I got there first.
I wasn’t going to—Megan said not to. Anna said definitely be late—make him wait. Then Megan added that if Devon got there first, he could watch me wiggle my hips on my way down the hall. That convinced me. I had no wiggle. I had no sexy hip move, no hair flip, and no eyelash flutter. And I didn’t see why I needed to point that out to Devon Yeats.
So I was waiting for him when he came down the hall. He didn’t have a wiggle either—which I had to admit was a good thing for a guy.
He dumped his backpack next to mine and sat across from me in the same spot as last week. “I don’t know who invented fish sticks, but they should be shot.”
“You got the fish sticks?”
“I was sick of pizza.” He held his stomach. “Now I think I’m going to be sick of fish sticks.”
I smiled. “Nice research for your oratory.” I pulled out my notebook and a pen.
He leaned back, looking ready for a nap. “You’re one of those organized team leaders, aren’t you? The kind who writes out a schedule for everyone in the group with assignments and due dates?”
I pretended to be insulted, even though he was right. “And what about you? You’re probably the type who says he’s got it all under control, then shows up the day before a project is due carrying half-finished index cards smeared with chocolate.”
“Not even close,” he said. “French-fry grease.”
I laughed. “As long as it’s McDonald’s fries.”
“McDonald’s?” He shook his head. “Burger King has the best fries.”
“They have a funny aftertaste. Mickey D’s are way better.”
“You crazy?” he retorted. “They oversalt.”
“The salt is the best part.”
“Salt should be a personal decision.”
The sun snuck in through a crack in the blinds, slanting lines of gold through his hair. As if he needed good lighting.
“What about ice cream?” I asked. “Dairy Queen or Baskin-Robbins?”
“Sonic,” he said. “Awesome milk shakes.”
“PC or Mac?”
“Mac.”
I sighed. “Even I can’t argue that.”
“That’s a first.” He gave me a smart-ass grin and reached for his notebook. I figured it was time to work, but then he shoved it behind his head like a pillow. “Have you always liked to argue?”
I nodded. “I was born with a big mouth. Literally. I have the baby pictures to prove it.”
He laughed.
“Plus, I come from a family of arguers. You should hear my mom and my grandpa. They argue about everything.” I tucked my hair behind one ear. “What about you?”
“I guess I inherited it from my dad. He competed in oratory, too.”
He looked away when he said “my dad,” and I could see his jaw tense.
My throat tightened. “I saw his name on some trophies in the lobby case. He must’ve been really good.”
“Yeah,” he said. “My mom donated them to the school after he died. She’s sure I’ll earn my own trophies to go next to his, and then go on to law school like he did.”
“So you’re following in his footsteps, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“I think about being a lawyer sometimes,” I admitted. “Arguing in front of a jury … making a case … someone wins and someone loses. I like that. But I also want to do something where you can change the way people think.”
“About what?”
“That’s the part I don’t know yet.”
“Something tells me you’ll be good at whatever you do—you like to win.”
“It beats losing.” His eyes were so warm, I felt myself melting again. I wondered if Crayola could make a crayon that color? They could call it Hypnotic Blue.
“Maybe I shouldn’t be working with the enemy,” he said.
“Maybe,” I agreed. “But then again, my grandpa always says, ‘Keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer.’ ”
“Wise man,” he said.
I had to laugh. “He also says, ‘Everyone is beautiful if you squint enough.’ ”
Devon smiled. “He sounds cool for a grandfather.”
I nodded, and reached for Bubbe’s necklace. It wasn’t there. I’d left it at home. I licked my lips, suddenly tense. Here was the opening I hadn’t been looking for. But I had to say something. Put it to rest, once and for all. I let out a breath, fiddling with my forgotten notebook.
“Hey, so I’ve been meaning to ask. What did you mean the other day? That thing you said about your grandmother being weird about Jewish people? She’s not a neo-Nazi or anything, right?”
“My grandmother in combat boots?” he said. “Can’t picture it.”
I relaxed a little. I couldn’t picture it either. “I told my grandpa it was nothing bad.”
“No. Nothing bad.” He met my eyes for a second, then leaned down to retie a shoe. “The scholarship program is in memory of my dad, and my dad was a Christian. That’s all it is.”
“That’s it?”
He leaned back. “Like I said, no big deal. It’s just easier if she only knows about your Christian half.”
