But here I am, mocking the radar that keeps me hidden. Here I am making faces at it.
I take Arden’s hand as he helps hoist me into the truck. Lovely.
He cranks the engine and the faint smell of burning oil fills the cabin. The radio whispers country music at us while Arden adjusts his mirrors and backs out. I wait until we’re just outside the school parking lot to begin my spiel. Deep breath. “You don’t have to keep being nice to me,” I tell him. “In fact, I don’t want you to.”
“I noticed.”
Of course he noticed. I wasn’t trying to be subtle. “You already explained why you did what you did. I get it. You don’t have to, like, make it up to me, or whatever.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“It’s exactly what you’re doing.”
“Well, you’re wrong. I bet you don’t like to hear that, do you, Carly Vega? Nope, I can tell by the way you’re stank-eyeing me that you don’t like to be told that you’re wrong.”
“Who does?” And really, who cares?
Arden shrugs. “Good point.”
After a few seconds of silence, I start again. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Why are you all of a sudden interested in being my manservant at school? Any particular reason? Because just to be clear, I’m not going to sleep with you. Ever.”
He shifts in his seat, leaning against the driver’s door with one arm, steering with the other. “Have I asked you to? Have I even tried to kiss you?”
“Then what do you want?”
He runs a hand through his hair. The result is not unattractive. “I can’t … I can’t explain it. Not without sounding stupid. I want to show you something. Do you have some time this afternoon? As in, right now?”
Do I have some time? Let’s see. “It’s now two o’clock, my shift at the Breeze Mart starts at ten. I have two loads of laundry I have to take off the line and fold before I can eat some dinner and get some sleep before my shift. Um, no.”
Maybe it’s the look of pleading in his eyes, or the way his newly frazzled hair makes him look desperate. Maybe it’s that I now feel indebted to him, even though I didn’t ask for his help. Whatever it is, I feel I should follow up. “I mean, how long will it take?”
His eyes light up like I’ve given him a present. “Like half an hour, tops.”
“Okay. Show me.”
As soon as I say the words he maneuvers into the turn lane and does a U-turn. The exhaust on his truck sounds like a monster chasing after us when he presses the gas. Within five minutes we’re pulled into the parking lot of Roaring Brooke’s Goodwill. He cuts the engine and the monster hushes. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He hops out and crosses the street.
And like a stupid person, I stay and wait. Arden has now used ten minutes of his precious (my precious) half hour. Goodwill is in a small shopping center with a nail salon and a Mexican restaurant. Goodwill’s half-off sale is drawing the most business by far.
When Arden comes back out, he’s got a small plastic bag in his hand. He slams the truck door shut and presents me with its contents: A small black-and-gray knockoff purse. Fuzzy around the edges and worn on the straps, but all in all, in pretty good shape.
“What’s this for?”
He grins. “You’ll see. We have to make one more stop before the fun begins.”
“Alriiighty then,” I say. He recognizes mockery when he hears it.
He glances at me sideways. “You’re going to love this,” he says. “It’s a huge stress reliever.”
It’s possibly the most convincing thing he could’ve said to keep me hanging. I don’t get many opportunities for relieving stress—I just hope my idea of stress and Arden’s idea of stress is at least similar.
He takes us down a dirt road and pulls off on the grassy shoulder, next to a fenced-in field full of grazing cows. In the distance, goats wander around a long wooden bin. A big white house with black shutters looms atop a hill. “Does someone live here?”
“I’m guessing yes. There’s a box of ziplock bags in the glove box. Can you hand me those?”
I do as I’m asked, more curious than ever. I don’t question why he has an already-opened box of ziplock baggies in his glove box, even though it seems to be proof that this entire afternoon was highly premeditated. How did he know I would come with him today? Or does he always keep domestic treasures hidden away in his truck? Does he have a slow cooker in here too somewhere?
He pulls out a bag and turns it inside out in his hand, then tugs it on like a sloppy glove. This makes me skittish. “You’re not going to hurt a cow, are you?”
He looks at me, then at his plastic-wrapped hand. “I’m not even going to ask what you think I’m about to do.” With that he’s out of the truck. He’s agile for being such a big guy, hopping the wooden fence in one swift motion. He doesn’t make it far before he swoops down and picks something up off the ground. With deliberation, he slowly zips it up.
He brings his findings back with a satisfied smirk: A ziplock bag full of fresh cow turd. “Here, hold this, would you?”
“Seriously?” I press myself into the truck door. The handle jabs into my back.
“Don’t be a baby,” he says, dangling the bag toward me. “I made sure none got on the outside. I’m holding it, aren’t I?”