The Opposite of Ordinary

by Jessica Sorensen

  “Told you,” he mouths, grabbing a soda.

  I mouth back, “Yeah, you did.”

  He chuckles then ambles off to get a bag of chips while I rush to catch up with Maxon at the slushy machines.

  “What have you been thinking about?” I ask. “Or do you not want to talk about it?”

  He grabs three extra-large slushy cups. “It’s just that whole thing with Knox. It’s been bothering me.”

  “I’m sorry.” I take one of the cups as he offers it to me. “Like I said, I’m going to make sure Knox doesn’t do anything to you.”

  “I’m not worried about that.” He slides the cup under the blue slushy dispenser. “I just want him to stop coming after you … and stop yelling at you. I should’ve said something when he first started yelling, but like always, I just stood there like an idiot.”

  “You didn’t just stand there; you were the one who moved me away from the situation.”

  “Yeah, but if I was tougher, the situation wouldn’t have ever happened.”

  “I doubt that. If Knox wants to start a fight, he usually starts a fight, and that’s that.”

  He releases the lever from the machine and licks a drop of spilled slushy off his hand. “I should’ve at least tried to get him to stop instead of walking away like I always do.”

  Okay, I’m starting to wonder if this isn’t only about the fight between Knox and me. Maxon doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would be involved in a lot of fights. Well, unless when he’s with Clove, apparently.

  He must see my wheels turning, because he adds, “My dad used to love to yell at my mom. And instead of intervening, I’d hide in my room like a coward.”

  “Maxon, that’s not your fault at all,” I tell him, lining my cup up under the blue slushy nozzle. “You were only a kid. There’s not much you could’ve done.”

  “I get that it’s not my fault. It took me two years of therapy, but I get that now.” He looks away, plopping a lid down on top of the slushy. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to do things differently if I am ever faced with a similar situation.”

  “What happened with Knox wasn’t the same as your dad yelling at your mom. It was just some random guy yelling at a girl you barely know, and one who’s been kind of a jerk most of her life.” I pull the lever down, and the machine spits blue slushy into the cup. “And maybe you didn’t stop him from yelling at me, but you did save me from dealing with a week’s worth of Queeny wrath from hell all by myself, which is way worse than having to deal with two minutes of Knox’s tizzy tantrums.” I release the lever as the slushy nears the rim of the cup. “You’ve done so much for me this week. I can’t even begin to thank you.”

  He trades my full cup for the empty one. “All I did was offer to be your friend. It’s not a big deal.”

  “That’s a pretty generous offer for most people. At least, the people I’m used to hanging out with.” I nudge my shoulder into his and smile. “Face it, Maxon, you’re a really sweet guy, and your friendship is valuable to me. I don’t feel like I’ve earned it yet, but I’m going to try.”

  He shakes his head like I’m being absurd. Then he sticks a lid on the last of the three slushies. “Come on; let’s go get our licorice.”

  My stomach does a cartwheel at the casual way he drops in the our. I mentally kick my own butt.

  For some silly reason, as we walk to the candy aisle, standing so close our fingers brush, “I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend” by the Ramones plays through my head. Only, my inner voice ad libs in girlfriend.

  After we make our purchases, the three of us pile back into the car. Maxon gives me one slushy to press against my forehead, and then rips open the licorice bag, grabs a piece, and bites off the end. Then he stabs the makeshift straw into another slushy and hands the cup to me.

  As I wrap my lips around the piece of licorice, I try not to think about how his lips just touched it. But it’s all I think about. And whether it makes me crazy or not, I swear the slushy tastes sweeter.

  Well, this is unexpected. I’m turning into a lovesick girl. One who’s probably going to get her heart shattered when the sweetest guy ever has to have the good ol’ I-just-wanna-be-friends-with-you speech.

  You know what? I don’t care at the moment. The heartbreak might be worth finally feeling like I can breathe again, like I’m finally being myself, like I’ve managed to drag myself out of my own self-created grave.

