Awkwardly Ever After

by Marni Bates

  Like how the ride home yesterday hadn’t made it any less strange for me to sit in Spencer King’s car.

  In some ways, he was more of a mystery to me now. Yesterday, I had been fairly secure in my analysis of him.

  The only thing I knew for sure now was that he was a whole lot more complicated than I’d wanted to believe.

  “So where are we going?” I asked, trying to get some conversation going. I wasn’t entirely sure whether that was a good plan either. It seemed like every time he spoke we wound up arguing. Which was why the glint of mischief in his eyes that seemed to brighten around me left me wondering if I’d ever understand him.

  “It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if I told you in advance.”

  “I’ve had enough surprises lately.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You’re having fun with this, admit it.”

  “Fun!” I spluttered. “Okay, we must have some seriously different definitions of that word. You know what’s fun to me?”

  “No idea,” he said.

  “Fun is eating pizza in sweatpants with a few friends. Fun is knowing that you can make a complete idiot out of yourself and nobody will ridicule you. Fun is . . . Battlestar Galactica!”

  Spencer grinned. “I’ll make you a deal then.”

  “Because the last deal we made has worked out so well for me,” I interjected.

  “If you follow my lead tonight, we’ll try your thing tomorrow.”

  I stared at him in confusion, waiting to see his mouth quirk upward in the tell-tale sign that he was joking. “My thing?”

  “Battleguard Galactricka.”

  “Battlestar Galactica.”

  Spencer nodded complacently. “Exactly. That. I’ll watch it with you. I’ll even bring the pizza.”

  My mouth dropped open as I tried to imagine Spencer sprawled next to me in the living room watching the Cylons take over Caprica. As they would say on the show: No. Fracking. Way.

  “I’d pay good money to see that,” I said skeptically.

  Spencer glanced over his shoulder and then slid into a parking space right outside the local Wells Fargo.

  “Don’t tell me you’re planning a bank robbery. I draw the line at being an accessory to a felony.”

  Spencer burst out laughing. “Well, in that case—keep moving, Belle.”

  I didn’t budge. “You’ve started calling me that a lot. Did you run out of options and decide to stick with the one nickname that suits me the least?”

  Spencer didn’t say a word as he took my hand.

  And the sensation of feeling his palm sliding against my own before his fingers locked us together . . . yeah, it made speech impossible for me.

  “I like the way it sounds. Belle.” He drew it out and I felt my knees go melty. It was so freaking unfair that all he had to do was say a girl’s name and she would want to tangle both hands in his dirty blond hair, rise up on her toes, and let her lips communicate in an entirely different way.

  Or at least that’s what it was doing to me.

  And I should have been immune. Clinical. Dispassionate.

  Not inwardly thinking that it was a good thing he liked repeating my name because I was close to forgetting it as we walked down the street. I instinctively kept pace with him and somehow it began to feel . . . right.

  Normal.

  As if it totally made sense for the two of us to be holding hands in public because that’s what happens when someone likes you and doesn’t care who knows it.

  My whole body felt like it was tingling by the time Spencer slowed his steps, and I pushed my glasses up haphazardly with my free hand as I glanced over to see what destination he had in mind for us.

  The Yogurt Shack.

  “Too late to back out now,” Spencer whispered in my ear right before he pushed open the door, squeezed my hand, and walked me right into the belly of the beast.

  Or at the very least the belly of the Notable crowd.

  Same thing, if you ask me.

  The frozen yogurt place wasn’t all that special really. The walls were a cheerful shade of yellow that probably had some super perky name like “daisy bliss” or “lovin’ lemon,” and the radio top hits were blaring over the speaker system. It looked like your basic family-friendly dessert shop.

  Unfortunately, it was also where the Notables flocked to gossip after school, which meant that walking inside was the equivalent of announcing, “Hear ye! Hear ye! I stand before you today to declare that these two students have forged the sacred bonds of a relationship.”

