Summer on the Short Bus (12 page)

S
omewhere in Katie's magazine vault, there's an article detailing how stupid it is for girls to go starry-eyed over a guy they've just met. Before Quinn, I'd have nominated that author for some sort of magazine award. Now, I'm pretty sure I'd be the inspiration for the story.

In my head, I am aware that my infatuation for Quinn could be considered embarrassing. But try as I might, I can't convince my heart and my body to respond any differently than they are. Besides the gorgeous, makes-my-insides-turn-to-Jell-O factor, he's also sweet, funny, and painfully smart. Which is why I nearly strip off my pajamas and offer myself to him on a bed of poison oak when he shows up outside my window with a flashlight and that cute, lopsided grin.

“What do you want, Pretty Boy?” Fantine says through the dusty window screen. “Aren't you the one always telling us we need our beauty sleep?”

“I'm not here for you, Marquez,” he says from the shadows. “I want to borrow Cricket for a few minutes.”

We are already sharing what limited space our tiny window
frame allows, but as soon as I hear Quinn's request, I shove her out of the way and press my forehead against the screen. “Hey, Quinn. What's up?”

Fantine falls back against her bed, laughing at my lack of subtlety while I shush her with my hand.

“Can you come out for a few minutes?”

“Yeah! Just give me a sec.” I hop off my bed and begin the mad search for my flip-flops.

“You are officially pathetic. You know that, right?”

“I'm not pathetic,” I say, clawing through the dark for my damned left shoe. “I just want to see what he wants, that's all. Ahha!” I pull the flip-flop out from under the bed and give it a quick shake, praying no spiders have taken up residence. “I'm just a hospitable person.”

“Hospitable?
You?
Just promise me you'll use a condom.”

“Ew! You're disgusting,” I say, tossing my pillow over her smirky face. “You're just jealous because Colin's not out there doing the same thing for you right now.”

“Colin? Oh please. That boy wouldn't know what to do with a girl if you gave him an instruction manual. Besides, I don't date men under twenty-five. Or over seven feet.”

“Whatever. You know you'd be all over him if he offered.”

She snorts. “In his dreams.”

“Okay, fine, I'm outta here. Don't wait up.”

“Have fun,” she says. “And remember, don't do anything I
wouldn't do.”

Now it's my turn to snort. “Like that's even possible.”

In an exaggerated attempt not to wake the girls, I creep through the main cabin and slide out onto the front porch. Quinn is waiting for me on the bottom step. He looks so dreamy beneath the silvery moonlight that I have to grab the handrail so I don't fall over.

“What's up?” I say, sounding a lot calmer than I actually am.

“Hey, I wanted to talk to you about something. I was hoping for a little privacy.”

“Uh . . . yeah. Sure.” Not exactly the do-you-wanna-taste-my-ChapStick invitation I was hoping for, but it'll do.

I fall in line beside him as we head up the paved trail that leads away from the cabin. The air feels extra muggy tonight and, per usual, the mosquitoes are in full grazing mode. But much like wheelchairs and lazy eyes, when Quinn's nearby they don't seem to bother me as much.

“Where exactly are we going?” I ask, realizing that my flip-flops don't make the best hiking shoes.

“It's a surprise.”

“But you do know where you're going, right? We're not just wandering for the sake of wandering. . . .”

He stops suddenly, turning his head over his shoulder to look at me. “Why, Miss Montgomery, you're not scared of the dark, are you?”

“No, Mr. Youngsma,” I say, with an equal amount of sarcasm. “I'm not scared of the dark. I'm scared of tripping and adding another Band-Aid to my collection.”

Despite the darkness I see him smile. “Well, you have a point there. I'm pretty sure Pete's all out of vampires, which means you'd probably be stuck with SpongeBob, so . . . here.” He extends his hand toward me. “I should probably help you the rest of the way.”

“Such a gentleman.” I drop my hand into his and nearly melt. It's as warm as I remember. I clutch that hand until we finally descend down a steep, overgrown hill and into a leaf-carpeted gully and he releases me.

“So what do you think?” he says, aiming his tiny flashlight in front of us. “Was it worth the hike?”

The dim beam can't possibly enhance the view the moonlight already provides. “Wow,” I say, stepping forward to survey one of the gray, ancient-looking trees. I graze my hand along its trunk. The way the roots erupt through the ground reminds me of Carolyn's fingers, all bent and knobby. “This is so cool. It's like something out of a
Harry Potter
movie. I feel like the trees are going to start talking or something.”

“I know, isn't it awesome? I stumbled across it last summer.” Like some sort of pretty-boy ninja, he begins hopping and leaping his way through the maze of bending roots. “I come out here sometimes when I feel like I need a break from things at camp,” he says, balancing a foot on a particularly narrow root. “It can get a little
intense sometimes.”

“Intense is a bit of an understatement,” I say, watching him cautiously.

“Yeah, maybe sometimes. But you seem to be handling it pretty well, now that you've recovered from your world-class hangover, that is.”

“Okay, there it is,” I say with a groan. “You've been waiting all day to say that, haven't you?”

“To say what?” he says playfully.

“To tell me I'm a shitty drunk.”

