Rolling Dice

by Beth Reekles

  Then Mom calls, “Dinner’s ready!” and we have to stop.

  Over the entire thirty-two minutes we’re all sitting at the dinner table, my parents don’t say a single embarrassing thing about me, and neither do they grill Bryce too much—I mean, they ask him a lot of questions, but nothing too rude. Mostly about soccer and school and college.

  I’m on tenterhooks the whole time, though, just waiting for something that might send him running.

  But soon enough we’re all finished and Bryce is still there, and I’m not burying my head in my hands in shame. Mom collects the plates up to put in the dishwasher and I stand up to take the glasses over.

  “He’s very nice,” Mom says under her breath to me. “What’re you two doing now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, your dad’s going to be in the family room—there’s a documentary he wants to watch.”

  For a heartbeat or two I don’t say anything, because this situation crossed my mind at dinner. And by “situation” I mean “my bedroom.” Because what am I supposed to do? There’s a spare downstairs room, but it’s full of odd furniture and boxes we haven’t unpacked from the move, so that means my room is the only place to go.

  It isn’t that I’m worried about him seeing my room or anything. It’s just that I’ve never had a boy there before. This is all new to me.

  But at least I know there’s no dirty laundry on my floor. By the time I turn back to the table, Dad’s already excused himself, and Bryce shoots me a smile.

  “Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Clarke,” he says to my mom. “It was great.”

  “No problem at all, Bryce.”

  I smile at him and tilt my head to the doorway. He takes the hint without me having to say anything, and stands up, following me out of the room.

  I pause when I get to the bottom of the stairs, and my heart is beating hard in my chest. I’m only nervous because I don’t want him to think I’ve got … other intentions in mind. I don’t want to give the wrong impression, but I also don’t want to sit in the family room with my dad for the next couple of hours.

  “Uh …” I clear my throat, and point awkwardly at the family room door. “My dad’s watching some documentary, so … um … do you want to—I mean, the only place left is—”

  I stop stammering because I see that Bryce is smiling, and then he chuckles. He takes a step closer to me and then leans down to plant a kiss on my forehead, one hand resting on my shoulder.

  “Chill,” he tells me, with that cute smile. “Lead the way.”

  I let out a huge, silent sigh of relief, and my heartbeat gradually slows. As I turn and head upstairs, Bryce’s hand slips from my shoulder to my hand, and I lock my fingers through his, smiling to myself.

  When we get to my room, my fingers seem to get stuck around the doorknob.

  “You okay?” Bryce’s voice jars me from whatever frozen state I was in.

  “Yeah,” I answer hastily. I glance back at him with a quick smile. “Sorry.” I take a deep breath, and it’s only a little shaky. Get a grip, Madison!

  Even though I know my room isn’t that messy—well, Mom says it’s a mess, but I say it’s an organized mess, with everything exactly as I want it—I say, “Sorry, I haven’t had chance to clean up …”

  “Are you kidding?” Bryce laughs. “You’re lucky if you can see the floor of my room most of the time.”

  I chuckle, but suddenly my only thought is: Where do I sit?

  I look at my bed; do I sit there, or is that going to give him the wrong impression? I’d sit on the bench by the window, except that Bryce is there. I don’t want to sit on my desk chair. So I perch on the end of my bed, looking at him.

  “How come there aren’t any photos of you with all your old friends?” he asks. “It’s just that I know Tiff has tons of photos of everyone, and so do my cousins. I figured it was a girl thing.”

  The lie comes easily to my lips: “They haven’t been unpacked yet.”

  “Ah,” he says, buying it without question. “Do you miss them?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Your friends. Everything back in Maine.”

  “Oh. No. I don’t.”

  “Really?” He sounds shocked, but I suppose it’s abnormal not to miss everything from the first sixteen years of your life.

  “Well, I don’t miss it as much as I probably should”—I make it sound like a joke—“but I like it here a lot better.”

