I was poorer than I had been at the start of the evening, and the tall-boy list now had one less name, but I felt strangely happy as I watched Tim all but lick his plate while I mused on the possible extracurricular activities of Jay Young.
~ 9 ~
The Tall Boys List:
Jay Young
Tim Anderson
Mark Rodriguez
Dylan Jones
Robert Scott
I stared down morosely at my list. There were exactly five guys within striking distance that were six foot three or taller. One of them was already a bust, and another had been taken. Feloniously.
I slanted my eyes sideways to glance at the tall boy in question. Jay sat two desks to the left and one row ahead of me in our Psychology class, and on the other side of the classroom in English. Two weeks into the semester, I knew these were the only two classes we shared.
“For this assignment, you need to pick one of the depression or anxiety mood disorders and answer the questions on symptoms, etiology and treatment coherently and thoughtfully. Show me some insight, people!” said Mrs. Evans. “You’ll be working in pairs. Let’s see, there are twenty-two of you in this class, so that’s exactly eleven pairs. Liu, you’re number one, Chad, you’re two.”
Mrs. Evans tapped the shoulder of each student as she assigned them a number and after number eleven, began again at one. If my life was a teen romance, I would’ve been paired with Jay. But no, Chad and Jay were partners. I got Brooke. She looked about as delighted at being paired up with Sasquatch the Big-Footed as I was at the prospect of working with Brooke the Bronzed.
“Well?” she said as I moved a chair to the opposite side of her desk and sat down. “Depression or anxiety?”
“Anxiety.”
“Why anxiety? Why not something more cool, like bipolar depression?”
I crossed my legs. Big mistake. My legs were too long and my knees too high to fit under those desks if I crossed them. My movement briefly lifted the table into the air, tilting the surface and sending Brooke’s assortment of colored pens skittering to the floor.
“Oh, crap! Now look what you’ve done.”
“Sorry, sorry,” I said, bending over to retrieve the pens.
“They’re my special collector’s edition of One Direction gel pens. And, FYI, they’re super-valuable now that the band has broken up.”
“Here you go.” I handed her the few I’d rounded up.
“Zayn is missing!”
From her panicky tone of voice, I could tell this was a big deal. I searched the floor around us, moved our bags to see if Zayn had holed up there, and bent double to check under the desk. I tried to keep my head well clear of the lumps of gum stuck to the underside of its surface — some of them looked disgustingly fresh and sticky. I was in this awkward position when Jay’s face suddenly appeared opposite mine. Startled, I banged my head on the table and judging by the shriek above me, sent the 1D boys scattering in all directions again.
“Hi,” said Jay.
“Um, hi.”
This close, I could see there were honey-colored flecks in the green of his eyes.
He held up a pen. “Looking for this?”
“Zayn!” I said in relief.
“It’s yours?”
“No!” I shuddered. “Definitely not mine.” I pointed upwards to where Brooke was doing a head-count of her boys.
“Better reunite the band, then.” He offered me the pen. As I took it, our fingers touched, and a soft echo of the kiss-wind passed through me. It was enough to make me jerk and bang my head again.
“Peyton, I swear to God, if you do that again!” Brooke’s livid face was at the other side of the table now. “Get out from under there already.”
I wanted out, I did — I was getting a crick in my neck from my cramped position — but I couldn’t be the first to withdraw because I suspected that my hair was stuck to one of the gum tumors.
“So, bye,” I said to Jay.
“Bye.” There was a brief flash of that grin before he disappeared.
When I saw his feet retreat, I yanked my head down and out from under the desk. Sure enough, the sharp pinch on the back of my scalp told me I’d left some of my DNA behind in the gum growth.
I handed Brooke her pen and, keeping my gaze from straying to the back of Jay’s head, forced myself to concentrate on the psych assignment. A part of my brain, though, was still focused on the list. With numbers one and two struck off, it was time to move on to number three.
Mark Rodriguez, I discovered that Friday afternoon, wasn’t into rap music or action movies. Nor was he a sports-mad jock, even though he played football.
He was six feet three inches of sweet and considerate — holding doors open for me, insisting on paying for the first date, and listening when I spoke. He was even kind of cute-looking with his straight black hair and basset-hound eyes.
Our first date at the local Starbucks was … not bad. We spoke about ethically sourced coffee beans, the effect of caffeine on sleeping patterns, and how he felt about calculus. (He liked it, and that pleased his father.) He knew exactly what he wanted to study when we graduated, because it had always been his life’s ambition to be a certified public accountant.
Okay, so our date wasn’t a laugh a minute — Mark was kind of serious — but at least we could have a conversation about the same subject. He even seemed interested in my new hobby and complimented me on my first ever home-sewn garment — a blue blouse with super-long sleeves.
“See,” I said, holding out my arms, “The cuffs actually reach my wrists, that’s a first for me. ‘Long sleeves’ are always only three-quarters for me.”
“I see,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “And you designed and sewed this yourself?”
“I used an existing pattern, but I changed it so that the sleeve was longer, and then sewed it up. What do you think?”
He sipped his decaf vanilla latte. “I don’t know much about women’s fashion. Or, to be precise, about any fashion. But I think it’s commendable that you made this yourself.”