  “Hey, if you really think about it, you guys are, like, one step away from kissing,” Clove remarks, noting my expression as I slurp my slushy through the licorice straw.

  Maxon chokes on a mouthful of slushy while I try to process what the hell kind of face I’m pulling. From where my thoughts were, I’m betting I look like a mixture of walking on rainbows and sunshine, and hearts popping out of my eyes. All from having a chewed on piece of licorice in my mouth.

  “Don’t be gross,” I tell him, not sounding very convincing.

  Clove’s brow arches. “Are you saying kissing Maxon would be gross?”

  “What! No!” Now I sound too upset. I need to take the squeaky balloon tone down a notch and act normal. “I’m just saying that it’s gross to suggest that me slurping from a straw is almost the same as kissing Maxon.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you said gross when I said you slurping on Maxon’s secondhand candy straw was close to you two kissing,” Clove tells me, flipping on the blinker to turn down the dirt road of the trailer park.

  I blast him with my best evil look and then turn to Maxon, who’s a little red in the face.

  “That’s not what I meant,” I insist. “I don’t think kissing you would be gross.”

  “Maybe you should try it and find out for yourself,” Clove suggests as he parks at the end of Maxon’s driveway. “See if the real thing’s better than the recycled spit you were just slurping.”

  “Will you shut up?” Maxon hisses while I swat Clove’s arm. “I don’t know what your problem is today, but you seem really dead set on embarrassing me.”

  “Relax, I’m not trying to embarrass you.” He pops a handful of chocolate into his mouth as he winks at me.

  I hold up my hands. “I don’t even know what that wink meant, and I really don’t want to.”

  He points back and forth between Maxon and me. “It means, I’m trying to play matchmaker for two very lucky people.”

  “All right, I’m getting out,” Maxon talks over him, shoving the door open and diving out of the car. “Ash, you should, too, before he starts suggesting we play spin the bottle and seven minutes in heaven.”

  Clove smacks his hand against the steering wheel. “That’s an awesome idea! I’m going to tell Clarissa we should do that at her party.”

  “Good luck with that. Clarissa will never go for it.” Maxon ducks his head back into the cab, snags ahold of my hand, and pulls me toward the door.

  “I don’t know about that,” Clove replies, reaching for his soda in the cup holder. “She plays I’ve never all the time.”

  “With candy shots?” I ask as I reach the edge of the seat.

  Maxon hauls me to my feet, pulling me out of the car so quickly I barely have time to grab my bag.

  I lean back down to look at Clove or, well, glare at him for almost outing my crush. “And that game isn’t even remotely close to weird little kissing games.”

  “Those games aren’t weird!” he shouts through a laugh. “They’re in the top ten party games in America for people ages twelve to eighteen—”

  The door slams shut, silencing Clove’s party facts speech.

  Laughing, he waves at us as he backs out of the driveway and speeds off down the road.

  “He’s goofy.” I turn to Maxon, who’s glaring at the tail end of Clove’s car. “But in a good way.”

  “Let’s see if you still think that after dealing with seven years of his goofiness.” Maxon tears his eyes off Clove’s car and focuses back on me. “I’m sorry about everything he said. That whole kissing thing
wasn’t about you.”

  “No … I think it was.”

  “Trust me; it wasn’t.” He kicks at the dirt with a heavy sigh. “It was about trying to get me to …” He pauses, searching for the right words.

  “Be one for one?” I offer.

  An uneven laugh slips from his lips. “Yeah, I guess. Or, according to him, two for two since he thinks I make out with my pillow.”

  “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I saw him make out with the air.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “At lunch yesterday.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “Oh, you know, because he thought he was being funny.” And because he knows I want to be your one for one.

  “Everything he does is because of that,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

  I lift my hand to my forehead to shield my eyes from the sunlight. “So, he’s always like that, then?”

  “For the most part. There are some days when he’s not so bouncing on pogo sticks and eating straight sugar, but he’s rarely serious. And when he’s high, watch out.” He widens his eyes mockingly. “It’s like a twenty-four seven comedy act, which sounds good in theory, but when you get zero breaks, it gets kind of tiring.”