  “Why’s that?” he asks, one eyebrow raised and a suggestive note in his tone.

  Alien as I am to the concept of flirting, I giggle and say, “Well, this guy might have something to do with it …”

  “Does this guy have a name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to tell me anything about him?”

  “For one thing, he’s a really nice guy—not to mention incredibly attractive.”

  I have no idea what words are spilling out of my mouth, but I can’t seem to control them. Not that this seems to be a bad thing; maybe I’m doing something right for a change.

  “Naturally.” He smirks slightly, unable to keep the serious expression on his face. I giggle again. He’s taken a few steps closer, and now he’s only inches away; I have to crane my neck back to look up at him.

  “And”—he takes another step and I put a hand on his shirt—“I really want to kiss him again right now.”

  “Well, he’s more than happy to oblige.”

  With that, he leans down, one hand on either side of my legs, and I reach up to kiss him, my arms around his neck. He shifts closer and forces me to lean back on the bed, until he’s lying on top of me. He supports himself so that he’s not crushing me, but the weight is comfortable. Soon his kisses turn harder and hungrier, and I try to pull him closer still.

  I’m not sure how long we’re kissing like that, but we only break apart when Bryce rolls onto his side, turning me too, so that we’re lying facing each other.

  We just look at one another, our breathing a little heavier than usual from the intensity of our kiss. Then, very slowly, Bryce reaches up to brush my bangs out of my eyes; his hand lingers on my cheek, and there’s something about the gesture and the way he’s looking at me with his clear, warm brown eyes, a smile tweaking the corner of his mouth, that makes my heart flip.

  “Bryce?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why were you so nice to me, that first day of school?”

  His eyebrows twitch together in a frown. “That’s a random question.”

  “And that’s not an answer.”

  He laughs. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just a nice person, for one thing. You were new, and that’s hard for anyone. And you know, you’re pretty, so I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t a factor.”

  The way he just throws the compliment out so casually makes me blush, but I don’t mind because it’s the good kind of blushing.

  “And when I talked to you at the beach party the weekend before,” he says in a quiet, slow, musing sort of voice, “you just seemed … It’s hard to explain. You weren’t aloof and snobby; you were just … mysterious, I guess. You weren’t like most girls.”

  “And my being different didn’t make you run a mile?”

  He laughs again, not realizing I’m being perfectly serious because I’m kind of shocked. I take his laugh to mean: No, it didn’t—which is good enough for me.

  “I’m glad you moved here,” he says then.

  I blink once, staring at him. There’s a sincere smile on his lips, and he’s just looking at me with those wonderfully warm brown eyes.

  And I say without having to think twice about it, “I’m really glad I moved here too.”

  Chapter 20

  I guess I always had a preconceived opinion of popular people. Which is extremely hypocritical of me, considering I know why you should at least try not to judge people.

  But I couldn’t help it. I’ve seen firsthand the different strains of the popular crowd.

 
When I was a freshman, the crowd of seniors who seemed to rule the school were some of the most horrible, self-centered girls you could ever imagine. Jenna hung around with them sometimes, but she wasn’t quite high enough up on the social ladder to make them stop bullying me.

  Then, during my sophomore year, when Jenna was the new It Girl, things were better; her friends were nicer. Sure, there were a couple of mean girls, because some people are just mean and you can’t change that. But for the most part, everyone was okay. And they were the kind of people who’d smile at you as they walked down the halls, rather than stalking past like they owned the place and you were a piece of gum on the sidewalk. But when I say “you,” I don’t mean “me.” The best I got was being ignored.

  And not just by the popular people; everybody in that place seemed to have something against the old Madison. Or at least, they couldn’t bear to be associated with me.

  I’d sit on my own in class. I’d sit on my own at lunch. Whenever we had to have a partner for a science lab or a project, whoever got stuck with me would get pitying looks from everyone else. I wasn’t completely awful at sports, but I was always picked last in gym class.

  But yeah, I guess I always had this fixed idea of what popular people were really like.

