But none of that is what bothers me most. What bothers me most is that although my head is cursing Darius for going off script, my heart can’t help but admit that that video was H-O-T hot.
“It’s okay, sweetheart.” I hug Kayla and stroke her dark curls as she cries into my leotard. The poor thing slipped and fell halfway through Frere Jacque and ran sobbing off the stage. I know exactly how she feels, though when you make a fool of yourself in front of hundreds of people at age three, it’s slightly cuter than when you’re sixteen.
“Go ahead, dear,” Ms. DuBois urges her. “Finish up. You’ll be fine.”
Kayla glances out at her fellow Tip Toe Toddlers in their pink-and-purple tutus, flitting around each other like butterflies in a field, and turns back to me, wide-eyed. I wipe a tear from her cheek and give her another quick squeeze. “Ms. DuBois is right,” I tell her. “You’ll be fine. You’ve got this. Besides, look at Ginny.” I point to a little redhead who is busy doing deep pliés while everyone else is twirling. “She’s lost without you beside her.”
That seems to do the trick. Kayla sniffs, gives a determined nod, and rushes back out to her spot, tapping Ginny’s shoulder and urging her to twirl.
“Thank you, Alicea.” Ms. DuBois offers a grateful smile. “I appreciate your help, but what are you doing up here? You should be downstairs stretching with the Seniors. Your group takes the stage in twenty minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I flee toward the stairs. I was backstage for two reasons, both of which have to do with boys and neither of which I wish to share with Ms. DuBois. First, I needed a break from Brie, Maggs, and half the girls in the corps. Apparently Darius and his rap are the talk of the school, and everyone wants to hear how it went down. Since I have yet to piece together my own feelings about it, I’ve been brushing them off with shrugs and vague replies. Second, I decided to peek through the crack in the curtain to see whether Ty might be in the audience. Did he make it, or did his “soccer stuff” keep him away?
When I reach the bottom step, I crumple against the wall. Because Ty’s not here; I scoured the crowd and didn’t see him. I did, however, see one face that surprised me: Aiden Jackson, holding a bouquet of daisies. The boy’s got guts. He never did get a chance to talk to Maggs the other night at McDonald’s. Part of me thinks his showing up here is the sweetest thing ever; the other part can’t help but be jealous. Why can’t I be more like Maggs, with boys chasing after me with flowers? Not to mention, I’m well aware that Aiden and Ty are teammates, and apparently “soccer stuff” didn’t keep him away.
Is Brie right? Do I try to make things into something they’re not when it comes to Ty? Is it possible that where Ty and I are concerned, “maybe” really does mean “probably not”?
I exhale as the applause washes over us. Somehow I managed to pull myself together and get my head into the dance. Heather broke form ever so briefly on her pas de chat, but otherwise the corps was flawless. We sneak glances at each other and smile as we take our bows.
As we head offstage, I pull Brie aside and lower my voice. “Aiden Jackson is here.”
“Okay. So?”
“He has flowers. Daisies, for Maggs.” Her eyes widen, and I grab her hands in mine. “We need to help him out. Give him moral support, talk him up to her. Whatever we can do.”
Brie’s eyes narrow. “What do you care? I’m mean, I’m happy to do my part, but—”
“Libby matched them. I just want to help.”
“Libby? I didn’t think you—”
“I know. I don’t. But … ” But what? Why exactly am I doing this? Maybe I’m still hoping if I help Aiden, he’ll do me a favor someday with Ty. Or maybe I like the idea of Maggs dating a soccer player so we can hang out with the team. Or maybe it’s like Lexi said and I want to make good on my Boyfriend Whisperer promise. Or maybe it’s simply that Aiden actually seems super sweet and sincere, and he drenched his hair in coconut oil and brought daisies all in the name of love, which is pretty freaking romantic. “It’s for Maggs,” I say, finally. “And she loves daisies.”
Brie screws up her lips and nods. “Okay. I’ll do what I can.”
