I turn off my phone and put it away. To distract myself and him, I ask Ryan about the “Wander Indiana” project. He is partners with Joe Wyatt. Their theme is baseball. They’re planning to visit the county baseball museum and the Indiana Baseball Hall of Fame in Jasper.
“That sounds really great,” I say. He is playing with my hair, and to make him stop, I lean over and pretend to search for something in my bag.
For their wanderings, Amanda and Roamer are planning to focus on the James Whitcomb Riley Museum and our local farm and history museum, which is right here in Bartlett and features an actual Egyptian mummy. I can’t think of anything more depressing than to be an Egyptian high priest on display next to a set of vintage wagon wheels and a two-headed chicken.
Amanda examines the ends of her ponytail. She is the only person besides me who is ignoring her phone. “So how is it? Is it awful?” She stops examining long enough to look at me. “What?”
“Finch?”
I shrug. “It’s okay.”
“Oh my God, you like him!”
“No I don’t.” But I can feel my face turning pink because everyone is looking at me. Amanda has such a loud mouth.
Thankfully, the bell rings, and Mr. Black wants eyes on him, people. At some point, Ryan slips me a note because my phone is off. I see it under his arm, waving at me, and I take it. Drive-in double feature Saturday night? Just you and me?
I write: Can I let you know?
I tap Ryan’s arm and hand him the note. Mr. Black walks to the chalkboard and writes POP QUIZ and then a list of questions. Everybody groans and there’s the sound of ripping paper.
Five minutes later, Finch breezes in, same black shirt, same black jeans, backpack over one shoulder, books and notebooks and thrashed leather jacket under his arm. Things are spilling everywhere, and he retrieves keys and pens and cigarettes before giving Mr. Black a little salute. I look at him and think: This is the person who knows your worst secret.
Finch pauses to read the board. “Pop quiz? Sorry, sir. Just a second.” He’s using his Australian accent. Before he takes his seat, he heads right for me. He sets something on my notebook.
He slaps Ryan on the back, drops an apple on the teacher’s desk with another apology to Mr. Black, and falls into his chair across the room. The thing he set in front of me is an ugly gray rock.
Ryan looks down at it and up at me, and then past me at Roamer, who narrows his eyes in Finch’s direction. “Freak,” he says loudly. He mimes hanging himself.
Amanda punches me a little too hard in the arm. “Let me see it.”
Mr. Black raps on the desk. “In five more seconds … I will give each and … every one of you an F … on this quiz.” He picks up the apple and looks as if he’s going to throw it.
We all go quiet. He sets the apple down. Ryan turns around and now I can see the freckles on the base of his neck. The quiz is made up of five easy questions. After Mr. Black collects the papers and starts to lecture, I pick up the rock and flip it over.
Your turn, it says.
After class, Finch is out the door before I can talk to him. I drop the rock into my bag. Ryan walks me to Spanish, and we don’t hold hands. “So what’s up with that? Why’s he giving you things? Is it, what, a thank-you for saving his life?”
“It’s a rock. If it was a thank-you for saving him, I’d hope for something a little better than that.”
“I don’t care what it is.”
“Don’t be that guy, Ryan.”
“What guy?” As we walk, he nods at people going by, everyone smiling and calling out, “Hey, Ryan,” “What’s up, Cross?” They do everything but bow and throw confetti. A few of them are good enough to call out to me too, now that I’m a hero.
“The guy who’s jealous of the guy his ex-girlfriend’s doing a project with.”
“I’m not jealous.” We stop outside my classroom. “I’m just crazy about you. And I think we should get back together.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“I’m going to keep asking.”
“I guess I can’t stop you.”
“If he gets out of line, let me know.”
The corner of his mouth goes up. When he smiles like that, there’s a single dimple. It was the thing that got me the very first time I saw him. Without thinking, I reach up and kiss the dimple when what I mean to do is kiss his cheek. I don’t know which of us is more surprised. I say, “You don’t need to worry. It’s only a project.”
At dinner that night, the thing I fear most happens. My mom turns to me and asks, “Were you in the bell tower of school last week?”
She and my dad are staring at me from opposite ends of the table. I immediately choke on my food, so noisily and violently that my mother gets up to pat me on the back.
My dad says, “Too spicy?”
“No, Dad, it’s great.” I barely get the words out because I’m still coughing. I cover my mouth with my napkin and cough and cough like some tubercular old uncle.
Mom pats me until I quiet down and then takes her seat again. “I got a call from a reporter at the local paper who wants to do a story on our heroic daughter. Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I don’t know. They’re making a bigger deal of it than it is. I’m not a hero. I just happened to be up there. I don’t think he really would have jumped.” I drink my entire glass of water because my mouth is suddenly dry.
“Who’s this boy you saved?” my dad wants to know.