14

Win answered the door, his mouth quirked in the type of joy that’s never innocent. It was the face the Campbell sisters wore when they were about to tattle. The expression I probably had each time Toby presented me with an opportunity to tell him he was wrong.

“Hey, Eliza,” Win said before calling over his shoulder, “Curtis, it’s the girl you claim you’re not dating. The one who can’t be as smart as you say she is, otherwise she’d know she’s way too good for you.” He turned back to me. “Come in. He’ll be right out.”

A door flew open, and Curtis half ran, half tripped into the living room in a tangle of untied sneakers. A twisted sweatshirt engulfed his head. “Shut up and go.”

“Oh.” I fumbled behind me for the doorknob. “I didn’t think you were still mad, but—”

“No!” He finally managed to get both arms and his head situated in the right parts of the sweatshirt, though the hood was pulled up and the drawstring was wrapped around his neck. He clawed at it as he crossed the room. “You, stay—I mean, if you want. But since you came here, I think you do?” He yanked the string free and pulled off his hood. His pointy hair was flattened. “Him—go. Win, seriously. Scram.”

“And miss all this awkward entertainment?” Win chuckled and tossed a throw pillow at Curtis. “Fine, but I’m sending Wink out, and she’ll tell me everything later.”

Curtis threw the pillow at his brother’s back. It missed and bounced off the wall. He turned to me with a sheepish expression. “So, hi? Sorry about him.”

My heart was still racing from the rejection that wasn’t. I touched my iLive band. More things I’d have to account for. “Are you busy?”

“I was getting ready to run. I’m training for the Carmody Half-Marathon.”

“You are? When is it?” I realized I was leaning toward him and overcorrected by backing into the door. The knob dug into my spine, but I didn’t spare time to wince, because I needed to know his answer.

“Not until April. I’m working my way up to thirteen miles. Wait—you ran cross-country. Want in?”

“It’s probably too late to sign up.” I bit the inside of my lip and hoped this was true—because if it was, then I would have to let go of how deeply I wanted to do something I’d just learned about a minute ago. This was probably the eager reaction my parents expected me to have to the Avery Science Competition. And because of that competition and quiz bowl and everything else, there’s no way they’d sign off on the race. But I wanted it. In a way that defied my normal decision-making process of lists and logic and consulting schedules and calendars.

“Nope. And I could use a training buddy.” He propped his foot on the bench beside the door to tie his shoe. “C’mon, let’s go for a run. You can show me what you’ve got.”

“It’s not that simple.” For many reasons.

“Sure it is. What size shoe do you wear? You can borrow clothes and sneakers from Wink. She’s got pairs in her closet in case she ever decides to be an athlete. Let’s do this.”

I looked over at his sister. I wasn’t sure if she’d come out of her room to act as Win’s spy or if she shared her twin’s opinion that watching Curtis and me interact was cringe-level entertainment—which, to be fair, might be accurate. She was resting her lean hips against the counter, eating a cup of yogurt. Her lips curved in amusement. “Do you want to tell him, or should I?”

“What’s the problem?” Curtis looked between us. “What am I missing?”

“She’s got boobs.” His sister waved her spoon between her own flat chest and my curves.

“Oh. Right. I knew that. I mean, obviously. I mean, not that I’ve been looking—” His eyes were currently fixed on the ceiling. Maybe he was praying, or just absolutely determined not to glance at anything that might get him in trouble.

Something about him getting flustered made me less so. It’s not like I expected him to know these things. Impromptu runs were for people who didn’t need strap-them-down underwire-sports-bra support. Thank you, genetics. Mom was busty too—but she said lab coats were the best camouflage. School uniform shirts—not so much.

“Rain check on the run,” I said. “I came here for a reason.”

“Oh . . .” He stepped on the back of his untied sneaker, pulling it off and setting it by the door before reaching down to unknot the other. “Don’t worry about lunch. Apology accepted. And you can help me make the cupcakes. If we tell Hannah and Sera ‘Eliza touched sugar for you,’ I’m pretty sure that grand gesture will work as an apology for them too.”

