If I'm Being Honest(46)

Below Brendan’s NOT INTERESTED, I write, How about now?

Throwing my locker closed, I walk quickly toward the other end of campus. The robotics room is still empty when I open the door and dart to Brendan’s desk. I neatly place the note on his keyboard.

I pass the first half of the day in anticipation. It’s a different kind of anticipation from the last time I left the note on Brendan’s computer. I’m not just eager to accomplish a goal, to check an item off a list. Honestly, I enjoyed hanging out with Brendan. I hope he enjoyed hanging out with me enough not to hate the idea of joining me and my friends for lunch. I’ve had enough of him hiding his pretty outgoing personality in the robotics room.

Ethics, Economics, English—the morning drags by while I think of what I can talk to him about and how I’ll explain this development to Elle. When the bell rings for lunch, I hurry to collect my lunch from my locker and head to our table on the patio, irrational excitement pumping in me the whole way.

Elle describes her concept for a new video. Brad tries to enlist her and Morgan in being bailiffs for his mock-trial competition. I wait with growing frustration, watching five, ten, fifteen minutes go by on my phone’s clock.

He’s stood me up. Again.

I know I shouldn’t care. I hardly know Brendan. Yet in the next instant, I’m grabbing my bag in a huff and getting to my feet with a hasty explanation to my friends. “Excuse me. I have to go set an idiot straight.”

Elle perks up. “Need backup?” she asks sympathetically.

“I got this,” I mutter, already on my way.

I head down the stairway, thread through lunch tables in the courtyard, and walk with purpose through the science hall until I’m in front of the robotics room. Without hesitation, I fling open the door. Brendan’s hunched over the computer, his back to me. He’s the only person in here, and he’s working half in the dark.

“Brendan,” I call. “Seriously?”

He whirls, looking startled. Finding only me, he relaxes. Not a reaction I’m used to provoking, but whatever. “Oh, hey, Cameron,” he says.

“That’s it?” I stride up to his desk. “Did you not get my note? I left it right on your stupid keyboard.”

“I got it.” He sounds bewildered. He pats the journal next to the computer, where the note sits on top of the cover.

I stare for a moment, waiting for further explanation. “And?” I demand when none comes. “What, you’re too cool to have lunch with me and my friends?”

Brendan grins, impossibly. He’s enjoying this. “I had no idea it mattered this much to you.”

“Oh, shut it.” His eyebrows flit up in amusement. “We hung out at the college fair. We text,” I charge on. “It’s obvious you don’t hate me anymore. Why won’t you just have lunch with me?”

His features cloud over. “Did you only ask me because you think it’ll make me more popular?”

I expected the question. “Maybe,” I reply. “Or maybe, despite my expectations, I actually enjoy talking to you, you weirdo.”

Brendan laughs once, genuine and involuntary. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” I huff.

He pauses a moment, like he’s weighing his words. “You’re . . . not the worst to talk to, either,” he eventually says.

“Obviously,” I say, hiding how pleased I am by his admission. Pulling a stool over from one of the tables, I take a seat beside Brendan. Easily, like I belong here, I unwrap my sandwich.

“What’re you doing?” He watches me uncomprehendingly.

“Eating my lunch,” I reply. “You’ve given me no choice.” I reach into the brown paper bag resting on my knee. “Carrot?”

“I’m . . . good.” He hesitates, his eyes wandering to his computer. He opens his mouth, and I realize he’s going to ask me to leave.

Which I have no intention of doing. Not when we’re having our fourth halfway normal conversation. I preempt him. “Show me what you’re working on,” I say, nodding toward his game.

Clearly caught off guard, he stares for a second, a combination of emotions I can’t decipher in his eyes. “I’ll do one better,” he finally declares. “Want to play it?”

The offer surprises me. “Video games aren’t really my thing,” I say, realizing a moment later it didn’t exactly come out gently. “No offense,” I add hurriedly.

But Brendan pulls my stool forward. Our knees briefly touch, the skin of my leg brushing the worn denim of his jeans. Before I have time to wonder if the contact was intentional, he’s pushed me in front of the keyboard. “Here.” His voice is low.

He places his hand on mine. I hadn’t realized how cold my hands were until I feel the warmth of his. Gently, he moves my right hand to the mouse and guides my left to the keyboard. Stunned, I don’t resist. His fingers linger a second on mine, and I find I’m holding my breath.

Okay, video games might not not be my thing.

“Now try not to die,” Brendan tells me.

“Wait, what?” The question has hardly passed my lips when the computer screen comes to life. I find my character in the hallway of a school, wearing a black baseball hat and toting a ridiculously hefty sword. Helplessly, I watch what look to be zombie teachers come out of the room marked TEACHERS’ LOUNGE. They circle my character, and he flashes red when they bite into him. In under a minute, I’m dead. “That was totally unfair,” I complain, rounding on Brendan—who’s holding in laughter.