Lock and Key(30)

“That’s one word for it. Really, though, he’s not—”

He trailed off suddenly, as a green BMW whizzed past us, going down a couple of rows and whipping into a space. A moment later, the driver’s-side door opened, and the blonde from my English class—in a white cable sweater, sunglasses parked on her head—emerged, pulling an overstuffed tote bag behind her. She bumped the door shut with her hip, then started toward the main building, fluffing her hair with her fingers as she walked. Nate watched her for a moment, then coughed, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“Really what?” I said.

“What’s that?” he asked.

Ahead of us, the blonde—who I had now figured out was the infamous, blueberry Pop-Tart-eating Heather—was crossing to a locker, dropping her bag at her feet. “Nothing,” I said. “See you around.”

“Yeah,” he replied, nodding, clearly distracted as I quickened my pace, finally able to put some space between us. “See you.”

He was still watching her as I walked away. Which was kind of pathetic but also not my problem, especially since from now on I’d be sticking to my original plan and catching the bus, and everything would be fine.

Or so I thought until the next day, when I again overslept, missing my bus window entirely. At first, I was completely annoyed with myself, but then, in the shower, I decided that maybe it wasn’t so bad. After all, the ride was a short one. At least distance-wise.

“What kind of shampoo is that?” Gervais demanded from the backseat as soon as I got in the car, my hair still damp.

I turned back and looked at him. “I don’t know,” I said. “Why? ”

“It stinks,” he told me. “You smell like trees.”

“Trees? ”

“Gervais,” Nate said. “Watch it.”

“I’m just saying,” Gervais grumbled, flopping back against the seat. I turned around, fixing my gaze on him. For a moment, he stared back, insolent, his eyes seemingly huge behind his glasses. But as I kept on, steady, unwavering, he finally caved and turned to stare out the window. Twelve-year-olds, I thought. So easy to break.

When I turned back to face forward, Nate was watching me. “What?” I said.

“Nothing,” he replied. “Just admiring your technique.”

At school, Gervais did his normal scramble-and-disappearing act, and again Nate walked with me across the parking lot. This time, I was not only aware of him beside me—which was still just so odd, frankly—but also the ensuing reactions from the people gathered around their cars, or ahead of us at the lockers: stares, raised eyebrows, entirely too much attention. It was unsettling, not to mention distracting.

When I’d started at Perkins, I’d instinctively gone into New School Mode, a system I’d perfected over the years when my mom and I were always moving. Simply put, it was this: come in quietly, fly under the radar, get in and out each day with as little interaction as possible. Because Perkins Day was so small, though, I was realizing it was inevitable that I’d attract some attention, just because I was new. Add in the fact that someone had figured out my connection to Jamie—“Hey, UMe!” someone had yelled as I walked in the hall a couple of days earlier—and staying anonymous was that much more difficult.

Nate deciding we were friends, though, made it almost impossible. Even by my second day, I’d figured out he was one of the most popular guys at Perkins, which made me interesting (at least to these people, anyway) simply by standing next to him. Maybe some girls would have liked this, but I was not one of them.

Now, I looked over at him, annoyed, as a group of cheer-leaders standing in a huddle by a shiny VW tittered in our wake. He didn’t notice, too busy watching that same green BMW, which was parked a couple of rows over. I could see Heather behind the wheel, her Jump Java cup in one hand. Jake Bristol, the sleeper from my English class, was leaning in to talk to her, his arms resting on her open window.

This was not my problem. And yet, as with Gervais, when I saw bad behavior, I just couldn’t help myself. Plus, if he was going to insist on walking with me, he almost deserved it.

“You know,” I said to him. “Pining isn’t attractive. On anyone.”

He glanced over at me. “What?”

I nodded at Heather and Jake, who were still talking. “The worst thing you can do if you miss or need someone,” I said, “is let them know it.”

“I don’t miss her,” he said.

Yeah, right. “Okay,” I replied, shrugging. “All I’m saying is that even if you do want her back, you should act like you don’t. No one likes someone who’s all weak and pitiful and needy. It’s basic relationship 101.”

“Relationship 101,” he repeated, skeptical. “And this is a course you teach?”

“It’s only advice,” I told him. “Ignore it if you want.”

Really, I assumed he’d do just that. The next morning, though, as he again fell into step beside me—clearly, this was a habit now—and we began crossing the parking lot, Heather’s car once again came into view. Even I noticed it, and her, by now. But Nate, I saw, did not. Or at least didn’t act like it. Instead, he glanced over at me and then just kept walking.

As the week went on—and my losses to the snooze bar continued—I found myself succumbing to the carpool and, subsequently, our walk together into school itself, audience and all. Resistance was futile, and Nate and I were becoming friends, or something like it. At least as far as he was concerned.