He crossed to the kitchen, shooing his sister out of the way to open a tall cupboard. He pulled out an apron and set it on the counter before pivoting to turn on the oven. To Wink he said, “If you go back to your room, I’ll let you have first taste test.”

“Deal,” she agreed. “But come get me if you guys start gaming.”

This house moved too fast for me. Everyone was five steps ahead before I realized the plan. “Wait!” Wink was already behind a closed door, so I aimed my protest at Curtis. “Are your siblings going to keep coming in and out?”

“Why?” he asked, and I practically tripped over my tongue to blurt, “No reason!”

But I’d said it too quickly. And if that wasn’t suspicious, my answer was. Since when did I do things for no reason? Never. But I couldn’t tell him they made me feel like a sideshow, or that I was already awkward enough around him without an audience.

“Hmm.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Pretty sure they won’t. Win won’t risk me telling Mom and Dad about the history paper he hasn’t started, and Wink’s pretty motivated by baked goods. Want me to lock them in so we have privacy? Or do you want a chaperone so you’re not alone with me and the muffin trays? I promise to keep my oven mitts to myself.”

I wanted to curse his dark eyes and pluck his long lashes. You know—if curses were real and physical violence wasn’t beneath me. No one should be allowed to be that expressive. His eyes could give a look that was sleepy and disarming, then a few blinks later be wide-awake. They could narrow in mischief and go round with fake innocence. Right now they were too sharp and too curious.

I lifted my chin. “You’re blowing off your run for baking? You don’t sound very committed to this half-marathon.”

He snorted and pulled his phone from his pocket. “I’ve got the iLive RunPlanner app. Look: With one click I move today’s five-mile run to tomorrow. No harm done, but if you want to come over and hold me accountable, be my guest.”

“Maybe I will.”

“All right then.” He tossed me the apron. “But first: cupcakes.”

I frowned, then turned it so the Kiss the Cook message faced in. “Are cupcakes hard to make? Because it’d be a terrible apology if they’re inedible. I’d blame you.”

He laughed. “Of course you would. But, no. Baking is basic chemistry.”

“Explain,” I demanded.

He did, starting with, “Baking is a simple endothermic chemical reaction that changes batter into baked good,” then delving deeper after I tied on the apron and we began to measure and mix. “There’re two main reactions that are going to get us the light, airy texture we want. These come from the flour’s proteins that are going to form gluten chains to make the batter elastic and the baking powder—our leavening agent—which will produce the CO₂ that makes the cake rise.”

The more he explained, the more foolish I felt. I’d gotten eggshell in the bowl while he described how the lecithin in them acted as an emulsifier. I’d picked up the liquid measure cup while he detailed the Maillard reaction that would be produced by the sugar I was supposed to be measuring.

I didn’t enjoy feeling like a novice, and I really didn’t enjoy being told what to do.

“I got it.” I swatted his arm out of the way and dumped the bowl that contained our dry ingredients into the bowl with our wet ones. I’d figured out the next steps on my own: turn mixer on, lower beaters into bowl.

The kitchen exploded into a white cloud of powder.

I choked and blinked and sputtered as he reached around me to turn the mixer off, forcing words through the flour paste coating my tongue. “Don’t you dare laugh!”

His lips were pressed tight as he nodded, his eyes sparkling.

I looked down. My now-gray tights stood in the middle of a flour ring. Powder covered both of my sleeves and pooled where I’d rolled my cuffs. The part of my crossover tie that wasn’t covered by the apron had changed color, and my skirt’s pleats swished from navy to gray. If there was ever a moment for magic to be real—so I could reverse time or disappear or make my cheeks not red as bromine—this was it. “I don’t know where to start.”

I looked up to catch Curtis biting his lip in amusement. He swallowed and managed to say, “Maybe go outside and jump up and down?”

It sounded ridiculous, but I didn’t have a better idea. “How do I get there without . . . shedding?” I dropped my arms, and a plume of flour rose up.