“Do what you can about what?” Maggs appears at our side.
“About getting more height on my brisé.” Brie doesn’t miss a beat. Sometimes it scares me how easily that girl can lie when she needs to. “That was some awesome dancing out there, by the way. Seriously, Maggs, you rocked it.”
She’s pretty good at changing the subject, too.
I smile and nod in agreement. “Totally. Now, shall we go meet our adoring fans?”
“By ‘adoring fans,’ I assume you mean our parents?” Maggs asks.
“We’ll see.”
Brie and I each wrap our arms in hers and walk her out to the lobby. Sure enough, Aiden is standing there with his daisies, a look of terror in his eyes.
Maggs breaks away from us and runs over to her mom and dad. I give Aiden two thumbs up and a nod of encouragement, and Brie marches up to him. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
I nudge her with my elbow, and she sighs. “The daisies are a good start. Go for it.”
I smile and repeat the thumbs up. That was not exactly the confidence booster I was hoping for from Brie, but if nothing else, she seems to have propelled the poor guy into action. He walks over to Maggs and holds out the daisies.
She turns to him, her expression a mixture of surprise and confusion. “Wow, thanks, Aiden!” She plucks a single daisy from his bouquet. “I adore daisies.” She sticks it behind her ear. That’s so sweet of you to give these out. Thanks again.” And with that, she turns back to her parents, clearly oblivious to the dejected mass of nerves standing beside her.
Aiden retreats, his bouquet-minus-one in hand. I wave him over. Brie has already slipped away to find her parents and Blake, so I’m on my own now.
“Well, that was a total fail,” he says, his posture as wilted as those daisies will be in about a week.
“No, it’s not. First, she called you Aiden. I told you she knows your name. And second, she called you sweet. That’s not nothing.”
Aiden’s eyes brighten a bit as I go on, convincing him that Maggs’s misunderstanding about the daisies is actually a good thing—that it gives him a subtle base to build from and to have her eventually chase after him rather than the other way around. After all, guys chase after her all the time, and it never ultimately works out. Getting her to notice him like this might be just the ticket. I’m not sure I believe my pep talk myself, but it all sounds good.
“Maybe you’re right,” he says, finally.
“Of course I am.” I take a daisy from him and gesture to the sea of leotards and tutus surrounding us. “Now start handing out the rest of these.” I point to Kayla. “And make sure she gets two.”
I tap the tip of the compass spike over and over into my palm. Hard enough to feel its teeny prick, but not hard enough to draw blood. I’m hanging out in the supply closet next to my mother’s classroom trying to convince myself that I drove out to the gallery tonight for a perfectly valid reason. After all, I do need to research types of presentation boards and adhesives for my Grand View Tech Fair project. I just happened to choose the night when Mom has her multi-media class to do it. And so what if the tech fair is more than two months away? A girl likes to be prepared.
I glance at my phone. Class breaks in five minutes. My mouth goes dry and my breath quickens. Ouch. And that jab was a little too hard. I toss the compass back into its box and emerge from the closet.
What should I do? Go to the gift shop? Pretend I’m admiring the art along the walls? Hang out here as though I need to talk to my mom? For someone who likes to be prepared, I haven’t really planned this part out very well. Not that “this” is anything. It’s an innocent—
“Hey, Bright Angel.” A full four minutes early, Darius appears in front of me, fresh out of class. He’s wearing a plain white t-shirt and an olive hoodie that brings out tiny green flecks in his
mostly blue eyes. He regards me warily. “You still talking to me?”
I’ve avoided him since our presentation, as much out of confusion as anger. I squint and place my hands on my hips. “I’m not big on surprises, you know.”
“Sorry about that. But it was a good surprise, right? You can’t tell me you didn’t like it.”
My lips twitch into a smile as I recall his “You are my angel bright” line, but I won’t let him off so easily. “Whether I liked it isn’t the issue. You went behind my back. If you wanted to do a rap, why didn’t you tell me?”
