallet tucked in the pocket, and slide back toward the door in my flipflops. My mom halts me with a stiff arm, though, before I get to the door.
“So, we’re not feeling sick now, huh?” Her brow arches . . . again. It’s been doing that a lot.
“I haven’t been out of the house in two days, and someone wants to buy me a burger. It’s a free burger,” I say, shaking my head.
She turns her head just a fraction, side-eying me, and says “Uh huh.” “Midnight,” she adds, with a stern nod.
I nod back, though it is weird for her to give me a curfew. She’s never given me one before, but that’s probably because I literally don’t go anywhere. At least, I haven’t gone anywhere during these risk-laden teenage years. My hunch is that Tory’s slick look has something to do with this. He does put off a bit of an “I’m gonna head to some drag-races with your daughter in tow” kind of face.
The front door doesn’t close behind me until I’m almost to Tory’s car, and the only reason I know it finally does is because of the hysterical laughter Tory bursts into as he rolls down the passenger window of his Toyota.
“I’m sorry. My mom—”
“Is being a mom,” he interrupts. “Mine is just as embarrassing.”
I laugh lightly as I slide into the seat and buckle up, but when I turn my head away, I’m sure the scowl is harsh on my face. His mom. Lucas’s dad. Best friends with this secret I know happening behind their backs. I swallow and turn back to nod that I’m ready while clutching my phone and wallet in my lap.
“Two-fers?” he asks, shifting into drive and flipping around in front of Lucas’s house.
“Sounds good,” I say, a little rush of nerves tickling my chest. Two-fers is pretty much the place for high schoolers in our community. They sponsor every Public football game. But they also have the best crinkle fries in the county, so having to sit in the D’Angelo car in my jammies in front of people who have always intimidated the hell out of me is maybe worth it. Plus, the drive is short.