Just Like Fate (12 page)

Friday at school doesn’t give me the warm and fuzzies, but it’s
bearable since Miss Severity—whose name is Tricia—seems
to have moved on from her unbridled hatred for me. Of course
no one is lining up to be my friend, so I’m guessing she’s put
out a hit on me or something. I don’t know why she won’t just
leave me alone—I already have enough people who hate me.

Lunch is lonely, but I spend it texting with Chris since
he’s done for the day and harassing me.
TOMORROW. MY
PLACE. CAGE MATCH
, he writes.

I can’t help but smile. Then, self-conscious, I dart my eyes
around the cafeteria even though I know no one can see his
message. To be honest, my arm is still a little sore from our
play fighting the other night, but I don’t want to tell him that.
Instead I type:

MAYBE DINNER INSTEAD?
SURE. HOW ABOUT . . . CHICKEN????
I laugh, liking how he saw right through me.
I’M GOING

I HAVE A THING TONIGHT, BUT I’LL DEFINITELY CALL
YOU AFTER. OKAY?
A thing?
There’s a weird twist in my stomach as I type
back
OKAY
—maybe because it’s a Friday night and Chris was
very nonspecific. Then again, it’s not like he’s my boyfriend.
Hell, we haven’t even kissed yet. If he wants to go do . . . things,
he’s allowed. I swallow hard and slide my phone into the front
pocket of my backpack.
I’m a little confused as I unwrap my sandwich, but then
I notice someone standing at the edge of my lunch table. Oh,
dear God, it’s Varsity Jacket—er, Aaron. I think. How long has
he been waiting there?
“Caroline, right?” he asks, all perfect teeth and Proactiv
skin. I nod, checking behind him to make sure Tricia isn’t
watching in some twisted joke. When I don’t spot her at their
table, I relax slightly.
“Sorry,” Aaron says. “A few of the guys sent me over. They
want to know if you have a boyfriend, and since I’m the only
one who has a class with you . . .” He shoves his hands into his
pockets, looking so embarrassed that I decide he’s not messing with me.
“I do,” I tell him, even though Chris is too busy doing
things
to be my boyfriend. “Sorry.”
“No worries. But I’m sure the girls will be happy to hear
it.” He smiles, masking disappointment. I wonder if it was
really “the guys” who sent him over or if he sent himself.
“See you around,” he says. With a wave that I awkwardly
return, Aaron leaves to join a table of red-jacket-and-jersey-wearing jocks on the other side of the room. I watch as
they talk, a few looking over, and then I exhale, thinking that
whether it’s Aaron who likes me or someone else, I’m lucky
that my Chris cover held up.
It’s then that I notice Tricia standing in the cafeteria doorway in her full cheerleading uniform—which somehow makes
her more terrifying as she stares daggers in my direction. I
realize by her expression that I’m not off the hook at all, and I
look away, unable to hold her gaze.

Chris meets me for dinner on Saturday night at Jade Palace,
a tiny Chinese restaurant off campus. We’re in a cozy corner
booth, picking from a massive plate of orange chicken. I’m
elated that it’s the weekend and that I made it through Friday
unscathed by Miss Severity. But I’m worried about what the
rest of the year will bring.

“I wish I never switched schools,” I say, glancing across
the table at Chris. He’s wearing a backwards hat, which is
boyish and adorable, the amber light from the candle playing
off his features. I’ve been having a hard time looking at my
reflection lately, so I’m makeup free, rocking jeans and a ponytail. The best I could do was put on gloss, but it’s long gone
thanks to the sticky sauce.

