CHAPTER

9

For the rest of the week, my new philosophy—the one where I’m in control—works pretty well. I stop trying to avoid Zach in art class. I mean, why should I? He’s a nice guy. We’re becoming, like, friends. We talk. Joke about stuff. Tease each other about drawing. Well, he mostly teases me, since my artwork sucks. His is beautiful. Every drawing, every time.

Do I fantasize about him? Yeah. A lot, unfortunately. The thing is, I don’t act on it. I think about my eleven-year-old self, snug in my sleeping bag, only thinking about Jerry. That’s the way it needs to be. A semester is longer than a week, but so what?

I can do this.

Friday after school, I’m in my pickup on my way home. Since Jillia and I are both broke, she’s coming over tonight instead of going out. We’ll watch TV, maybe do a little homework. It’s been days since we had a good make-out session. I hope Darla’s got a sleepover at a friend’s house or something. Maybe Dad will take pity on me and go to bed early. Jillia hasn’t told me sex is a go yet, but I can use my studly charms, try to convince her.

I’ve just reached downtown. Zach told me he works after school today. I’m not much of a coffee drinker, but I know Coffee Plantation. It’s the best coffee shop in town, or so I’ve heard. I’ve only been there once. It’s popular with brainiacs and artsy-fartsy types. The guys on the football team prefer fast-food drive-throughs and the 7-Eleven.

I stop at the signal on Main and Fifth. Straight is home. Coffee Plantation is left.

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. The afternoon is cold and overcast. Something hot would go down pretty good right now. I’m not all that into Mustangs, but I like restored cars. The light turns green. What the hell. I turn left. Park down the street.

When I walk in, soft jazz is playing over the sound system. Glass light fixtures hang above natural wood tables. A few people are hunched over their computers. I don’t recognize anyone. They’re all older. It feels like I’m in a foreign country. I think about turning around and leaving.

“Hey, Brett!” Zach beams at me from behind the counter. My heart does that fluttery thing that I hate. He goes back to helping a customer.

I take my time walking up to the counter. Study the menu hanging on the back wall. Can’t make sense of it. Take a deep breath. My heart’s beating kind of fast. Zach finishes with his customer. Comes over.

“Hey. Great to see you,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“So what do you want?”

“Um … I’m not sure.”

“Not a coffee drinker?”

“Not much. Guess I’ll have a mocha.”

“Whipped?”

“What?”

“Do you want whipped cream on top of your mocha?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.”

He grins. “Man, you really are a novice.”

I roll my eyes. “There’s got to be something I’m better at than you.”

He scribbles on a coffee cup with a pen. Slides it down the counter where a woman is operating a machine that’s hissing loudly. Then he says, “Well, there’s that game with the pointy brown ball and guys running into each other.”

“Oh yeah. Maybe I am better at football.”

Zach laughs. “It’s not too busy. I’ll bring your coffee out. Sit wherever you want.”

I find a table in the corner. Fold my hands on the table. Drop them onto my lap. Wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. Why am I here? I shouldn’t be here. This is not a good idea. This is not art class. This is the real world. I’m feeling out of control. Like I’m eleven, up on that top bunk, unzipping my sleeping bag, getting ready to …

No. No way.

I’m just getting to my feet to leave when Zach arrives with my coffee. “Sorry that took a while.” He sits across from me. “I’ve got a ten-minute break.”

Okay, I can’t leave now. I pull my chair back to the table. Hold the cup in both hands. It’s hot. I take a sip. Wipe whipped cream off my nose. “This is good,” I tell him.

“Yeah, Sarah makes a good mocha.”

He’s pressing his hands on top of the table. He’s got long, graceful fingers. I don’t know what artist’s hands are supposed to look like, but they must look like Zach’s. My fingers are only inches from his. I want to reach out. Press my hand on the back of his. Wrap my fingers around his palm.

“The car’s out back,” he says.

I look up. “What?”

“Sarah’s Mustang? I can’t be gone from the counter too long.”

“Oh, right.” I jump up. I’m such an idiot. My hand shakes as I hold my cup, almost spilling the coffee.

As he leads me to a back door, I try not to stare at his butt. We emerge into a small employee parking lot. You can’t miss the car. It’s bright fire-engine red.

“I don’t know too much about cars,” Zach says, pulling a key from his pocket. “I just know what I like. And this I like.” He unlocks the driver’s-side door. Points to the passenger side. “Hop in. Sarah’s okay with interior tours as long as we don’t spill anything.”

I want to get in there with him. I really want to. But the seats are too close together. The parking lot is too private. I back away. Almost trip over my feet. The drink sloshes. “You know what? I, uh, just remembered. I need to get home. I have to babysit my little sister. I totally forgot.” Darla hasn’t needed a babysitter since she turned twelve.

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“Yeah. She’s a brat. But somebody has to watch her.”

“I hear you. I’ve got a younger brother. He’s a brat too. Maybe we can hook them up sometime.”

“Yeah. Hah. So … thanks for the mocha and everything. I’ll take a rain check on the car tour if that’s okay.”

“Sure.” His eyes narrow. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Yeah. Great. I just need to get home or my dad will kill me.”

“Okay. Well, have a good weekend.”

I stroll around the building. When I’m out of sight, I run up the street to my truck. Throw the mostly full cup in the gutter. Turn the key in the ignition. The engine sputters and stalls. “Come on!” I pound my fist on the dashboard. Turn the key again. The Nissan rasps to life. I lean my forehead against the steering wheel. Knock my head against it a few times. Then I push myself upright and drive home.