He put his elbow on his thigh and his chin in his hand and leaned way forward, examining me. “It may not be fair,” he said slowly, “but it’s life. Try being the Japanese guy going out for the football team.”
“At least the whole school isn’t watching you and voting you up or down,” I pointed out.
“I feel like they are, every time I attempt a kick.” As he said this, he shifted his hand over his mouth like he was uncomfortable.
I reached out to touch his hand and pull it away from his mouth. I was so focused on him that it didn’t occur to me how personal the move was until I did it and he gazed at me with those dark eyes.
Determined not to show my embarrassment, I reassured him, “Every time you make a kick.”
He swallowed. “Right.” A weird moment ticked by as we held hands—like I’d suddenly become the self-assured one, and he needed the boost.
We both jumped as the train doors slid open.
“We’re here,” he murmured vaguely, grabbing his bag from the floor. I didn’t say so, but following him off the train, I felt just as disoriented as he was acting. My hand tingled where it had touched his warm hand.
A few other passengers got off the train with us and immediately disappeared up the stairs to the parking deck. The train moved out of the station while Max and I stood there awkwardly on the platform, facing each other.
Finally he motioned toward the stairs with his head and said, “I’m parked in the deck. Are you?”
“My mom’s coming to get me,” I said. “I’m not sixteen yet.”
“Oh, you’re just a baby!”
This was such a weird thing for a boy to say. But his whole face lit up when he said it, until I laughed along.
“But you said you’ll be a junior?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’m turning sixteen in three weeks.”
“From today?”
“From yesterday.”
His brows knitted for a moment like he was filing this information away for later. “So you’re just young for our class.”
“Pretty much.” I hated it, too. I couldn’t wait until I got my license. I wouldn’t have to rely on anybody for a ride again.
Except . . . I was beginning to look forward to Max picking me up for my date with Carter.
“Well.” He shifted his football bag to his other hand. “Why don’t I drive you home?”
“Um.” I wanted so badly for him to drive me home. But I wanted more than that from him. I wanted a chance with him. And that awful feeling of longing coupled with doom was exactly how I’d felt about Robert for the last two years.
When I didn’t answer, Max asked, “Is that creepy? I don’t fit the profile of a serial killer, you know.”
I laughed. “That is what all serial killers say. That’s how they draw their victims in.”
“Good point.”
“No, it’s just that my mom’s already on her way.”
He plopped his bag down between his feet, holding it by the strap, and cocked his head at me. He looked adorable that way, with his hair hanging longer on one side. “Can I wait with you until your mom comes?”
YES. “You don’t have to,” I said. “It’s not exactly a dangerous part of town.”
“That’s what all serial killer victims say. I would feel better.”
A southbound train pulled in with a short honk and a spooky whine of rushing air. In the morning when I’d caught the MARTA, the skylights overhead had let in plenty of sun. In the evening, though, the light was fading, the station was deserted, and all the textured gray concrete with decorative metal scaffolding made the place about as inviting as a jail in space. I’d never felt uncomfortable on the train in the year my mom had let me ride it by myself, but I was glad to have Max with me. I supposed I could indulge him and let him wait with me.
“The street exit is this way,” I said. We headed for the stairwell. After three flights down, we popped into the warm evening. A busy mall was just around the corner, but this area was quieter. We walked to the concrete bench at the pull-in where my mom would meet me.
As we sat down, Max asked, “Did Addison tell you I’m picking you up on Friday? I need your address.”
Electricity rushed through my veins at his mention of picking me up . . . even though we’d be carpooling to his date with Addison.
“I’ll text it to you.” I fumbled in my baton bag for my phone. “What’s your number?” As he recited it, I plugged in the digits. After I texted him, he peered at his own phone, then typed something. I thought he was recording my info, but a second later, I got a text:
Thank you Gemma!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I laughed. It was nice that he even pretended to be enthusiastic about me. I would take it. “You’re welcome.”
As he tucked his phone back into his own bag, he asked offhandedly, “How’d you lose all that weight?”
I stared at him, wondering what he meant by that. Lots of people had grilled me about my weight since I started losing. Usually they asked me why I was giving in to the beauty queen mystique and trying to look like every other girl. But he seemed genuinely curious, nothing more. No agenda.
“I told my baton teacher what I wanted to do,” I said. “She explained it to me in mathematical terms. If you take in more calories than you burn, you’ll gain weight. If you take in less, you’ll lose weight. I got on the Internet and figured out how many calories I was burning in a day. Then I added up what I was eating. Cobbler has a lot of calories.”
“Cobb— Wow!” He laughed. “You were eating a lot of cobbler?”
“Yes. My mom makes it.”
“Low-fat cobbler, or—”
“In Atlanta? God, no. That’s your California roots talking. You probably make it with tofu out there.”
He grinned and shrugged. “And sweetened with organic honey.”
“Right. Around here it’s refined sugar, lots of butter, and a scoop of full-fat ice cream on the side.”
He winced. “Often? Every day?”
“At least. My mom is a great cook. I used to cook with her, and we would eat together. And snack together. And have dessert together.” I thought back to those nights when I’d felt warm and safe and way too full. “Sometimes we might have dessert together twice.”
“I gotcha.” As he said this, he chuckled a little. Not like he was making fun of me, but like he really did understand the rut my mom and I had gotten into after my dad left, and how hard it had been for me to get out.