“I’m sorry your school sucks,” Chris says, trickling some
soy sauce onto the plate of steamed rice. “Anything I can do?”
I shrug. “Don’t think so. Although your fighting moves
might come in handy with the way the first week went.”
“That girl still giving you a hard time?” he asks.
I nod. “Well, I did accidentally grope her boyfriend.”
Chris smirks, letting it go without comment—even though
he already offered several jokes earlier. “But the guy Aaron,”
I say. “He’s making it worse. Yesterday he showed up at my
lunch table and asked if I had a boyfriend, and of course Tricia
was standing in the doorway like one of Satan’s cheerleaders,
probably thinking I was picking up on him or something.”
Chris pauses mid-bite and lowers his chopsticks. “What’d
you say?”
“Nothing. She was across the room.”
He smiles. “No, what did you say when he asked if you
had a boyfriend?”
I fumble with my food, trying not to appear so guilty. “I
said yes.” The silence carries on so long, I have to look up.
Chris is waiting.
“Are you asking me out, Caroline?”
“No.” Then, when I see his grin, “Maybe.”
I’m burning up with embarrassment and take a shaky sip
from my Diet Pepsi to avoid looking at Chris. I glance around
at the other tables, but none of the customers seem even slightly
interested in my humiliation.
Why did I tell him that stupid story?
“Since you’re already telling all your friends,” he says
nonchalantly, “I’ll be your boyfriend, Caroline.”
“Don’t do me any favors,” I mumble.
Chris reaches across the table to take my hand, carefully removing the chopsticks first. He brings my fingers to
his mouth, hiding his words as he speaks, his lips brushing
against my skin in soft kisses as he talks. “Let me rephrase,
then,” he says quietly. “I
want
to be your boyfriend.”
The joking is gone, and I see in his eyes a vulnerability I
don’t really understand, even though I think I feel it too. My
heart thumps, and when Chris lets go of my hand, tilting his
head as if unsure of my answer, I shrug.
“Yeah, okay.”
He bites back his smile. “I should probably warn you,” he
says, passing me my chopsticks. “I’m going to do super-romantic shit all the time. I’ll even sing to you every night.”
“Please don’t.”
“I’m a music major,” he says. “What am I supposed to do
with all this talent—take business courses?”
“Are you seriously a music major?” I ask. I should have
guessed that he wouldn’t be into anything boring.
Chris nods, seeming content to talk about the finer
points of what a concentration in music consists of. “I play
three instruments,” he says between bites of chicken. “Piano,
drums, and guitar—which is my favorite, obviously. But my
course load includes classes like music appreciation. Which,
above all else, makes you hate music—appreciatively. Doesn’t
really matter, though. I could go on to conduct the New York
Philharmonic and my parents would still think it’s a worthless
degree.”
“They’re not big music fans?” I ask, leaning in, utterly riveted by this other side of him.
“They’re older,” he says. “My dad’s a doctor, retired last
year. Mom’s a former guidance counselor. My folks travel a lot,
though.” He pauses. “So it’s probably good I’m an only child.
Less to claim at customs.”
He takes a quick sip of his drink, and I feel my smile fade.
It strikes me that Chris is alone. And even though lately I’ve
felt the same way, I know that I have Teddy and, God help
me—even Natalie.
“Are they gone all the time?” I ask.
“Pretty much. I’m used to it, though,” he says with a wave
of his hand. “I’m not sure I can remember the last holiday we
spent at my house.” He smiles. “My mom likes the Bahamas. I
prefer Europe, but now I just stick around school.” He exhales.
“They think music is unstable and that I’m wasting my time. I
guess they hoped I’d be a doctor or something. Turns out, I’m
just too ridiculously talented. They’re devastated.”
“Looks and talent?” I say, trying to make him smile again.
“I must be the luckiest girlfriend alive.”
Chris’s eyes meet mine, narrowing slightly as he looks me
over. After a second he laughs to himself and tosses his napkin
on the table. “Smart-ass. You know it makes me completely
crazy for you, right?”
“Hey, whatever works.”
A lady with short black hair and a bright blue embroidered shirt comes by to drop off the check with a couple of
fortune cookies before heading off to the other tables.
“So what are your Halloween plans for next week?” Chris
asks me as he throws some cash down on the table “I could be
persuaded to wear a couple’s costume and win some contests
if you’re game.”
“Uh, thanks, but I’d rather not be the rear of your jackass
costume. Besides, I have to go hang with my friend Simone.
We do a lame haunted house thing—it’s tradition.”
“Can I come?” Chris asks quietly, sliding a cookie in
my direction. I take it, scrunching my forehead as I think it
over. I’m unsettled and suddenly shy about him meeting my
friends—and he’s right (again). It’s a hell of a thrill.
“Well, you did ask to be my boyfriend, so I guess that’s
one of the perks,” I say.
“One of many, I hope,” Chris says with a laugh. He climbs
out of the booth, grabbing my coat to help me put it on. In the
second that we’re standing there, close and tangled in outerwear, I wonder why he hasn’t tried to kiss me yet. Hell, I’m
starting to wonder if he ever will.
When we get out the front door, heading toward my car,
Chris pauses to button the top of my coat. “It’s cold,” he says
in a quiet voice. The gesture is sweet, intimate. I smile and
take him by the pockets of his hoodie to keep him close. And
then he leans in to kiss me.
His lips are maddeningly gentle, barely brushing mine as
his hand glides down my neck, sending chills over my entire
body. I get up on my tiptoes, but just as I drape my arms over
his shoulders, I feel his phone vibrate in his pocket.
“Not answering it,” he murmurs into the kiss. I laugh and
pull back. The phone continues to vibrate, and eventually he
groans and pulls it out of his pocket.
“Yeah?” he asks into the receiver. Chris turns slightly, and
my arms fall from around him. He angles his body away as he
talks quietly into the phone, and I feel like I’m intruding on
his conversation. I take a few steps in the direction of my car,
giving him space, but Chris furrows his brow, pointing at me.
“Wait,” he says. Then into the phone, “No, Maria, not you.”