“I was getting desperate,” I confessed. “One more unsuccessful clothes-shopping expedition, and I’d go certifiably crazy. Maybe give up clothes altogether, and run naked through the streets tearing out my hair.”
“That wouldn’t solve the problem of too-short sleeves, though, would it?” he said, straight-faced.
I checked his eyes to see whether he was kidding me, but saw no teasing glint there.
I downed the rest of my chocolate iced coffee. “No, I guess not.”
“My father says necessity is the mother of invention, and it seems you proved the proverb true.” He gave me a satisfied smile.
I could tell Mark was the kind of guy who got a kick from proverbs being proved true.
“Right,” I said.
After coffee, despite my protests that it wasn’t necessary, he insisted on walking me back to my house. At the front step, he politely thanked me for the date.
“Would you come to the movies with me next Wednesday?” he said.
Wednesday was the day I was getting Tim’s report on Jay. The report whose contents were perfectly irrelevant and completely uninteresting to me, except insofar as it would help me avoid him. Today, I’d bumped into him outside the drama room and then again at the lockers. When I’d seen him heading toward his locker, I’d quickly opened the door of my own and hidden my face behind it. I had to bend my knees to do this, and was still half-crouched and gnawing on a knuckle when he peered over the top and grinned down at me.
Insta-blush. Why was he always catching me in embarrassing situations?
“You alright there, Peyton?”
“Yeah?” It sounded like a question.
“You look hungry and ready to pounce. Should I be worried?”
Was he implying that I was planning to jump his bones and devour him?
“Look, I won’t ask you for another kiss, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I said hotly.
“Oh, I wasn’t worried.”
What did that mean? Before I could find the words or the courage to ask, he’d taken a book from his locker and walked off. A soon as I had Tim’s report, I could steer clear of encounters like that.
“… a romance or a crime thriller or the latest Batman?” Oh, Mark was asking me something. “Should I fetch you here, from home?”
“No, I’d rather meet you there.” I preferred to keep people away from my home, and my mother.
“Of course. Well, goodnight, Peyton.”
I was relieved when he made no move to kiss me, but he gazed at me expectantly. Guessing that he wanted to see me safe inside, I searched for an excuse to avoid that.
“Um, I just want to pick a flower for my mother from the back yard, but you go on, Mark. I’ll be fine. See you later.”
I hurried around the side of the house, already texting Tori the details of the evening with Mark, as she had insisted I do after every date.
“I’m keeping a record so there can be no confusion about whether you’ve met the terms of the bet,” she’d said. “Each time you go out, you need to log the day, date, time, place, and the tall boy’s name and height.”
I hit send, feeling better than I had after the date with Tim. This time, at least, I was sure there would be a second date with the tall guy, and I hadn’t made the mistake of taking him to Jim’s.
On Sunday, Chloe came around and, over cups of Cinnamon Surprise which she rated “disappointingly one-noted”, she did her calculus homework while I sat at the sewing machine, alternately cursing and coaxing it as I struggled with my latest effort — a pair of skinny pants with extra-long legs, in a black denim patterned with shadowy gray roses.
When they were finally finished, I tried them on, delighted with the hems which reached past my ankles.
“What do you think?” I asked, rotating on the spot.
Chloe tilted her head from side to side, evaluating. “Something’s not right.”
“It’s the pattern on the fabric. I couldn’t get the roses to line up on the seams.” Not without making the skinny legs wider. There was more to this designing and sewing thing than I’d thought. “And the machine had a seizure, so that’s why it’s all puckered over here.”
“Maybe that’s it,” said Chloe, shrugging. “Hey, want to come to dinner at our place on Wednesday? It’s my dad’s birthday, and Mom’s planning a special meal. There will be cake.”
“Tempting, but that’s the night of my second date with Mark.” I pulled off the jeans and examined the rucked-up hem.
“Think you’ll last three dates with him?”
“Sure. He’s a nice enough guy.”
“Whoa! Don’t get carried away by your wild enthusiasm there, Peyton.”
“Sorry. He’s a very nice guy, with excellent manners. And we can talk about things — which is more than I can say for Tim.” I’d told Chloe all about that disastrous date.
“And physically?”
“We didn’t touch.” No kissing Mark on the first date. Or before. “He didn’t even try.”
“Nice, and not a groper. He sounds like a true gentleman and a good guy.”
“He is,” I said. And then said again, more firmly. “He really is.”
There was an unmistakable note of mockery in Chloe’s voice when she said, “I can tell you can hardly wait until Wednesday night.”
“Only three more sleeps.”
Until Wednesday morning.
~ 10 ~
On Wednesday morning, I got to the meeting place behind the parking lot a full eight minutes before Tim did.
Our meeting did have a Casablanca feel to it. The smoke from the stoners and smokers skulking between the trees looked like mist, and though Tim wasn’t wearing a trench coat or a hat, he did have a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” he said, when we exchanged manila envelopes.
I couldn’t stop to read the report — as it was I’d have to rush to be on time for first-period French — so I ripped open the top of the envelope and pulled out the pages to scan while I strode through the straggling students hurrying toward the back entrance of the school.
