Chapter 73
WINNING
Ding-dong.
It’s Sunday, two days after the end of school. I have no idea who could be dropping by at nine in the morning, but I figure it’s probably not an ax murderer, so I put down my diary and shout, “I’ll get it!”
That wasn’t really necessary, since Marjorie is still asleep and Morris the Dog is already barking madly. I pull a linty treat from my pocket and toss it to him. I wait until he’s trotting happily toward the couch before I pull open the door.
It takes me a minute to even realize who it is. Winnie Quinn is wearing jeans, which make him look like the teenager he is.
“H-h-hi,” I stammer. I’m too shocked to be very coherent.
“Hi, Kooks,” he says.
It hits me that I am still in my pajamas and that my hair is very likely doing an impersonation of a bird’s nest right now. But I’m pretty sure I can’t close the door and try this over again, so we stare at each other a moment. Finally, I think of something to say. “Do you want to come in?”
“Actually, I can’t stay long. I just wanted to let you know that I’m not coming back to North Plains High School next year. I got a research job at Portland State, so I’m going to be working over there.”
“Uh—congratulations.”
He nods. “I’m pretty excited about it. Anyway, I’m not going to be your teacher anymore. I’m not going to be a teacher at all.”
I’m not sure how to respond. Too bad? You were good? It’s a loss to the profession? In the end, what comes out of my mouth is “I’ll miss you.”
Winnie turns pink. “Well… I, uh—I wondered if you might want to go to the movies sometime. With me.” He laughs like he’s embarrassed.
I admit it. I’m floored. “You want to take me to the movies?”
He hesitates, and I realize I might have totally read this wrong. It’s Tebow all over again. He just wants to be friends, you nutty Cuckoo—
“Yes. I want to take you to the movies. Sorry. I’m not very good at this. It’s just that… you’re really beautiful, Margaret.”
“You’re really beautiful, too,” I say finally. I have no idea where that came from. Stop talking! I command myself, which does not work at all, because I immediately add, “Would this be a date?”
“Um…” Winnie turns bright pink.
“Scratch that,” I say quickly. “Forget I said it. We’ll figure it out later.”
He looks slightly—only slightly—relieved, but still embarrassed. Which is how I’m feeling, too. Why does this stuff always have to be so awkward?
My hand is holding open the door, and Winnie puts his fingers over mine. Very gently. His hand is warm. “Will you call me?”
“Yes,” I promise.
“Good.” And then, after giving me a slip of paper with his number scrawled on it, he walks away. I watch his retreating form, wondering if it was all a dream. And I’m struck by the idea that I may really, truly fall in love with Winnie Quinn in the actual world, not just in my mind.