He flashes one of his infuriating grins. “So you did like it.”
I glare. “Don’t avoid the question. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Come on, now. If I had told you I wanted to cut half of our texts and replace them with a rap video, would you have let me?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He’s right. I wouldn’t have.
“See? I figured it would be easier to ask forgiveness than permission.” He leans his head down toward me and lowers his voice. “So do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Forgive me?”
“Well … I … ” My breath catches in my throat, and my head suddenly feels light. I don’t have a chance to answer because, at that moment, my mom bustles through the doorway and into the hall.
“Alicea, dear. What a nice surprise. What brings you here?”
I step back and blink hard. “Oh, I … ” I point in the general direction of the supply room door. “I needed to check out your students. I mean, supplies. For a project.”
Mom glances from me to Darius and back again. “Mmhmm. Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Maybe. I mean, I’m not sure.”
“I see. Well, focus a little and you will.” She kisses the side of my forehead and heads toward the exit. “See you at home. No rush.”
I stare at the floor, unable to meet Darius’s gaze. “I owe you an apology, too, for the other night at the game. I felt horrible about that.” I look up. “I definitely want to make it up to you and Jaycee, though. At the next home game.”
Darius nods. “So does that mean we’re even? As far as apologizing and forgiving?”
I smile, surprised at how relieved I feel and at how much I want things to be okay between us. My brain wants to believe it’s just as friends, but the petit allegro my heart is performing inside my chest hints that it may be more than that. “We’re even,” I say.
“Good.” He turns to go but then stops. “I haven’t had dinner yet. Would you be up for a burger? I was thinking of going across the street to the diner.”
I’ve already eaten, but I have a sudden craving for a chocolate shake. Or at least I tell myself that’s what I’m craving. “Sure. Sounds great.”
He steps to the side and makes a sweeping motion toward the door. “After you.”
The Leesburg Diner is an old-fashioned place with black-and-white checkered floors, silver stools surrounding a counter, about a dozen cozy booths and tables, and a coin-operated jukebox. It also has the best milkshakes in all of Loudoun County.
“Seat yourself,” the woman at the counter calls to us as we walk in.
“Your choice,” Darius says.
I feel torn. A booth is more private, but the counter seems more fun, more romantic. Did I seriously just think that? I clear my throat and point to a table—the most non-private, unromantic table in the room. “This seems good.”
The restaurant is half empty, so we place our orders quickly. “So, is Jaycee your only sibling?” I ask as our waitress shuffles away.
Darius shakes his head. “We have a half-sister, Ellie. She’s four. She and Jaycee both live with my mom and stepdad in Fairfax. I’m in Sterling with my dad.”
“Oh. Is that because of … your transfer?”
He nods but doesn’t elaborate. “How about you? Any brothers or sisters?”
I tell him all about Andrew and how he takes after my parents while I … don’t. “Art is totally not my thing.” I want to add and I can’t believe it’s yours, but that might lead to a discussion of a certain computerized love match. I’m not ready to go there, even though I may be getting used to the idea that Darius is not a total loser and does, in fact, have a certain charm about him. Not to mention he has eyes I could lose myself in and brown bangs I kind of want to run my fingers through and … OMIGOSH WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?
“Shake?” Our waitress slams a glass down, bringing me back to reality.
I take a deep breath “Thank you.” I busy myself with my straw, poking at the mountain of whipped cream. I refuse to lift my head for fear that my eyes somehow may betray the fact that moments ago I was daydreaming about caressing Darius’s curls.
“Hey. Are you okay?” He grabs my free hand in his, and I pull it away as though his touch has scorched me.
“What? Yes. What are you—”
He looks at me with a mixture of concern and amusement. “Easy, easy. I just meant … ” He gently touches my palm, sending a shiver up my arm.
Ah. The cuts. Which are really more like pokes and are so tiny, I’m not sure how he even noticed. My face burns as I realize I’ve way overreacted to his touch. “Those are nothing. An unfortunate encounter with a compass.” He raises his eyebrows in apparent disbelief, so I add, “Not the direction-telling kind; the circle-drawing kind.”