  “How do you put up with it?”

  “I just remind myself that I do really annoying things, too, that he has to put up with.”

  “Hmmm … What are these little annoying things?”

  His gaze locks with mine, and his brow crooks. “You haven’t figured those out yet?”

  I shake my head. “Well, you’re kind of grumpy in the morning before you get your blue slushy. Other than that, you seem pretty perfect to me.” I don’t even bother mentally kicking myself for that one. At this point, I already have a mentally bruised butt.

  A blush sweeps across his cheeks. “I’m far from perfect; trust me.”

  “I’m not so convinced. Guess I’ll just have to hang out with you some more to see if these alleged annoying traits manifest.”

  He chuckles, staring at the ground, strands of hair falling into his face. “You know, if you want to hang out with me some more, you can always come over for dinner tonight.”

  “Wait. Are you fancy cooking?” Wait. Hold up. Is he asking me out?

  “I am.” He elevates his gaze to mine. “And you can help me cook if you want to, which I promise is way more fun than it sounds.”

  “What’re you cooking?”

  “Pasta with pesto and potatoes.”

  “Holy yumminess. I can’t even remember the last time I had pesto. Or pasta. I do eat a lot of potatoes, though … from a box.”

  He pulls an ewie face. “Well, mine aren’t from a box. They come from the ground. You even have to scrub the dirt off them.”

  “Sounds like a cooking job I can handle.”

  “Nope. No one’s going to handle it.”

  I scrunch my nose. “So we eat the dirt?

  He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and shakes his head. “Nope.”

  “Then who cleans the dirt off?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  I eye him over. “Just what exactly do you have in your kitchen?”

  His eyes glitter in the sunlight as he lightly taps my nose. “If I tell you now, then you won’t be surprised.”

  Sweet baby love bugs, is Maxon Harter flirting with me? He looks so ridiculously adorable while he’s doing it, too, that I damn near have a cuteness overload and faint.

  “Fine, I’ll wait until tonight to find out.” I mentally spin around and throw glitter all over myself as I picture actually going to his house, like how I’ve imagined … a lot, a lot.

  Relief flickers across his face, as if he was worried I’d say no. “If you want to see the really fun part, make sure to be here by six.”

  “Oh, I’ll definitely be here,” I tell him. “You’ve got me way too intrigued now.”

  He gives me one last adorable half-smile before turning around and walking into his house.

  Smiling like an idiot, I practically float across my yard and into my trailer.

  “What’s got you so happy?” Lucky asks when I walk in and do a little twirl.

  I stop pretending like I’m a ballerina and shrug. “Oh, nothing. I’m just excited school got out early today.”

  “Yeah, right.” Lucky lowers his feet from the coffee table and scoots to the edge of the sofa, sweeping crumbs off his lap. “You look flushed, Ash. What’s up? Did Mr. Torch Owner finally show you his torch?”

  “Ha, ha, you’re so hilarious.” I kick the door shut, drop my bag on the floor, and head into the kitchen to grab a snack.

  “You’re not going to tell me?” he asks, getting to his feet.

  I open the fridge and grab the juice. “Tell you what?”

  He stops at the edge of the kitchen and crosses his arms. “Why you’re smiling for the first time in years.”

  “I’ve smiled plenty of times over the years,” I say, unscrewing the lid off the juice.

  “Fake smiled. And for the last couple of months or so, you haven’t even done that.” He holds up a hand. “And don’t even get me started on this past week. Seriously, you looked as sad as Grumpy Bear without his Care Bear stare.”

  “You seriously need to lay off the morning cartoons,” I tell him, collecting a cup from the cupboard.

  “Morning cartoons are very educational and informative. I’ve gained so much knowledge from watching those little bears take down the evil villain with their bedazzling rainbow bellies.”

  I turn around and squint at him. “Did you eat magic brownies for lunch again?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. I’m actually laying off the happy chocolate bars temporary.”