Beneath the rays of intermittent moonlight I see him grin. “You're a shitty drunk.”

“I know,” I say, burying my face in my hands. “I have no idea what happened. One minute I'm fine and the next . . .”

“Don't remind me,” he says. “I'm trying to erase the memory from my mind as we speak. I'm still not sure how you pulled that off, though. I've never seen one beer mess somebody up that bad. I guess it's safe to assume you don't drink very often, huh?”

“Oh no,” I say. “I drink all the time at home.” He crosses his arms over his chest, raising a skeptical brow. “Okay, maybe I don't drink
that
often . . . but still, I don't know how that could have happened. It must be all this fresh air getting to me. Don't forget, I'm a city girl.”

“Oh, I don't think I'll ever be able to forget that.” He motions toward my
Twilight-covered
knee. “But that's actually sort of what I
wanted to talk to you about.”

“My inability to hold booze?”

“Well, no. Although we'll probably have to work on that in the future. I wanted to talk to you about your life back in Chicago—your dad, to be more specific.”

“My dad?”

“Yeah. When we told you about your dad's involvement with the camp you seemed a little . . .”

“Annoyed? Yeah, that's 'cause I already told you guys, he's involved with tons of charities. It's really not a big deal that he didn't tell me about this one.”

“Okay, okay”—he steps forward, one hand raised in defense—“I'm not trying to get you all worked up. What your dad does or doesn't tell you is none of my business, or anyone else's—”

“You know, Quinn, if you wanted to talk to me about my dad's business arrangements, you didn't have to drag me out here in the middle of the night. You could've just asked me at breakfast.”

“No,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “That's not why I brought you out here. That's not what I meant to say.”

“Then why am I here?”

“I don't know.” He looks flustered. “I guess I wanted to tell you that it doesn't matter to me that your dad is the person who signs my paychecks.” Recognizing the confusion on my face, he immediately adds, “Last night you said you've been burned by people who just want to hang out with you 'cause you're rich.”

Damn, drunk mouth!

“I just want you to know that I'm not one of those people. Whether your dad has money or not won't change the way I feel about you.”

My eyes widen. “How you feel about me?”

“Yeah,” he says, taking another step toward me. “I like you, not your money.”

Considering how many people have liked me for the wrong reasons, Quinn's sweet confession shouldn't be lost on me. But tonight it is. I can't focus on anything but those three little words he just said.

“You like me?”

The slight nod of his head is enough to answer my question, but it's the grin breaking across his face that sets my heart racing.

“I think that's pretty obvious, don't you?”

I shrug, still dumbfounded by the sudden turn of events.

“Well, I do.” He takes another step closer. “A lot.”

He's less than a foot away from me now, and despite the sudden lack of oxygen in my lungs, I manage to rattle off a question I can't believe I'm asking. “What exactly do you like about me?”

He seems amused, but still cocks his head as if he's carefully considering his response. “Well . . .” He shuffles forward, eliminating all the space that separates us. “I like that you say what's on your mind.”

I swallow hard. “Yeah?”

He nods. “And the way you stress out about your makeup getting messed up at the pool.” His gaze deviates momentarily to my mouth. “I like the way the dirty window screen imprint looks right here.” He reaches forward and gently grazes my forehead with his thumb. “And how you looked in my T-shirt last night.”

“I'm sorry about that,” I manage to say. “I woke up this morning and had no idea what was going on, and then I saw your shirt. It took me a minute to figure out it was yours—”

“And I really like the way you babble when you're nervous.”

Before I have the wherewithal to shut up on my own, I feel his lips cover mine and the taste of cinnamon floods my mouth.

I lace my fingers around his neck and pull him closer. He knots his hand in my hair, a confirmation that he's been wanting this as much as I have.

I lose myself in his touch, in the way his breath feels against my skin, and momentarily forget that my world outside his arms still contains handicapped signs and slurred speech. I could seriously stay here forever. Which is why when he asks, “Would you be willing to risk another trip out here again sometime?” I don't hesitate in my response.

“Definitely,” I say, breathing a contented sigh. “Most definitely.”

TWELVE

I
am so screwed it's not even funny.

Up until the kiss I wanted nothing more than to escape this freak farm. But now everything is just so damned complicated.

The past two nights, Quinn and I have spent countless hours getting to know each other while the rest of Camp Kill Me Now snoozes in their rickety beds. Fantine is convinced that we're just rounding the bases beneath the trees, but believe it or not, our midnight adventures actually involve a lot more talking than kissing. Which is exactly why my dad's return four days from now is starting to stress me out.

If I follow through with my original plan, I run the risk of losing Quinn (which is exactly why I'm staying tight-lipped about my failed drunken escape). The flip side is that I'm not entirely confident his gentle lips are enough to see me through the duration of my sentence. And as much as I love spending time with him, I'm not sure I can hang with the heavy, handicapped price tag he comes with.

“Is everything okay? You're abnormally quiet tonight.”

Wrapped in Quinn's arms beneath a sea of stars, and nearly a
mile between me and the nearest wheelchair, I shouldn't have a care in the world. But I do—a big one. I quickly come up with an excuse for my atypical behavior. Much to my surprise, it's actually legitimate.