  Not exactly what I had in mind when I said that I wanted to, y’know, kill the rumors.

  The opposite of it, actually.

  “C’mon, babe. I want you to meet my teammates,” Spencer said loudly enough for everyone to hear as he tugged me over to the Notable table.

  Fake and Bake were perched next to each other on stools, probably flirting with everyone willing to pay them attention. But now their smoky eye makeup made them look only more hostile as they gave me a painfully slow once-over. They didn’t need to expend that much energy on it; I was wearing the exact same clothes I had chosen for school that morning. Comfortable jeans and a purple shirt that barely peeked out beneath my Doctor Who sweatshirt.

  My geeky armor at its finest.

  I saw Patrick turn to someone who would be perfectly cast as Neckless Jock #4 in the latest teen movie, before he mouthed, “Is this for real?”

  No. No, it wasn’t.

  “I’m going to kill you,” I murmured in his ear, knowing full well that he wouldn’t take the threat any more seriously than Melanie or anyone else who deserved some payback. I’m just not a very intimidating person. I blame the glasses.

  Spencer laughed, but it wasn’t the rich, husky sound that I’d grown accustomed to after two days of verbal sparring. It was just another part of his performance piece.

  So was the way he leaned in and lightly brushed his lips across my forehead.

  It was a gesture that I’d received countless times from my parents when I was sick, and there was nothing revolutionary about the kiss. Except . . . this wasn’t coming from my mom.

  “Belle, meet everyone. Guys, this is my girlfriend, Isobel.”

  My stomach dropped two feet and I began to worry that my sweaty palm would slip right out of Spencer’s grip.

  “N-nice to meet you,” I forced myself to say hesitantly.

  I received a collection of nods, grunts, and unenthusiastic hey’s from the guys, and pursed-lipped grimaces, which were supposed to be smiles, from the girls.

  I felt welcomed all right.

  About as much as a Time Lord facing down a Dalek.

  “C’mon, let’s get our order started, Belle,” Spencer said, smoothly taking over as if his so-called friends weren’t staring at him in confusion. He released my hand to grab a cup before he began working his way down a row of self-serve flavors.

  “How does alpine vanilla sound?”

  Right, as if anything sounded appetizing when I was stuck in restricted quarters with a pack of Notables. The last thing I wanted to do now was eat in their presence. The cafeteria was more than enough of a minefield for me to endure five days a week, thank you very much.

  “Uh . . . good,” I mumbled.

  “You sure you don’t want to try some first?” Spencer’s eyes were gleaming mischievously as he dipped his index finger into the bowl; then moving faster than I thought someone so laid-back could go, he brushed my bottom lip with the icy treat.

  I jumped back in shock, staring at Spencer incredulously as he . . . winked.

  I spontaneously burst out laughing.

  It was just . . . so ridiculous.

  The fact that I was pretending to be dating Spencer King right under the noses of the Notables, despite the fact that he couldn’t even act his age long enough to get a freaking frozen yogurt . . . I dissolved into a giggling mess.

  “Need a bigger sample?” Spencer teased as he reached once more into the bowl. “Becau
se I have plenty right here.”

  No way.

  I scurried over to a yogurt dispenser at the far end of the store so that I would become a much more challenging target. I couldn’t manage to lengthen the ten-foot gap between us because there was virtually no room to maneuver. Or hide. Or do much of anything except eat frozen yogurt and gossip. Still, the look on Spencer’s face was downright predatory as he stalked forward.

  “I’m going to get you, Belle.”

  I was breathless from laughter, anticipation, and a light buzz of anxiety. “Oh yeah, hotshot?” I lifted my chin defiantly. “Let’s see what you got.”

  I jerked down the yogurt lever at the same time that Spencer moved within striking distance. The cold came as a jolt as it molded against the palm of my hand and I instinctively threw it at Spencer.

  It landed with a soft, yet satisfying, whump against his chest and began to trickle downward in a sticky mess. The Yogurt Shack instantly fell silent.