It didn’t exactly feel “easy” inside me, but what he said made sense. “I guess I can understand that,” I said. I thought it through again, and felt myself nodding. Yeah. Even Zeydeh would understand. I smiled, and flipped to a clean page of paper. “I guess we should work, huh? We’ve got to turn in thesis statements tomorrow.”
He pulled the notebook from behind his head. “If we have to.” He fished a pen out of his pack. “So—special doctors for teens?”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to focus. “I love the idea, but I have to show there’s a problem with the system as it is. I need more than personal humiliation and Mickey Mouse wallpaper.”
He raised a knee, balancing his notebook. “I thought that was pretty strong.”
“Do guys have to go through that?”
“You mean personal humiliation?” He nodded in slo-mo. “Oh yeah.”
“But you don’t have to wear the little gown, do you?”
“You think we get boxers and a T-shirt?”
I grinned. “You, in a little gown with clouds on it?”
“It’s worse for guys than girls. At least you’re used to wearing a dress.”
“Not with a gap in the back.” I shook my head at the memory. “The doctor wore Tweety Bird earrings and called me sweetie. Then she wanted to discuss puberty.”
“At my last physical,” he said, “I had to put on the gown and hop on one foot.”
A picture of it flashed in my mind, and I busted up laughing. Then he started laughing, too, and when we finally stopped, we were both breathless. I had to swipe at my eyes, where tears had leaked at the corners. “That’s definitely got to be in my speech,” I said, making a note. “If only the serious stuff were as easy.”
“It will be,” he said. “You can talk about depression among teens. STDs and condoms. And steroids are a big deal now. A lot of teens are abusing steroids and growth hormones. Are pediatricians trained for that?”
“Good point.” I wrote fast, his ideas giving me new ideas of my own. In no time at all, I had a page of notes. “This is great,” I said. And it was. I’d been so nervous about working with Devon, but it all just … clicked.
“So now it’s your turn. Let’s talk about fast food,” I said.
“You think I screwed myself with the topic?”
“Are you kidding? It’s a great topic. It all depends on what you want to accomplish. What’s your thesis statement going to be?”
He thought a minute, his gaze shifting to the windows. The slivers of light had moved, and I wondered how long we’d been sitting here talking. He had a watch, but I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want this to end.
“I want to strike a blow for fast food,” he finally said. “It gets a bad rap.”
“Mostly deserved,” I had to admit.
“So you don’t think I can do it?”
“Oh yeah, you can.” I grinned. “It’ll be fun.”
He gave me a strange look.
“What?”
“You,” he said. “Nothing scares you, does it?”
I swallowed. “Why? Is that bad?”
“No. That’s cool.” He paused. “You’re cool.”
I met his gaze—but just for a second. For a cool person, I suddenly felt way too warm. I looked back at my pad, taking a deep breath. “So, uh, junk food that isn’t really junky. You can talk about food over the centuries and what people used to eat every day—cow brains and chicken feet and fried bugs.”
He started writing. “Can you write my speech for me, too, while you’re at it?”
I rolled my eyes. “Right. Mr. Unbeaten in Chicago last year.”
He stopped writing and looked at me from the corner of his eyes. “You checking me out, Taylor?”
“No,” I said. “Megan heard it from your grandmother. At the charity dinner where you met.”
“Oh, right.” He tapped a shoe against the seat cushion. “Kids Crisis Center. My grandmother forces me to go. There’s another one this weekend she’s been bugging me about—a fund-raiser for the Children’s Theatre League.”
“Megan’s going,” I said. “She asked me to tag along, but …” I shrugged.
“Maybe we should both go,” he said. His voice was casual, but my face still felt hot enough to set off a fire alarm. “We can sit together and argue about how bad the play is,” he added.
I tried to sound as casual as he did. “Who says I’d sit with you?”
“We can fight about that, too.”
I laughed.
“Come on. We better get back.” He shoved his notebook in his pack and zipped it up.
I did the same.
Then he stood, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “So we’re on for Friday? Crappy food, old folks, bad theater?”
I fought a smile. “Well, when you put it like that.”
“Good,” he said. The look he gave me was so warm, sweat broke out on the back of my neck.
Then he reached out a hand to help me up. I slid my palm into his. Our fingers twined, and it happened again. A warm spark shot through me like a tiny bolt of lightning.
I sizzled.
But this time, I was pretty sure he sizzled, too.