It’s getting late. Where the hell is Owen?
Every day he does this to me, and I’m getting really sick of it. Ever since I got the Camry when I turned 18, Owen acts like he’s entitled to a ride home every day. He isn’t. Especially not when he can’t manage to make it out the door even once without forgetting something and having to go back for it. Today it’s his Spanish book. How hard is it to put a book back in his freaking bag after using it? I’m trying to be a good friend here, but seriously, he sucks.
My phone buzzes and I hope it’s Owen texting me he found the book. Instead, the text says: Didn’t leave it in the gym. Why did he look in the gym? Why on earth did he think he would have brought a textbook to gym class?
I text him back: 5 mins and I’m leaving without you.
It’s all show, of course. I’m not going anywhere and he knows it. First, we’re supposed to go back to my house to work on a project for Greek Tragedies. Second, I’m a huge pushover. Even if he spent two hours combing every corner of Westwood High for his Spanish book, I’d still be standing here like an idiot when he came out.
I look at my watch. It’s half past three. The last of the school buses are pulling away. This is ridiculous. Really.
I’m about to send Owen another angry text when I see her out of the corner of my eye. Elsie Kahn. Elsie of Mr. Watson’s chemistry class fame, the girl who (accidentally?) set her homework on fire with the flame from her Bunsen burner. She got about as red as I’d ever seen a person get as Mr. Watson chewed her out in front of the whole class.
It seems like Elsie isn’t having a better day today. She’s running for the last of the school buses, but the driver doesn’t see her, and it’s obvious this is going to be a major fail. Her hair is whipping behind her head and her cheeks are all pink with exertion. She’s screaming, “Wait! Wait!”
It probably needs to be said about Elsie: she isn’t pretty. I’m not saying that in a mean way like my brother would, just in a factual way. She’s not. Her body is pretty nice, or at least it was the day of the chemistry fire, when she was wearing a maroon skirt that fell just above her knees and a clingy black shirt. And she’s got nice hair too—strawberry blond and silky. But it’s obvious even from where I’m standing that Elsie had been born with a cleft lip, and it didn’t get repaired right. You can see where the pieces of her upper lip don’t quite come together evenly.
So Elsie isn’t pretty. Big deal. The fact is, she’s something even better than pretty.
Owen comes out of the school at that moment, and I can see the pit stains on his shirt under his open jacket. He apparently worked up quite the sweat running to five different classrooms. But the good news is, he’s holding his Spanish book triumphantly above his head. “It was in the bathroom!” he declares.
The bathroom? Are you kidding me? And now this book is going to be in my car? Lucky for him, I’ve got other things on my mind.
“Hey…” I nudge Owen. “Elsie missed her bus. Maybe we should offer her a ride home.”
Owen looks up in Elsie’s direction. He makes a face like he’s not thrilled about the idea, but then shrugs and sprints for the car. “I guess so. But she has to sit in the back.” Did I mention Owen has already claimed eternal shotgun?
I look over at Elsie, and all of a sudden, I’m really nervous. If Elsie says yes, she will be the first girl to ride in my car, with the exception of my mom. I try not to drive myself crazy with the possibilities. I run my tongue over my teeth, because I don’t want there to be any spinach stuck in them (or whatever that green stuff was at lunch). Then I tighten my grip on the handles of my forearm crutches, and start limping awkwardly in Elsie’s direction.
Elsie’s got her phone in her hand and she looks like she’s seconds away from bursting into tears. “Elsie?” I say. And of course, my voice cracks, like I’m freaking 13 years old. I clear my throat, hoping she didn’t notice.
Elsie looks up in surprise. “Yes?”
“Uh…” I can feel the heat in my face--I’m sure Elsie can see it too. I focus on getting the words out and not on how silky Elsie’s hair looks. “I’ve got a car, so, um, if you need a ride or something…”
Elsie is staring at me, which if you ask me, is kind of bad manners. First she stares at my face, but I’m okay with that. There’s nothing wrong with my face. All right, I’m not, like, Mr. Handsome or anything like my brother, but I’m not a guy who walked into a wall either.
Then her eyes drop and she’s looking down at my crutches and my legs. That part I’m not thrilled about. I’ve got braces going up to the knee on the right and up to the hip on the left. Even with the braces, my left leg always seems to rotate inward so that my left foot points about 45 degrees toward the right one. Elsie keeps on staring for what feels like five hours, but if I’m being honest, it’s probably more like fifteen seconds. Not that it makes much difference. It’s long enough, anyway.
Elsie glances over at a group of girls standing nearby, watching us curiously. “No, thanks,” Elsie says, then she turns back to her phone.
Elsie turns away from me, letting me know that there’s zero point in trying to persuade her. Yeah, as if I would. If Elsie doesn’t want to be in a car with me, then I’m not going to beg. Let her find her own goddamn ride home at this hour. Good luck with that, Elsie.
I make my way over to my car, where Owen is waiting. He’s leaning against the hood, probably making a huge dent in it. “So is she coming?”
I dig my keys out of my pocket and try to shrug. “She found another ride,” I say.
To be continued....
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Annabelle (author of The Boy Next Door and The Time Traveler's Boyfriend)