  I frown as I pour the juice into a cup. “Because of what Queeny did?”

  “Sort of. I mean, I know my boss won’t give a shit, but it made me think about how much I’m putting on the line. And this family doesn’t have much left to put on the line.” He grabs a bag of chips from off the counter and shovels a handful into his mouth. “I’m not saying I’m going to stop forever; I’m just going to take a little break until things smooth over with our situation.”

  “Wow, that’s pretty cool of you, Lucky,” I compliment, putting the juice back in the fridge.

  “It’s called maturity—that’s what Gabby told me.” He drops the bag of chips and dusts off his hands. “Speaking of Gabby, I was told to tell you that she’s going to come over a little early tomorrow to help you put together a costume for the party.”

  I stop drinking mid-swig and lower the cup from my mouth. “We’re going to a costume party?”

  “Yeah. Why do you sound worried? I thought you loved dressing up.”

  “I do … But … Do you know whose party we’re going to?” Around this time of the year, a few weeks before Halloween, Queeny throws a costume party. Her reason: everyone has a costume party on Halloween, and she’s way better than everyone.

  He leans down to prop his elbows on the countertop. “I’m not sure. Someone she knows, I think.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Why do you sound worried?”

  I shrug, rotating the cup of juice in my hand. “Because Queeny usually has a costume party around this time of year.”

  “I really doubt Gabby would take us to Queeny’s party,” he says, then pressingly adds, “or be invited to one.”

  “True, but a couple of times word of mouth traveled fast and people Queeny never met showed up.”

  “Well, if it turns out to be Queeny’s party, I’ll tell Gabby we gotta ditch. There’s no way in hell I’m visiting the devil’s lair without any magical happy brownies to protect me.”

  A soft, grateful smile touches my lips. “Thanks, Lucky.”

  “Don’t thank me,” he says. “I’m doing this for mostly selfish reasons.”

  I continue to smile. “Sure you are.”

  He presses his hand to his chest dramatically. “Are you accus
ing me of being selfless? You’re going to ruin my street cred.”

  I roll my eyes. “The only person you have street cred with is Mrs. Fickleson, our seventy-year-old neighbor.”

  “Hey, she’s a pretty cool chick, so I’ll take it.”

  I back toward the narrow hallway. “Still, you’re a good brother … even if you hate admitting it.”

  He picks up the remote from the sofa’s armrest. “You say that now, but tomorrow, when I use all the hot water, you’ll be telling me I’m the spawn of Satan.”

  I smirk. “Nah, just Satan’s spawn’s child.”

  He laughs, but his humor fades as he drops down onto the sofa. “Check on Dad while you’re back there, will you? He’s actually having a pretty good day. He’s been awake a lot and everything. I haven’t checked on him for a bit, though.”

  “On it.” I exit the kitchen and walk to my dad’s closed door. Giving a little knock, I twist the knob and peer in, smiling at the sight of him sitting up in bed with mounds of pillows behind his back and the remote in his hand.

  “You’re awake again.” I inch my way into his room, which is now cluttered with stacks of boxes. “And the box fairy paid a visit, apparently.”

  He turns down the volume on the television and sets the remote on the bed. “Nope, just the plain ol’ Mom fairy.”

  “Just for future reference, you might want to refrain from using Mom and old in the same sentence.” I peer at a label of one of the boxes closest to me. “What is this stuff?”

  “A shipment for the store.” He picks up a cup of water from the nightstand and takes a sip. “She stuffed them all back here because she had some friends over this morning and didn’t want the house looking like a mess.”

  “Who came over? As far as I know, she hasn’t had any friends over since we moved.”

  “It’s the woman who lives next-door … I think her name is Miranda.”

  “Oh.” I’m not sure how I feel about my mom being so close to a guy’s mom I’ve spent many hours secretly spying on. “How close are they? I heard they also spend Friday nights getting tipsy on wine.”

  “They do. And I’m glad.” He turns to fluff a pillow, and I rush forward to help him. “I feel bad that I can’t take her out anymore.”