  And as it turns out, actually being in the popular clique is a very surreal experience.

  By the time Friday rolls around, I’m ready for the weekend. I just need a break. I don’t get any homework that day and I only have a concluding paragraph of my Art essay to write. So everything is good.

  It probably helps that Fridays are easy days. Well, aside from starting the morning with Double AP Physics. Then it’s just Gym, which is tolerable at the moment, and US Politics, where nobody does much actual work. Then the rest of my day is clear, and by lunchtime I’m free to go home. Bliss.

  Once the bell rings to signal that my US Politics class is over and I’m free to leave, I slide all my things into my messenger bag and head off. But I don’t rush; I’m free to amble home at my own pace. I stick in an earphone and put a Fall Out Boy album on.

  I go via my locker to pick up my Physics textbooks—Dwight and I arranged to make a start on our project tonight. I’m not sure if I’ll actually need them, but better safe than sorry.

  By the time I get to my locker, pretty much everyone else has already made their way to their next class. The hallway is almost empty; a few kids are still shuffling off to class. I spin in my combination and start loading my books into my bag.

  Someone walks past me, then stops, and I hear a combination being spun. I glance up, but the door of my locker is blocking them from view. I step back to see who it is. “Oh. Hey, Dwight.”

  He turns, and seems to notice me there for the first time. Then he shoots me a small smile. “Hello again. No class?”

  I shake my head no. “I’m free for the rest of the day.”

  “Lucky.”

  “Oh, come on,” I laugh, and shut my locker. “You love school really.”

  “Well. Debatable at times, but it’s not all bad. I was supposed to have Chemistry, but the lesson’s canceled—the teacher’s off on some course.”

  “Ah.”

  Hearing footsteps coming from the end of the hallway, we both look up. It’s Bryce, wearing his soccer uniform. He raises a hand to wave to me.

  “What’re you doing here?” I ask. “I thought you guys had practice.”

  “I forgot to tell my History teacher,” he says. “Can’t have him thinking I’m skipping class so soon.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  Bryce slows to a stop in front of me. “You’re off home now, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What’re you doing later? I was thinking maybe I could come over to see you again,” he says, lowering his voice, though I know Dwight can hear every word we say.

  “I’m busy,” I say, my mouth twisting downward because—no offense to Dwight—I’d much rather be with Bryce than doing some stupid project for a class I’m destined to fail. “I can’t tonight. Schoolwork.”

  “On a Friday night?”

  “I’m sorry …”

  “Well, give me a call if you finish early, okay? I’d like to see you.”

  I smile. “Sure thing.”

  He dips his head to kiss me, and we say, “See you.” I watch him walk away until he glances back at me and waves; then I look at Dwight again.

  He finally turns away from his locker to say, “Schoolwork, huh?”

  I pretend to look for something in my bag so I don’t have to meet his eye. “Will you still have time to fit me in around your schoolwork?”

  When I look up, Dwight is smirking. I smack his arm playfully. “Shut up!”

  He lets out the chuckle and gives me that warm, lopsided smile, which makes me grin back at him. We start walking down the hallway, and he bumps my shoulder, and both of us laugh all over again.

  “I’m heading to the library,” he tells me.

  “Do you … I mean, if you’ve got a free period, do you want to go for a milk shake or something?”

  He winces. It’s brief, but I don’t miss it. “We probably shouldn’t. One of your friends might see us.”

  I can see how uncomfortable I’ve made him, so I let it drop. “That’s cool. It was just a thought. Enjoy the library. Send me a text when you’re on your way over later, please?”

  He nods. “Course I will.”

  “My mom will insist on giving you dinner, by the way,” I tell him. “Part of being a good hostess, or maybe it’s just the mother gene, I don’t know.”

  He chuckles, but says, “It’s fine, I can eat at home. Honestly. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “Your argument is invalid. I have no idea what we’re having for dinner, but there’s always takeout if all else fails.” He begins to say “But—” except I cut him off, and say, “This isn’t up for debate, you know. I feed you; you don’t get mad at me for being a useless partner. We’re square.”