My stomach sinks.
Maria? The same Maria he was going
to see that night I gave him my number?
I don’t ask. I swallow
hard, wondering if I should just walk myself to my car. Chris
begins to realize that I’m uncomfortable.

“I don’t think so,” he says for his part of the telephone
conversation, but I’m ready to go home. I start to walk past
him, but Chris catches the bottom of my coat, and I turn and
force a smile.

“We’ll talk later,” I say, my voice higher pitched than usual.
Chris shakes his head, telling me to wait, but I’m already moving down the sidewalk. I don’t want him to explain. And I
don’t want to have to listen.

As I cross the parking lot, my phone buzzes. Reluctantly I
check the message.
I ONLY HAVE EYES FOR CAROLINE.
I pause, biting on my thumbnail as I read it three more
times.
YOU SURE?
I write back, surprised that I’d even ask.
What if he says no? How would I react to that?
POSITIVE. SHE’S THE SEXY ROBIN TO MY BATMAN.
I laugh, the tension in my shoulders relaxing. I was overreacting. I was running. I’ll have to learn to stop doing that.
OMG
, I write back.
WE’RE NOT DRESSING AS BATMAN AND
ROBIN FOR HALLOWEEN.
WE’LL SEE.

Back at school, I start to wonder if I’m crazy and I’ve conjured
up a fake relationship between me and Joel—that’s how much
he seems to have forgotten our Friday . . . whatever it was.
For three days, I try to mind control him into dropping me a
note to meet him in the auditorium or merely looking at me
over his shoulder in English and acknowledging that I exist.
But I get an F in telekinesis—it doesn’t work. My humiliation
grows and by Wednesday, I’m feeling desperate and sickened
at myself for letting a guy get under my skin.

“The boy’s got issues,” Simone says as we roam the aisle
of a strip mall costume shop over the lunch period. It’s Halloween, and as is tradition, we’re picking over the carcasses of
unwanted costumes and accessories to piece together something worthy. Normally this and the turkey races just before
Thanksgiving are the bright spots on my fall calendar, but
thanks to Joel, I’ve lost my spirit.

“Can I put a moratorium on speaking his name?” I ask,
fingering a feather boa.
“You got it,” she says. She’s sucking on a Blow Pop, occasionally crunching as she bites a piece off. She crunches for a
whole aisle, then says, “He probably has some weird abandonment hangup and you didn’t pay enough attention to him.”
“Did you go deaf ?” I ask. “Or do you just have short-term
memory loss?”
She turns on her heels to face me; her shoes squeak on
the linoleum. “Linus. I’ll kick him in the shins for you—if that
would make it better.” She picks up a toy tommy gun. “Hell,
I’ll put a hit out on him if you want me to.” I laugh weakly and
start walking again. From behind me, she gets to the point.
“All I’m saying is that since he happens to be monopolizing
your brain space, we might as well talk it out.”
“Maybe he’s just not into me anymore,” I say sadly, giving
in. I pick up a torn open package of fake mustaches and put one
on, turning to Simone. “I can find someone else, right?” I ask.
“A gentleman like you? Absolutely.” She smiles and grabs
a bonnet from an oversize baby costume, putting it over her
hair. “You just need to stop being a child about all of it.” She
waggles the pacifier at me and then tosses the costume back
onto the shelf. “This isn’t the 1800s. A girl doesn’t have to
wait around for a guy to text. If you want to talk to Joel about
his continued romantic flakiness, take control of your life and
ask him.” She looks at me in that reality-check sort of way, and
I reach to pull off my mustache and shrug.
“You know they didn’t have cell phones in the 1800s,
right?” I say.
“Doesn’t mean you have to be as clueless.”
I laugh for real and finally notice part of a costume that
might actually work. As I pull it from the shelf, I think that
Simone’s right. Passivity isn’t doing me any favors.
I stuff the costume and accessories into my hand basket
and turn to my friend. “I’m going to tell Joel that this hot-andcold crap doesn’t work for me,” I say, sounding resolved.
“There’s my girl,” she says, grabbing a homecoming sash
and a plastic machete. She inspects the fake blade, and I take
out my phone and scroll as I walk toward the registers with my
items. I find Joel’s number and write:
I’M OVER IT.
Maybe not the most eloquent speech I’ve
ever given, but when I hit send, I don’t regret it. Even though
deep down, I know I’m not nearly as
over
him as I wish I were.
I plunk my basket on the counter, and then Simone is next to
me asking if the fake blood in a package will stain her skin. When
Joel’s return text pops up, there’s a leap in my chest, a guarded
hope, and I turn to smile at Simone, holding it up for her to see.
I’M NOT.