If I'm Being Honest(41)

I’m about to ask Paige where we’re headed when I notice her face brighten. For a moment of fleeting hope, I wonder if Jeff Mitchel just got slapped by one of the junior girls and Paige watched it happen. Until I follow her eyes to . . .

Andrew.

Paige waves, obviously completely oblivious to how I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I don’t not want to talk to Andrew—I’ve wanted to talk to Andrew for days—just not here. Not in this pressure-cooker crowd, not without a clue what I’m going to say or how I’m going to guide the conversation to how hard I’ve worked to right the wrongs he hates me for.

“Paige,” I begin feebly.

“Hey, Andrew!” she calls out, ignoring me. I don’t know if she’s forgotten Andrew hates me or if she knows and wants to watch me squirm. He gives Paige a friendly nod, the way guys do, and continues toward the two of us.

I can tell the moment he notices me, because his expression freezes over.

Not exactly a confidence-builder.

But Andrew continues the next couple feet up to us, threading through a cramped line for one of the Ivies. Paige gives him a friendly hug. “Hey, Paige,” he says, discomfort heavy in his voice. “I was just going to”—he nods over our heads, eyes never meeting mine—“check out Berkeley. I’ll be back in—”

“Oh, wait for me?” Paige implores. I don’t fail to notice the flicker of frustration in Andrew’s eyes. “I wanted to hit Berkeley, too, but we’re right next to Pratt.” She gestures to the booth beside us. “I’ll be gone two minutes, I promise.”

Andrew looks like he wants to protest. But he only nods, and Paige darts toward the Pratt display.

Leaving just me and Andrew.

“Hey,” I say, and it comes out high and hopeful and completely obnoxious.

“Hey,” Andrew says.

I wince. Off to a great start. We’re the only people in this crowd not chatting, and it’s really awkward. I don’t know whether to look at him or nonchalantly pull out my phone or what.

“I’m on a friend-date with Paige,” I blurt. Hearing instantly how that was probably the weirdest conversation opener in history, I begin to ramble. “I just . . . we’re here together. Like a date. Except we’re just friends. You know.”

Andrew gives me a look. He definitely doesn’t know.

“You guys are friends?” he asks, obviously reluctant to be engaging me in conversation.

“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully.

Neither of us has anything to add to that. The pause yawns on into awkwardness, until finally Andrew declares, a challenging edge in his voice, “You and Paige are nothing alike.”

I pick up on the implication. Andrew’s definitely not referring to my blonde hair and Paige’s multicolored stylings, nor to how out of place her Invader Zim sweatshirt would appear in my closet. It’s, Paige is understanding. Paige helps me on my homework. You’re judgmental. You’re a—

I know, Andrew. I know.

I remember The Taming of the Shrew and bite down what I have a feeling Katherine would say. “We’re not that different, actually, Paige and I,” I offer. “We have a pretty similar sense of humor.” Besides, she’s not exactly gentle with her commentary every now and then either. I remember the excoriation of my UPenn essay and a hundred often-deserved clap-backs since. We have that in common.

“Except Paige doesn’t care about appearances.” Hardened in accusation, Andrew’s eyes find mine.

I bite back a retort—Paige called herself shallow. “I don’t really care about appearances either,” I say instead. Andrew frowns, and despite the doubt it gives me, I continue. “I know you think I only liked you when you made varsity. But it had nothing to do with the team, I promise. You could’ve gotten a perfect score on the SAT or the lead in the spring musical.” Andrew’s mouth twitches, and I have a hunch he’s recalling telling me he peed his pants while playing an elf in The Elves and the Shoemaker in second grade. “I was just waiting for an indication you would commit to something. I wanted to know you would really try,” I continue.

The defiance in his eyes fades a little. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was replaced by interest.

“You didn’t really have hobbies or aspirations when we met,” I say. “And then we started running together, and I realized you were really athletic. I just wanted you to try hard at it.”

“And succeed,” he adds.

“Hard work is good,” I reply, unabashed. “Success is better. You’ve met my mom. You know who my dad is. Can you blame me for caring about that?”

When I find Andrew’s eyes, his expression is gentler. In a swell of hope, I feel his guard weakening, his resistance beginning to ebb. He lets his crossed arms drop. The crowd shuffles around us, and he ends up closer to me. “Speaking of running,” he says, “I heard you beat a school record at your meet the other day.”

And just like that, it’s easy. I’m telling him how I had a tough first mile because it was windy, how I picked up half a minute in the final stretch when everyone else was tired. He’s bragging about being the fastest guy on the team, detailing for me a new route he’s found near his house. It feels instinctive, like the runs I’ve longed for the past couple weeks.