  This makes him laugh even more. “All right, all right, I give in—that sounds like a fair enough trade. I’ll see you later, then.”

  “Yup. See ya.”

  And with that, we part ways: I go one way, and he goes the other.

  Chapter 21

  “Now, be nice,” I instruct my parents.

  “Are we ever anything but, Dice? Anyone would think you’re ashamed of us.” Dad tries to keep his poker face, but he’s not doing a great job. I roll my eyes.

  I smooth out a nonexistent crease in my black tank top. I haven’t taken any special trouble with my clothes. I mean, I showered and fixed my hair, but I’m just in a pair of thin jeans with a tear in the knee that wasn’t there when I bought them, and a plain black top. Nothing special at all.

  I don’t know why I’m so nervous … It’s a different kind of nervous from when Bryce made his surprise visit earlier this week. That was very different: it was my boyfriend meeting my parents for the first time, and I’ve never been in that situation before.

  This is much simpler: a friend coming around to work on a project. But I’ve never been in any kind of situation like this, either. I haven’t had a friend, period, so there was never anybody to meet my parents. And I’m just (more than slightly) worried they will embarrass me.

  I fidget with my belt buckle and look at the clock. The second hand has moved on an entire eight seconds since I last looked. Why is time going so slowly all of a sudden? It’s like when you’re in a dream and your limbs won’t move as fast as they should, and you can’t run or anything. It’s frustrating, because you know there’s nothing you can do about it.

  I glance up again. Five seconds. I squeeze my eyes shut until bright spots of light dance across the inside of my eyelids. Then I look again at the clock. Six seconds.

  I wonder, if I take the clock off the wall and shake it, will that make it move faster?

  Dinnng-donnnng …

  The doorbell sounds, followed by four rapid knocks. Mom
starts, making a move and opening her mouth to say that she’ll get the door, but I’m there before she has a chance to say anything.

  I pause, run my fingers over my hair, straighten my tank top. Then I open the door wide, a smile ready on my face.

  “Hey!” Dwight greets me with his lopsided, warm smile. A backpack is slung casually over his shoulder—the zipper is not done up properly, and I recognize the corner of our Physics textbook poking out.

  I step back and gesture for him to come inside. I notice that he wipes his feet on the welcome mat outside on the porch, though. Mom would approve.

  “Dinner will be ready soon,” I tell him. “If you want to just dump your stuff down there for now …”

  “All right.”

  We’ve decided to do our project on Isaac Newton. Dwight wasn’t too enthusiastic about this at first—he wanted to do someone more obscure, but since I know next to nothing about scientists, we agreed that someone well-known would be better.

  Mom suddenly appears around the kitchen door. She’s been dying to meet Dwight. “Oh! You must be Dwight! It’s so lovely to meet you—Madison’s told us a lot about you.”

  Dwight smiles and says, “Thanks for having me to dinner, Mrs. Clarke.”

  “Oh, please, call me Carrie.”

  “Carrie.” Dwight nods politely. “All right.”

  “And it’s really no trouble at all, no trouble. I hope you’re hungry—we’ve got a heap of food.”

  I don’t think Dwight picks up on it, but the enthusiasm in my mother’s voice is bordering on hysterical. Sure, Jenna brought home plenty of friends (and guy friends, and boyfriends), but this situation is different, because it’s me, and not Jenna. Mom’s excited and nervous about me having a friend over to do a school project; she’s more anxious than I am, actually.

  And that’s why I’m so terrified she’s going to embarrass me.

  “You may as well come and sit down,” Mom tells us, waving a hand to usher us forward. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

  I nod and say, “Okay,” and Dwight bends down to unlace his battered Converse. They’re almost as worn as mine.

  “So,” he says with a hint of laughter in his voice as he straightens back up to look at me. “You talk about me a lot, do you?”