Beautiful Graves(3)

“Gee, Mom, it’s like we know each other.”

“Well, then. All is normal in the land of Pipper.” Pippa and Ever. I love that she gave us a shipping name. Barbie Lawson is a supremely cool mom.

“I already miss you.” I dig my teeth into my lower lip.

“Actually.” She chuckles. “The reason I’m awake is because I’m going through old photo albums of yours. I can’t believe my baby is across the ocean, in Europe, on a girls’ trip.”

Ugh. I’m not going to cry in the Sexy Time aisle. I’m not.

“Yeah, neither can I. Gotta go now, Mom. I love you.”

“Same, to the moon and back.”

I end the call and am about to tuck my phone back into my back pocket.

A shadow looms over my frame, blocking the entrance to the passageway. I glance up. It’s Smoker Dude from the street. Pippa is right. He is kind of hot. In a nonobvious way. He seems tailored to my taste. Drawn in sharp strokes of coal, like a manga character. He is tall, more than conventionally attractive, and lean. His posture mimics that of a wilted sunflower. Head tilted down, like he is struggling to hear normal-height people. He has dark-blue eyes and a square jaw and a nose that is a little too long and pointy. The averageness of his nose gives his otherwise-flawless features more room to shine. It’s nature’s final stroke of genius, making him both attractive and relatable.

“Water balloons,” he deadpans, in an American accent.

“Um, what?”

He jerks his head toward the condom shelf. Right. Pippa’s insane demand that I use at least one condom.

“Fill it up, smash it over her head.”

“That’s mean,” I say.

“Mean? No. Fair? Yes.”

“Can’t do water balloons.” I untuck my septum ring from my nose. “That’s cheating.”

I want him to see the ring. I’m not sure why I want him to see it. Maybe because he is wearing a faded pair of Levi’s folded at the ankles and worn-out Chucks. Or maybe because his tousled dark hair and Anti Social Social Club: Applicant Need Not Apply tee call to me, the way a stranger reading your favorite book on the train calls to you.

“I didn’t realize we were playing on high moral ground here.” His face breaks into a haywire smile. Something inside me melts. It’s warm and gooey and settles in my stomach. Jesus. No wonder Pippa is obsessed with guys. This feels like getting on a Six Flags roller coaster after stuffing your face with a superburrito.

I’m suddenly extremely aware of my arms. Were they always this long? This heavy? This clumsy?

“Were you eavesdropping?” I ask, trying to see myself through his eyes. With my kilt and ruthlessly orange hair. The color rivals that of a perfectly baked autumn leaf. But since redheads make up less than 2 percent of the entire world population, I don’t have it in me to dye it.

He raises his arm, gesturing to a little pack in his hand. “I came to buy this.”

“Lip pencil?” I cock an eyebrow. “To go with your fake lashes?”

There’s a dark edge behind his smile, and it calls to me to come closer, peer in.

“Fine.” He shrugs. “I came in to give your friend a piece of my mind but stayed for the entertainment. Sue me.”

“Sorry about that.” I chuckle. “Pippa’s cool, you know. In a sometimes-I-want-to-duct-tape-your-mouth-but-I’ll-always-love-you kind of way.”

“If you say.”

“I do say. Of course I say. I’ll say it again and again. She is my best friend.”

Somewhere in the back of my head I recognize that I’m displaying extremely odd behavior here. But I want to keep the conversation going.

“You two are different.”

“Why? Because she’s Miss Popular and I’m goth?”

“Yeah,” he says flatly.

This guy is a real rebel. An OG. Not like me and my aesthetically cute septum piercing.

Then he says, “Mainstream people aren’t revolutionary. Nothing good ever comes out of them. Average equals comfort.”

“Is there a compliment hidden somewhere in this sentence?” I squint.

His lips hitch up slightly. I feel light all of a sudden. As if I could drift like a balloon if he continues giving me his drugging attention. “Do you want there to be?”

I think, despite his blank tone, that he is not as nonchalant as he wants me to believe he is. My heart roundhouse kicks my rib cage. But since hope is a great recipe for crashing and burning, I try to examine it from all angles. Maybe he is here for my glamorous, eccentric friend, and I’ll soon be left with one of his wingmen while he woos her. I’ve spent countless nights in awkward conversation with random guys while Pippa was flirting up a storm. It doesn’t normally faze me, but this time, I know it’s going to sting if he wants her.

“What are you listening to?” He changes the subject, jerking his chin toward the earphones slung over my shoulders, just when I ask, “So, are you here on vacation, or . . . ?”

We both laugh. I answer first. “The best song to ever be recorded in the entire world.”

“‘Never Gonna Give You Up,’ by Rick Astley?” His eyes widen comically.

More laughter. “No, but you’re in the right decade.”

“Challenge accepted.” He rubs his palms together. I can tell his interest is piqued. “Let’s see.” He gives me a slow once-over, taking me in, like the answer is written across my shirt. “I’m going with ‘Where Is My Mind?’ by the Pixies.”