Made You Up(5)

While Tucker stepped out back for his break, I commandeered his condiment armies. Gus’s cigarette smoke wafted toward the ceiling, pulled into the vent. The oscillating fan on the wall made the papers on the employee bulletin board flutter.

Halfway through my recreation of the Battle of the Bulge, I shook Finnegan’s Magic 8 Ball to find out if the German saltshaker would be successful in his offensive.

Ask again later.

Useless thing. If the Allies had taken that advice, the Axis would have won the war. I kept myself from looking at Miles for as long as I could. But eventually my eyes wandered back to him, and I couldn’t look away. He ate with stiff movements, like he was barely keeping himself from stuffing everything into his mouth. And every few seconds, his glasses slid down his nose and he pushed them back up.

He didn’t move when I refilled his water. I stared at the top of his sandy-haired head as I poured, mentally urging him to look up.

I was so busy focusing that I didn’t notice the cup was full until the water ran over the top. I dropped it in shock. The water splashed all over him—across his arm, down his shirt, into his lap. He stood up so fast his head smashed into the overhead light and the entire table tipped.

“I—oh, crap, I’m sorry—” I ran back to the counter where Tucker stood, a hand clamped over his mouth, his face turning red, and grabbed a towel.

Miles used his Meijer polo to absorb some of the water, but he was soaked.

“I am so sorry.” I reached out to dry his arm, very aware that my hands were still shaking.

He recoiled before I could touch him, glaring at me, the towel, back at me. Then he grabbed his polo, shoved his glasses up his nose, and escaped.

“It’s fine,” he muttered as he passed me. He was out the door before I could say another word.

I finished cleaning up the table, then trudged back to the counter.

Tucker, composed, took the dishes from me. “Bravo. Brilliant job.”

“Tucker.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

He laughed and disappeared into the kitchen.

Was that Blue Eyes?

I grabbed the Magic 8 Ball and rubbed the scuff mark as I looked down into its round window.

Better not tell you now.

Evasive little bitch.





Chapter Three




The first thing I noticed about East Shoal High School was that it didn’t have a bike rack. You know a school is run by stuck-up sons of bitches when it doesn’t even have a bike rack.

I shoved Erwin behind the blocky green shrubs lining the school’s front walk and stepped back to make sure the tires and handlebars were hidden. I didn’t expect anyone to steal, touch, or notice him, since his rusty diarrhea color made people subconsciously avert their eyes, but I felt better knowing he was out of harm’s way.

I checked my bag. Books, folders, notebooks, pens, and pencils. My cheap digital camera—one of the first things I’d bought when I’d gotten the job at Finnegan’s—dangled from its strap around my wrist. I’d already taken a picture of four suspicious-looking squirrels lined up on the red brick wall outside my neighbor’s house this morning, but other than that, the memory card was empty.

Then I did my perimeter check. Perimeter checks entailed three things: getting a 360-degree view of my surroundings, noting anything that seemed out of place—like the huge scorched spiral design covering the surface of the parking lot—and filing those things away in case they tried to sneak up on me later.

Kids funneled from their cars to the school, ignoring the men in black suits and red ties who stood at even intervals along the school’s roof. I should’ve known public school would have some weird security. We just had normal security officers at The Hillpark School, my (former) private school.

I joined the procession of students—keeping an arm’s-length distance between myself and the rest of them, because God knows who was bringing weapons to school these days—all the way to the guidance office, where I stood in line for four minutes to get my schedule. While I was there, I took a bunch of college brochures out of the stand in the corner and stuffed them in my backpack, ignoring the weird stares I got from the kid in front of me. I didn’t take crap when it came to college—I had to get in, no matter how early I had to start or how many applications I had to send. If I was lucky, I could guilt-trip some scholarships out of a school or two, the way my parents had done with Hillpark. It didn’t matter how I did it; either I got in or I worked at Finnegan’s for the rest of my life.