He covered a snicker with a cough. I narrowed my eyes, and he turned toward the cabinets. “Uh . . . trash bags. You can either step in one and hop to the door, or—”

“Or,” I demanded. “And it better not sound like a field-day event.”

“Okay, then.” He spread two bags end-to-end on the floor. “Follow the black plastic road. I’ll move one while you walk on the other.”

He kept his grinning face averted as I lifted my chin and stepped onto the first bag, leaving a snowy trail behind me. I sighed and set off puffs of flour from my nostrils like some smoke-breathing dragon. Curtis sounded like a choking donkey, his shoulders shaking with the effort to hold it in.

Fine—maybe it was a little funny.

“You can laugh if you want.”

“Oh, thank God.” He doubled over as he opened the sliding glass door to the backyard. “I was about to die.”

I narrowed my eyes as I stepped onto the concrete slab patio that faced a small square of fenced-in snow. “Maybe do so in the house.”

I took the paper towels he’d left and dusted off my tights as best I could, wiped my skirt, untied the apron, unrolled my sleeves. Shook my hair and watched my ponytail unleash a new cloud in the air, one that matched my foggy breath. And fine, I snickered a little.

The glass door slid open. “Can I come out?”

“Are you done laughing at me?”

“For now.” He grinned. “I asked Wink for clean clothes. Or you can head home—”

“I need to do the cupcake apology.” And switch books. “Give me those and don’t look.” The pants he’d brought were covered in yellow rabbits. The sweatshirt was familiar. “Hero High?”

Everyone got a personalized one with their acceptance letter—but while this one said Cavendish on the back, boys’ sweatshirts were gray, and this was red.

“Wink got in.” His voice sounded muffled, and I glanced to see that he’d turned around and covered his eyes. I pulled the pants on over my tights, then unzipped my skirt. “Win didn’t. She wouldn’t go without him. He’s reapplying to transfer in the fall. We’ll see.”

It was too cold to take off my shirt, so I pulled her sweatshirt over the top. “I’m good. You can look.”

“You’ve got some—” Curtis reached toward me and I took a step backward, frantically wiping my face. He stilled, his hand hovering six inches from where my cheek had been. “It’s on your eyelashes. I don’t want it to get in your eyes. If you stand still—”

He reached for the paper towels on the patio table. I froze and shut my eyes, feeling his approach through the soles of my feet, the movement of air molecules as his body heat came near mine, and his cranberry-juice breath on my skin as he leaned in close. His left hand brushed my cheek and tilted my chin, while his right swept the paper towel gently across each lid.

Then he stepped back, and I was free to open my eyes. But I didn’t right away. Even after he cleared his throat—twice—before managing, “Th-there. That should be better.”

I didn’t want him to look at me anymore. Not when I was wearing confusion along with batter. I shoved my hands into the sweatshirt pocket. “Did I ruin the cupcakes?”

He shrugged. “We’ll find out once they’re baked.”

“I’m sorry I wrecked your kitchen.” I cringed as I reentered, preparing myself for the mess, but the floors and counters were clean. “You didn’t have to—I would’ve—”

“No big deal. I’ve had lots of practice. Watch this.” He called down the hall, “Am I allowed to cook with beets?”

The twins’ answer was a simultaneous, “No!,” and their follow-ups were overlapping: “I’m not helping you repaint again.” “Don’t make me call Mom.”

“Cool your jets—I was just telling Eliza!” he yelled back. “See? This was a five–paper towel mess. That one was five gallons of paint.”

“Well, thank you.” I pushed the words off my tongue, because if roles were reversed, I wouldn’t have been nearly as gracious.

“Sure.” He popped open the baking-powder canister and added a pinch into the mixer. “Though I want a merit badge for not taking your picture post–flour bomb. It would’ve been great on iLive, or in the yearbook, or maybe blown up and hung in the school hallway . . .”

“Shut up,” I said—but I said it through giggles and while finding a tiny pile of flour he’d missed and flicking it at him. His laughter, when he joined in a second later, was sweeter than any possibly ruined baked goods.