Stapled to the top of the thin pile was a page of color images. I recognized a few of them from my totally non-stalkerish internet searches, but two of them were new: one of a small boy wearing a Snoopy costume, complete with floppy beagle ears — so freaking cute! — and a smiling head-and-shoulders shot of him which looked like it had been taken in the school cafeteria. It was a great shot, clear enough to show his freckles, and I examined it carefully, tracing a finger over his nose — slightly crooked at the end, I now noticed — while I walked.
Until I walked into a low-hanging tree branch, banging my forehead, hard. Cursing and blushing, I snatched up the page I’d dropped and shoved it back into the envelope. It would have to wait. I couldn’t risk someone seeing, and wondering why I had a collage of Jay pictures. With my luck, the news would get back to him, and he’d for sure think I was after him. Which I most definitely was not.
In French, my plan to hurry through the assigned translation exercise in the hope of earning a few free minutes to study the report backfired. Mme Dumas, who was strolling between the rows of desks murmuring compliments and corrections over her students’ work, stopped beside me and tittered, “Oh la vache, Peyton, what were you thinking?”
“What?”
“Jam — in the French it is not un préservatif. It is la confiture.”
“It is?” French was always tripping me up like this.
“Oui.”
“What is un préservatif, then?”
“It is,” she said, pulling her mouth into a moue of regret, “a prophylactic.”
I had no idea what that was either, and my face must have shown my confusion, because Mme Dumas explained, “It is a condom, Peyton. What you use so that you do not get in a jam. Comprends?”
Cue wild laughter from the class and my second embarrassing moment of the day.
“Oui, Madame,” I muttered.
She found three more mistakes in my work, and by the time I’d made the corrections, the bell was ringing for the end of the period.
I hurried to the classroom a few doors down where Chloe and I had Health. While I waited in the hallway for her to arrive, I carefully extracted the first page of the report and began reading. It was very professional — if Tim could turn in history papers this neat and comprehensive, he’d be acing A’s.
PERSONAL REPORT — JAY ANDREW YOUNG
So his initials spelled “Jay” — nicely played Mr. and Mrs. Young, nicely played.
Age: 17 years, 1 month
Birthday: July 30
Star sign: Leo
Oooh, what were Leos like? I had no idea. I’d have to research it later.
Physical appearance:
Height: 6 ft 4”
Ha! I’d been spot-on in my estimate.
Hair: brown
Eyes: green
Uh-huh. That much I could see for myself, Tim.
Weight: 190 lbs. (estimate)
Feet: size 15
Awesome! I’d bet his hands were bigger than mine, too. I’d bet—
“Hey, what are you so absorbed in?” Chloe had arrived.
“Nothing.” I hurriedly thrust the report back into the envelope.
“Are you hiding secrets from me?” Chloe said, peering up at me suspiciously. “What’s in the envelope? It’s not a lab report, is it? You’re not sick or something?”
“No, of course not.”
“Pregnant?” she mouthed, a look of fake horror on her face.
“Funny. Completely LOLious.”
“Yeah, with your lack of boy-action, I guess it would have to be a second immaculate conception.”
I gave her the look that deserved.
“So what is it, then?”
Chloe made to tug the envelope out of my hand, but I held it up high where
she couldn’t reach it even if she jumped. There are some advantages to being a tall girl.
“Give it to me!” Chloe demanded, leaping up and down.
“For the first time, I understand the phrase ‘hopping mad’,” I teased her, holding it higher still.
“Pey-ton!”
“I’ll tell you all about it later, okay?”
Just then, I felt a tug as the envelope was pulled from my grasp. I spun around. Tim Anderson stood there, grinning widely and dangling the swinging envelope from his fingers. Beside him stood the very last person I wanted anywhere in the remote vicinity of that report — Jay Young.
“Give it back!” I demanded.
“What, this?” Tim held out the envelope to me, but as I made to grab it, he pulled it back and held it up high. Now I was the one reaching and jumping. And discovering that tall boys also came with disadvantages.
“Tim!”
“Give it back to her,” Chloe insisted. “If anyone gets to have that, it’ll be me.” Then, to me, she said, “Want me to kick him in the shins?”
“Hey, easy, midget,” said Tim, and I had to hold Chloe back from attacking him.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, they did. Jay, probably trying to be helpful, snatched the envelope out of Tim’s hand, and I stopped leaping. Stopped talking. Stopped breathing.
Jay peered at me, a concerned frown furrowing his brows. “You okay, Peyton?”
I couldn’t feel the spreading hotness that usually accompanied my blushes, so maybe I’d gone pale — pale with shock and panic and absolute terror that he might look inside the open envelope. Or that one of the incriminating sheets might slide out.
“What happened to your head?” he said.
“What?” My thoughts were still on that report.
“Did you bump it?” He tapped his own forehead and nodded at mine.
I ran my fingers over my face and found a tender lump located square in the center of my forehead. Great. It probably looked like a massive blind pimple.
“I walked into a tree.”
“Again?” said Chloe, unsympathetically.
The Law of Tall Girls Page 6