Finding Cinderella (Hopeless #2.5)(18)

Once we’re in the car I don’t even wait for her to shut her door before I’m putting it in reverse.

“Seriously, why are you in such a hurry?” she asks.

“I’m not in a hurry,” I say defensively. “You were just being really slow.”

The last thing she needs to know is how utterly pathetic I am. So pathetic I’ve been awake for two hours now, waiting until we could leave. I probably won’t even see Six until lunch if we don’t have classes together, so I really don’t know why I’m in a hurry.

I didn’t think about that. I hope we do have classes together.

“How was your date last night?” Chunk asks as she puts on her seatbelt.

“Good,” I say.

“Did you kiss her?”

“Yep.”

“Do you like her?”

“Yep.”

“What’s her name?”

“Six.”

“No, really. What’s her name?”

“Six.”

“No, not whatever nickname you gave her. What does everyone else call her?”

I roll my head and look at her. “Six. They call her Six.”

Chunk scrunches up her nose. “Weird.”

“It fits her.”

“Do you love her?”

“Nope.”

“Do you want to?”

“Ye—”

Whoa.

Hold up.

Do I want to?

I don’t know. Maybe. Yes? Shit. I don’t know. How screwed up is it that I broke up with a girl two days ago and I’m already contemplating the possibility of loving someone else?

Well, technically, I don’t think I really loved Val. I sort of thought I did on occasion, but I think if a person is really, truly in love then it has to be unconditional. How I felt about Val was definitely not unconditional. I had conditions for every single feeling I had about her. Hell, the only reason I ever asked her out in the first place is that for about fifteen seconds, I thought she was Cinderella.

After that experience in the closet last year, that mystery girl was all I could think about. I looked for her everywhere, even though I had no idea what she looked like. I was pretty sure she had blonde hair, but it was dark, so I could have been wrong. I listened to every single girl’s voice I walked past to see if they sounded like her. The problem was, they all sounded like her. It’s hard to memorize a voice when you don’t have a face to back it up with, so I would always find small things that reminded me of her in every girl I spoke to.

With Val, I actually convinced myself she was Cinderella. I was walking past her in the hallway one afternoon on my way to History class. I’d seen her in the past but never paid much attention to her because she seemed a little high-maintenance for me. I accidentally bumped her shoulder when I passed her because my head was turned and I was talking to someone else. She called out after me, “Watch it, kid.”

I froze in my tracks. I was too scared to turn around because hearing her use the term “kid” had me convinced I was about to come face to face with the girl from the closet. When I finally gained the courage to turn around, I was floored by how hot she was. I always hoped if I ever found out who Cinderella was that I’d be attracted to her. But Val was way hotter than how I’d been fantasizing.

I walked back up to her and made her repeat what she said. She looked shocked, but she repeated it anyway. When the words fell from her mouth again, I immediately leaned forward and kissed her. As soon as I kissed her I knew she wasn’t Cinderella. Her mouth was different. Not bad different, just different. When I pulled back after realizing it wasn’t her, I was a little annoyed with myself for not just letting it go. I was never going to find out who the girl was, so there was no point in dwelling on it. Plus, Val really was hot. I forced myself to ask her out that day and thus began “the relationship.”

“You just passed my school,” Chunk says.

I slam on the brakes when I realize she’s right. I kick the car into reverse and back up, then pull over to let her out. She looks out the passenger window and sighs.

“Daniel, we’re so early there isn’t even anyone else here yet.”

I lean forward and look out her window, scanning the school. “Not true,” I say, pointing to someone pulling into a parking spot. “There’s someone.”

She shakes her head. “That’s the maintenance guy. I beat the freaking maintenance guy to school.” She opens her door and steps out, then turns and leans into the car before shutting her door. “Do I need to plan for you to be here to pick me up an hour early, too? Is your brain stuck in Eastern Time today?”

I ignore her comment and she shuts the door, then I hit the gas and drive toward the school.

I don’t know what kind of car she drives, so I pull into my usual spot and wait. There are a few other cars here, including Sky and Holder’s, but I know they’re at the track running like they do every morning.

I can’t believe I don’t know what kind of car she drives. I also still don’t know her phone number. Or her birthday. Or her favorite color or what she wants to be when she’s older or why the hell she chose Italy for her foreign exchange or what her parents’ names are or what kind of food she eats.

My palms begin to sweat, so I wipe them on my jeans, then grip my steering wheel. What if she’s really annoying around other people? What if she’s a junkie? What if . . .