“Right. I figured that part out.” He leans forward and rests his arms on the table. “Sorry to make you jump. Did you seriously think I was making a move on you? Because I want you to know, I’m much smoother than that. You’ll barely see it coming when I make my move.”
My stomach suddenly feels as though all sixteen of Ms. DuBois’s Tip Toe Toddlers are flitting around in it. Still, I force myself to stay calm and meet his gaze. “Is that so?”
“Trust me. Smooth.”
The waitress reappears with his burger in hand, placing it on the table.
“That looks yummy.”
He points to my shake as he prepares to take his first bite. “So does that.”
“I love their shakes. Super creamy.” I pluck the maraschino cherry from top. “Want my cherry?”
Darius’s eyes widen, and he chokes on his burger. He grabs a fistful of napkins and holds them to his mouth.
Meanwhile, my face turns what I can only assume is a shade redder than the offending fruit in my hand. “Oh, wow. I mean … I didn’t … I just meant I don’t like these. Holy crap, are you okay?”
He’s still coughing, but he nods. I can’t help but giggle, and soon we’re both laughing so hard everyone in the restaurant is staring at us.
When I finally recover, I lean back in my chair and pull a straight face. “What was it you were just saying? Oh, right, how smooth you are. How could I forget?”
He mock-scowls, grabs the cherry from my hand, and pops it into his mouth, sending me into another round of giggles.
“I like your laugh,” he says. “It’s sweet.”
I take a long draw of my milkshake, hoping it will cool down the burn on my cheeks. Your laugh is sweet? Who says things like that? Who is this boy?
He holds up one finger. “Be right back.” He stands and walks over to the jukebox. It has a mix of songs from the fifties and today’s pop. He turns and grins at me as he makes his selection, and a vaguely familiar oldie comes on with a round of ooh-wahs, followed by the first line: “Earth angel, earth angel.”
“Cute,” I call as he walks back toward me.
“And smooth.”
“Pretty smooth.”
He hesitates when he reaches the table, and for a moment I fear he’s going to ask me to dance because that seems like the kind of thing he might do just to embarrass me, but he flips his chair around backward and sits down, straddling it. He must have noticed me eyeing his fries earlier, because he picks one up and offers it to me. I don’t say no. Leesburg Diner’s fries are almost as good as their shakes.
“Where did you learn to writ
e rap?” I ask.
“YouTube.”
“Who’s your favorite artist?”
He grimaces. “None of them. I hate rap. I’m more of a Johnny Cash kind of guy.”
“Sooo … you watch rap videos as a form of self-torture?”
He laughs. “I don’t watch rap videos.” He offers me another fry. “I wanted to do a song for our project, but I’m not exactly Pavarotti. I figured maybe I could pull off a rap, so I went onto YouTube and searched for ‘learn how to write a rap song.’”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. There’s this dude on there with a whole series of lessons. He’s really good. At rap and at teaching it.”
“He must be.”
Darius’s eyes shine. “Because it was sick, right? And you liked it.”
“You’re not going to let it rest until I admit that I liked it, are you?”
“Can I consider that your admission?”
I roll my eyes. “You can. Congratulations. It was a great rap.”
“Yes.” He pumps his fist on the table. “Now. What about the dancing? Did you like my dancing?”
I purse my lips and point my straw at him. “Don’t push it.”
But I can tell by his grin that he sees past my front. Because I did like his dancing. I liked it very much.
I slam my laptop shut, toss it to the foot of my bed, and sink back into my pillow. College application essays are the worst, especially when you’re trying to explain to MIT’s dean of admissions how you’ve developed a complex computer algorithm with an error rate of an almost negligible 2.9 percent, despite the fact that it is aimed at calculating one of the most incalculable things in the world—the human heart.
The Boyfriend Whisperer 2.0 Page 7