It made answering easierand more convincing.
“I…that was just a reminder for me for later on.”
“You wanted to remind yourself about some song lyrics?”
“Why would I lie about a thing like that?”
“I have no idea. You tell me, honey.”
“I’ll tell you that we are supposed to be studying.”
“I know. Why do you think I’m so concerned?”
“You’re not concerned at all. If you were you would be silently writing things down right now.”
“Silently writing things down, got it. No problem, boss.”
He sounded sincerethough it still surprised her when she heard the slide of his pen over paper. Halting at first, but then quicker and more sure. Soon all she could hear was frantic scribbling, as though he was really getting into it. He was forgetting her pretend notes and their banter, and just doing the work. She was sure of it.
And then came the note.
The torn-off, jaggedly written note, pushed under her nose.
So what do you like about “You Ruin Me”?
Of course she tried to resist replying. She really did. But he was talking about the song. He knew the song. And he had crossed out and started again so many times. She could see one sentence beneath the scribbles: it would be really cool if we could talk a little bit.
Then suddenly her pen was scribbling underneath his question.
I like that you knew it well enough to guess where those words came from.
You think I’m going to be embarrassed about being a fan of The Veronicas?
You used to be embarrassed about stuff like that.
And now I wish I hadn’t wasted so much of my time worrying about what the right thing to wear or say or do was. Look where it got me.
Being forced to study by your mortal enemy?
No. Seeing you call yourself my mortal enemy.
She hesitated there, pen hovering over the space she was supposed to fill. That one underlined wordcallgoing around and around in her head until the urge to write no in ten-foot-tall capital letters was enormous. It took almost everything she had to dial it back, and even when she managed to, her writing came out like his. Jagged and too firmly pressed into the paper.
Full of emotion she didn’t intend.
I don’t really feel like I am anymore.
What do you feel like you are?
Someone who needs to study, Tate, come on.
Answer truthfully and we can. I will. Just this one. Please?
Now she did look up, too desperate to see his expression to do anything else. Was he happy? Sad? Full of resentment? Just joking around? She couldn’t tell from his handwriting, or from the words themselves. She needed to see his face, no matter what was written all over it.
And then she did, and wished she hadn’t. He looked agonized, she thought, as if waiting for her answer was a terrible strain on him. Though once she had written it everything shifted again. I think we are friends, she wrote, and he simply nodded. He didn’t seem relieved or particularly pleased. He just carried on with his work then, as though all that other stuff had never happened. And she felt like it hadn’t, too.
Until they both got up to go. They shook hands and went off with separate things to work on, her just a little way in front of him. Or at least she thought she was just a little way in front of him. When she glanced behind herself and saw he wasn’t there, she went back. She stood in the shade of the shelf she’d just passed, and watched him do something he obviously thought she would never see.
He tore off the paper that held her last words to him, carefully, so carefully.
Then just as carefully folded it up, and slipped that we are friends into his wallet.
Chapter 8
The party was so loud the walls of Kappa Phi seemed to shake. At least three different sets of speakers were playing three different sets of songs, and on top of that everyone present was either laughing, yelling, or knocking something over. It was total bedlam.
Yet somehow she still heard Lydia loud and clear above it all.
The question was like a chain saw, buzzing through everything else.
“So how did it go?”
Of course Letty knew why she had asked. Tate was just over by the makeshift bar someone had set up in what was once a living room. They could see him from where they were huddled, in a corner marked COMING HERE WAS THE WORST DECISION OF ALL TIME.
He looked nothing like the guy who had encouraged her to get him in a headlock or told her about his sawdust leg. He seemed twice as big, for a start. And that guilelessness was gone, replaced by the deadly cool he had possessed in high school. His smile was easy and effortless as he talked with some bro she thought might have been on the team with him. There was no hint of uncertainty there at allthis was Tate the top-notch athlete, the popular guy, the one who knocked back beers and thumped some guy’s shoulder.