A Tragic Kind of Wonderful(33)

“Grandma says when you find someone, you need to feel two things in particular, or else it’s doomed.”

I brace myself, afraid to guess.

“She says you need fondness and fire, in large, equal amounts. Then there’s a chance.”

I search his eyes for any sign of bullshit …

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“Generally?” It comes out hoarse. I clear my throat. “Or is this one of those questions where it’s hard to tell the truth?”

Adrenaline isn’t seeping into my blood—it’s an injection. I clench my trembling hands in my pockets.

“Your choice,” he says.

“Okay … I’m thinking …”

Oh, what the hell. Kissing someone doesn’t mean signing a contract to reveal everything about me.

I take a deep breath and let it out.

“First base, definitely,” I say with a firm nod. “Second base is a maybe. I’m not sure what third base is … I’ve heard different definitions. Probably shouldn’t hit all the bases the first night, anyway.”

He grins and looks down. Why? He doesn’t usually look away.

“We’re not going to hit any bases tonight,” he says. “And your lie detector test is the closest we’re getting to holding hands.”

Oh God … when he said fondness… did he mean …? But he said fire… or does he think fire means something else? What else could it mean? Wait, he said that’s what Ms. Li said, not what he actually felt. And I’m afraid to go too far with this, anyway, so why is my heart plummeting?

“Hey.” He lowers his head and frowns. “I just don’t want to scare you off. You know, being too intense.”

He has no idea. If anyone’s going to get scared off, it’s him. Just as well. This wasn’t going to go far anyway.

I shrug. “I’m not like other girls.”

He laughs. “That’s what they all say. I also don’t want it to be on someone else’s dime, or have it be anyone else’s idea.”

I think back to the poker table as we got bundled off. I can see those smiles turning smug if we come back holding hands.

“Yeah, you’re right,” I say. “In fact, this wasn’t even a date. It was a pre-date. Next time can be our first official date. Don’t want them taking credit for what we were already thinking.”

David grins.

Damn it—why the hell did I say we?





HAMSTER IS STUMBLING

HUMMINGBIRD IS PERCHED

HAMMERHEAD IS THRASHING*

HANNIGANIMAL IS DOWN

Running on the beach, feet sinking in sand, heart pounding, losing ground, queasy, gasping from exertion and rising panic, doubling over from stabbing pains— A dream: hazy, fading, details lost … but the nausea is real. So is the pain, though it’s lower down. It’s unquestionably a shark attack. A bad one.

Instantly awake, I waddle down the hall. Damn, it got on my nightshirt, my favorite with the zombie teddy bears. Oh, wait, that’s not real blood, just part of the design. Phew.

I skulk back to my room, shivering. Clean underwear, sweats, socks—a pause to take my morning meds plus ibuprofen, no Ritalin—and I crawl back under the covers.

This wasn’t due till Monday. I try to look on the bright side; after a promising visit with Zumi and a fun dinner out with David, I forgot to set my alarm and would’ve slept past time for my meds if the shark bite hadn’t woken me up. I’m also glad Dad’s out of town again so I can hole up here all weekend.

But now, even skipping the Ritalin, I can’t imagine falling back asleep.

I fade in and out all morning, waking up for the umpteenth time: sweaty, bleary, confused. Every time I thought I wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep, I did. Now the sun is high outside the window.

The queasiness is gone but I’m not fooled; it’ll be back. The pain dimmed, too, but that was the pills and it’s already returning. I need more ibuprofen but I’m out of water, and I don’t want to dry swallow, yet I really don’t want to move. As long as I stay here in my cocoon, time might stand still.

It doesn’t. The pain surges, but that’s not what’ll get me out of bed. Shark attack plus skipping Ritalin plus no breakfast adds up to ravenous hunger. I check my phone; it’s almost one thirty. No missed calls or texts. I slowly unwrap, get up, and slump down the hall.

Mom’s at the stove frying two eggs in the iron skillet. She’s wearing her overalls so I won’t be able to. She lifts the lid on a quart saucepan to show me steaming-hot mac and cheese.

I wrap my arms around her.

“Hey,” she says. “I’ve got to get these out if you want runny yolk.”

I free her arms and put my head on her shoulder. “Best Mom Ever.”

“Jesus, Mel.” HJ walks in. “You’re not going to cry, are you? That’s so cliché.”

“How soon they forget,” Mom says and slides the eggs onto a plate. “Somebody must not remember how this cheesy egg recipe got invented in the first place. And back then you’d think the world was coming to an end every full moon.”

HJ rolls her eyes without answering. She opens the fridge.

“You want to do the honor?” Mom swings the saucepan handle toward me.