  Well, not completely silent. It’s not like I had the authority to instruct the employees to turn off the music or anything. Some unbearably bubbly pop star was still gushing about her boyfriend or . . . the guy she wanted to be her boyfriend? I wasn’t exactly giving it my full attention.

  That was completely engaged by Spencer. More specifically by the way the King of the Notables now looked as if he had been caught doing an imitation of Frosty the Snowman. He didn’t say a word, and neither did anyone else in the place. They were probably too busy waiting with bated breath for the most epic dumping in the history of breakups.

  But they didn’t see the way Spencer’s eyes practically crackled with amusement.

  He dipped his finger across the frozen yogurt, lifted it to his own lips, and pasted a considering expression on his face as he slowly tasted it. “Nah, I think the alpine vanilla is better.”

  An uncomfortable-looking college kid in his early twenties walked over to us. “Um . . . I need to ask the two of you to leave.”

  “He started it!” I said, pointing at Spencer as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.

  “It won’t happen again,” Spencer said confidently, as if he ran into trouble with management all the time. For all I knew, he did. “We’ll be out of your hair in just a minute.”

  And then he proceeded to fill up his bowl with three different types of frozen yogurt and a billion different toppings while I looked nervously from the Yogurt Shack guy to the Notables, who were still watching my every move.

  Even with a yogurt glob on the front of his shirt, Spencer looked like a young, lighter haired Superman.

  I nervously fingered my glasses before I remembered that my hand was still coated with frozen yogurt. I was pretty sure all I had managed to accomplish was smearing the sticky ice cream evidence onto one lens and the left side of my nose.

  Spencer’s grin widened when he turned back to me with his fully loaded dessert. He grabbed a napkin. “I can’t take you anywhere,” he said teasingly as he wiped at my face.

  I batted his hand away. “Yeah, because I’m the one who’s always causing trouble. Try again.”

  He leaned in even closer and murmured, “Admit it, you’re having fun.”

  And then he laid a twenty-dollar bill down on the counter, took hold of my hand, and wrinkled his nose when he realized too late that it was the same one that had been clutching frozen yogurt only minutes earlier. He pulled me toward the door, pausing only to toss a casual “see you guys later” to his gaping friends.

  “What was that?” I managed to say at last when he slowed down as we neared his car.

  “I thought about it. Your plan for the night sounded better than mine. Do you want to order the pizza at my house or yours?”

  I blinked up at him owlishly. “I’m never going to understand you.”

  “Nope.” He handed me the frozen yogurt while he fumbled for one of the napkins that had come with it. “But imagine how much fun you’re going to have trying.”

  I took a big spoonful, with a large chunk of Oreo, and tried to imagine sharing pizza and fro-yo with my parents constantly checking up on us.

  No thank you.

  “Your place,” I decided as I slid into the passenger’s seat. “But don’t get any ideas, friend.”

  Except I didn’t know whether those words were intended more for Spencer or myself.

  Chapter 8

  There are three obvious reasons why that special someone might not have issued a prom invite yet (although three days out is cutting it awfully close, don’t you think?) and they are the following:

  They are morally opposed to having fun. Just like the people who keep writing stupid letters to the editor. Maybe the person you like is one of them. (Although, trust me, you can do so much better. )

  They are still trying to work up their nerve. Rejection is scary. So maybe the problem isn’t that they don’t like you back, but that they are uncertain of your affection.

  They want to play the field. Let’s be real: This close to the dance date, there are plenty of desperate singles to choose from, which doesn’t mean you should lower your standards. Speaking of which . . . who knows why Spencer King is interested in Isobel Peters? Seriously. Who knows what is going on with that? I want details.

  —from “Cutting It Close,”

  by Lisa Anne Montgomery

  Published by The Smithsonian

  I had heard rumors about Spencer’s house.

