She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not(8)

I nod. And then I lean forward, making sure Kenny can see the outline when I rip it in half. Taking those halves, I place them together and rip once more. “Try again.”





Chapter 7


Week 1: The Honeymoon Period


Kennedy

“This is not a real assignment.” I look up from the screen of his phone where directions for this week’s assignment are suggesting we act like we’re on a first date.

The look Gage gives me says, “What can you do?”

Use my Google doc, that’s what. But he won’t, and it doesn’t appear he’s budging.

“You can’t expect me to ask you these questions, and go through this asinine process,” I say. Ms. Moyer has graciously decided that Life Science is also about living in the moment and only looking so far ahead. Rather than outlining each of our weekly requirements on one paper, she uploads them one at a time to her teacher website, surprising us with our task and some prompts and activities to get us going at the beginning of each week.

After he mangled my outline, Gage dropped his phone in my lap to show me week one. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I was looking at an eHarmony instruction manual.

“This isn’t relevant to learning, or our future, at all.”

Gage shrugs, all good natured and blasé even though a thirty-something year old woman is meddling in our lives and requiring us to divulge secrets about ourselves. His easy-going acceptance makes me even more agitated. “Who cares what my favorite color is? How does that help me plan for my future?”

“Teal,” he says, stopping me mid-tirade. “I’d bet fifty dollars your favorite color is teal based on the polka-dots on your backpack and the hoodie today. Yesterday, your shirt was gray, but your earrings had teal beads on them.”

I gape at him. He just smiles and continues. “And, maybe it’s not about the future, per se, but about the kind of people we’re becoming, if we honestly think learning personal information about other people is in no way relevant to who we will become.”

“Who are you?” I can’t stop the question, or the irritation in my voice, any more than I could stop the sun from shining. “Seriously, who are you? Because I can guarantee no one else is this invested in the assignment.”

Face serious for the first time, Gage leans forward, so we are knee-to-knee, looking straight into my eyes. “That’s probably the first thing you should learn, Kenny. I’m not like other people.”

+ + +

There is no changing Gage’s mind, and, after my conversation with Cam this morning, I’m trying not to panic about it—or rage, which is always so much more comforting.

It’s only five weeks—and the fifth week is mostly by ourselves—and though the circumstances are not ideal, I can still control some of this. Like this week—the questions are juvenile, but they aren’t life altering. We have to talk favorite colors, foods, and bands; this is something I might not want to do, but that I can do. Minimal answers which require little on my part. I’ll deal with the more personal questions as they come.

My phone vibrates with a text between first and second period. My stomach bottoms out, and then skyrockets to my throat, when I see Gage’s number pop up—the same number he programmed in before I escaped to class this morning.

Gage: Mexican or Italian?

Me: Are you asking for heritage or food preferences?

Gage: Both ;)

Me: Italian on both fronts.

My phone doesn’t buzz again until I’m seated in class, about to put it away.

Gage: You’re terrible at this conversation thing. See why we can’t do email?

Me: I responded. How does this make me terrible at conversation?

Gage: You forgot to ask me a question, Kenny. It’s only conversation if we’re both invested.

Gage: I like Mexican, btw. Can’t go wrong with tacos. And I’m Scandinavian, in case you were curious.

Me: That explains your looks. And your inability to take no for an answer.

Gage: You calling me a Viking, Kenny?

Me: A pest, more like. And it’s Kennedy.

And so it goes for the rest of the day. Every time I’m walking from one class to another—sometimes, even when I’m in class—my phone buzzes. And, every time I look at it, Gage’s name flashes on the screen. I don’t always answer, but it surprises me how much I want to, and how much I look forward to seeing his name on my screen.

Some of his questions are just words, like “Eggplant?” and others are little games. “Would you rather… look like Mike Tyson, or talk like him?”

Despite my commitment to remaining annoyed and aloof, so I can keep him at distance, I find myself smiling. A lot. When Cam and I sit down to lunch, he’s quick to call me on it.

“Are we in the Twilight zone, or is that a smile on your face?”

I bite into my apple, trying to hide what is most definitely a smile. So annoying. “It’s a beautiful day.”

“Since we live in Camarillo, where the majority of the days are sunny, it can’t be the weather you’re talking about.”

I compose myself enough to arch my brow at him. “It can’t?”

Cam shakes his head. “Maybe it’s the coffee you drank this morning?” His suggestion is loud and clear.