Chapter 1
Bo’s text message to me was short: “I hope you like surprises.” It was all he would say about our date tonight. He was probably trying to be romantic, but that’s the thing about guys. They don’t understand that it takes girls some thought and effort to get ready. Was I supposed to wear heels? Tennis shoes? Waterproof mascara? A para-chute? He could have at least given me a category for the night’s activity.
After changing outfits three times, I decided on dressy casual—it worked for most things—then went out to the living room to put on my shoes. My shoes were in the closet by the front door because Sandra, my stepmother, insisted we take off our footwear as soon as we came inside. It was better for the carpet.
Sandra was one of those immaculate housekeepers that I hope never to be. I’m all for cleanliness, but I draw the line at immaculate.
Sometimes it’s okay if the light fixtures have streaks.
My stepbrother, Nick, was sprawled out on the couch reading a book. He has reddish blond hair and so many freckles that Sandra refers to them as “the stars dotting the sky of his features.” Nick just calls them the freckle convention that showed up on his face.
Out on the street, Bo honked his motorcycle horn. At the noise, Nick looked up from his book. “Classy way to signal the beginning of a date.”
I grabbed my shoes and slipped them on. “If he rang the doorbell, he’d have to turn off his motorcycle.”
“And?” Nick asked.
20/356
I rolled my eyes, like Nick was making a big deal out of nothing, but to tell the truth, it was starting to bug me too. I stopped at the entryway mirror to check my appearance. I had pulled my long blond hair back in a french braid, which is one of the few hairstyles you can wear on a motorcycle and not look like you’re impersonating a sea anemone at the end of the ride. Since I started dating Bo, my hairstyles have become all about wind control.
Behind me in the reflection, Nick stared at me. Slowly he said,
“The problem with dating a guy to tick off your father is you end up having an idiot for a boyfriend.”
“I’m not dating Bo to tick off anyone.” This was partially true.
Ticking off my father was an added benefit. “Bo accepts me for who I am. He cares about me.”
The horn blared again.
“He cares about you, but not enough to get off his motorcycle?” Despite my best intentions to hate Nick for becoming my replace-ment—he was, after all, the kid my dad had lived with for years—I actually liked Nick. He felt like a brother.
Nick was still staring at me, waiting for some response. Really, he should have been happy I was dating Bo. Bo’s friends had become downright nice to Nick lately. They would nod to him in the school hallways like they’d always been on good terms.
I asked Bo once why he had picked on Nick before I’d moved in.
Bo had looked surprised at the question. “Guys mess around,” he said.
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
And it probably didn’t to Bo. It means a little more if you’re the one getting messed around with.
The horn honked again. Nick went back to his book, shaking his head. “Have a fun time. If that’s possible while you’re out with a troglodyte.”
21/356
Nick liked to throw around vocabulary no high school student should know. It was his way of winning arguments. People couldn’t dispute anything he said when they needed a dictionary to figure out what he was talking about. But I had a vocabulary that rivaled Nick’s.
It came from reading hundreds of novels back before Dad left.
Despite sounding like something that should hang in caves with stalagmites and stalactites, a troglodyte is a stupid brute. They show up a lot in time-travel novels.
Sometimes I missed reading.
“Bo isn’t as bad as you think,” I said.
“Probably not, since I think he’s devil spawn.”
“You should have an open mind,” I said. “Bo does.” Nick flipped a page of his book. “You’re confusing open with empty.”
I ignored the comment, tucked a stray strand of hair back into my braid, and went outside. Even though it was 9:00 p.m., the Arizona air was still so warm it felt heavy against my skin. Dad said it would cool down in October, but I didn’t believe him. Arizona only knew two tem-peratures: hot and hotter.
Bo was sitting on his motorcycle, casually fingering the handle-bars. His dark hair swept across his forehead and a shadow of stubble dotted his jaw. On most guys, I wouldn’t have thought that looked good. But on Bo it worked. He watched me walk up to his bike and smiled.
Nick was wrong about him. Bo wasn’t bad—just misunderstood.