  Melanie had mentioned there was a fountain and a small gazebo, which both perfectly complemented the Victorian architecture of the place. The effect was stunning. And sure, I’d heard snatches of conversation in the girl’s bathroom about a hot tub behind the house that could comfortably seat half of the hockey team . . . and their girlfriends.

  But it was one thing to get secondhand accounts and quite another to hear the gravel crunching under the tires right before Spencer pulled the car into an empty garage.

  He unbuckled his seat belt and then glanced over at me, taking in the way I was tightly gripping the frozen yogurt carton.

  “So . . . is there really a dungeon?” I asked.

  He burst out laughing. “It’s just a house, Belle. There’s no party scheduled. There’s probably nobody here. If that makes you uncomfortable, I can take you home right now. No pressure.”

  “Do you do this all the time?” I couldn’t keep the thread of nervousness out of my voice.

  “Bring girls to my house? Sure. More than once. But since you’re my first girl period friend period—I guess not.”

  I forced myself to meet his eyes. “You still think we’re friends?”

  It wasn’t the question I meant to ask. I was going to ask if it was weird for him bringing me over when it was so obvious that I didn’t fit into his world. I had just thrown frozen yogurt at him. In public. In front of all of his hockey buddies. And my only regret was that I had missed his face and hit his chest instead.

  But now that the question was out, I wouldn’t have changed it for anything. I needed to know if a garden-variety platonic friendship was the only thing between us, because I wasn’t sure how I felt anymore. If I had to categorize the medley of emotions, I’d say mostly confused, with an underlying current of attraction that didn’t exactly scream, “Hey, buddy, ol’ pal.”

  “I guess that depends,” Spencer said thoughtfully. “Friends introduce friends to Battlesword Galactica, right?”

  I laughed, which was probably his plan all along. And suddenly I had no trouble climbing out of Spencer’s car, handing him the frozen yogurt I had put a decent-sized dent into during the car ride, and nudging him with my shoulder. “Let’s go, then.”

  He opened the door with his foot, probably to avoid another yogurt-related mess, and then pushed open a bathroom door so that he could rinse off his hands. I followed suit, although I couldn’t resist splashing him in the process.

  “What was that for?”

  I didn’t bother responding. Instead, I bolted up the stairs before he c
ould retaliate, grinning like a fool the whole way as every particle in my body became hyperaware of the threat of retaliation.

  Spencer was right: I was having fun. Even though a tiny part of my brain, which always went off in preparation for an attack during a horror movie, was ringing an alarm. Not because I thought I was in any physical danger. Sure, I was alone in a freaking mansion with a boy I was still getting to know, but that didn’t mean I was afraid.

  Okay, that’s a lie.

  I was scared, but it was the normal level of anxiety I felt whenever it was dark outside and I wasn’t home. The persistent voice in my head couldn’t resist pointing out that this was a risk. That the majority of assaults were committed by someone known to the victim, so maybe trusting Spencer so far was a mistake.

  But it was even more likely that I was using my knowledge of statistics to make a cowardly retreat look like a perfectly rational decision.

  I had to remind myself that Spencer had offered to take me home, that the only reason I was at his house was because we were getting to be friends. That even if he was interested in me in some other way (which he wasn’t), I had made it clear I wouldn’t be reciprocating those feelings.

  Mostly.

  I mean, maybe my eyes had lingered on the yogurt glob on his chest longer than I would’ve had it been, oh, I dunno . . . anyone else. But that was simply a hormonal response to visual stimulation. Spencer was the last person who would think it meant anything, especially given his willingness to chase anything in a skirt.

  I was glad I had chosen to wear jeans.

  “Nice place,” I said, trying hard not to be overwhelmed as I reached the staircase landing and found myself standing in an enormous living room with an understated decor style that screamed of money. The walls were different shades of beige that were probably named “french vanilla” or “blanched almond” or something that sounded expensively delicious. There was something about standing in such an immaculate room that instantly made me feel a thousand times clumsier. My brain automatically started flicking through every item I could possibly destroy . . . and the price tags that were probably attached to them.