Wrong About the Guy(51)

“I didn’t know he came by.”

“Well, you were at school.”

“He could have stuck around and said hi.”

“He probably had plans.”

Did he, though? Or was he just sick of me?

When he arrived, I opened the door for him but hung back a bit, feeling awkward now that he was there. I could still remember his disappointed expression when we parted the last time we’d talked, and it made it hard for me to look him in the eyes. Plus he’d since read my essay and that was embarrassing in its own way—I’d acknowledged some pretty ugly truths about myself. I felt exposed.

He probably thought it was stupid, anyway.

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound normal and not succeeding.

“Hey,” he said. “How’s it going?”

“Fine. Come on in.”

“Thank you.”

This was going great.

We headed toward the kitchen.

“Heather coming?” he asked.

“Yeah, but I wanted to have time to talk about my essay first.”

“Sounds good,” he said without any real enthusiasm.

Grandma looked up as we entered the kitchen. She was sticking two slices of gluten-free bread into the toaster. “Oh, I’m sorry. I promised Ellie I’d clear out of here by the time you came, George, but I’m so slow. . . . Just let me finish making toast and I’ll disappear, I promise.”

I caught George’s expression and realized how bad that sounded—like I was still determined to make my grandmother feel unwanted in my home. “It’s fine,” I said quickly. “I don’t mind if you’re here; I’m just stressed about how much work I need to get done.”

“I completely understand,” she said. “George, would you like a cup of mushroom tea before I do my disappearing act?”

“Mushroom tea?” he repeated uncertainly.

“Trust me, you don’t want it,” I said.

“I would love some,” he said immediately.

“Excellent!” She beamed, delighted, then turned to me with sudden concern. “Don’t get mad at me, Ellie. It will only take one more minute.”

“I’m not mad at you. I don’t know why you always think I am.”

“I’m annoying,” she said. “I know it.”

I couldn’t take it. She was going to make George think I was mean and uncaring. Not that he needed much encouragement in that direction. “Tell George about the movie we saw on Sunday,” I blurted out suddenly, and felt my face turn hot as soon as I had—it was so obvious what I was doing. So pathetic.

“Oh,” George said with a sudden sharp look at me. “You went to the movies together?”

“We did,” Grandma said, bustling around, pouring steaming water from the teakettle into a mug she had filled with bits of something shriveled and ugly. “And we had so much fun. The movie itself was a little violent for my taste, but the popcorn was wonderful. And we all went out for frozen yogurt afterward.”

“Yes, we did,” I said, raising my chin defiantly and looking directly at George for the first time that day.

“Okay, here’s your tea.” Grandma handed him the mug. “Let it steep a few more minutes, then drink the top part. Don’t worry about what’s left in the mug. Just enjoy the liquid and throw the rest out.”

“Thank you.” He peered down at the mug’s contents. “It looks interesting.”


“Don’t worry if you swallow something solid. Even the dirt is organic. Ah—my toast is done!” She put it on a plate, and carefully spread butter on each slice. George and I watched her in silence. “I’ll take everything upstairs so I’m not a distraction. Work hard, you two.” She left, carefully clutching her mug in one hand and her plate in the other.

There was a pause. Then I said, “You don’t actually have to drink that.”

“Oh, thank God.” He dumped his mug into the sink. He turned to me. “You invited her to go with you to the movies.”

I nodded, still embarrassed that I had felt the need to blurt it out, but glad he knew. “Someone told me I should.”

“I’d have thought that might have the opposite effect.”

“I’m not that big a jerk.”

“I never thought you were.” There was another short silence and then he cleared his throat and said, “So let’s talk about your essay.”

“First tell me what you think of it. Do you hate it?”

“Hate it?” He sat down at the table. “I think it’s great.”

He liked it? My relief lasted about half a second before it turned into annoyance that he hadn’t bothered to tell me before. “Your five-word email didn’t give me a lot to go on.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t at my most communicative that night.”

“Three or four more words would have gone a long way.”

“I loved it. It was honest and unique and it made me want to know the girl who wrote it.”

“You do know me.”

He ignored that. “But, all that being said . . . it’s definitely a riskier choice. The right admissions person will love you for being honest. The wrong one might wonder if you’re incapable of accomplishing anything. You just don’t know how it’s going to be received.”