“I thought cell phones were off limits at school.”
Nick falls into step beside me.
Are you kidding me? What kind of guy follows a girl after the face-flat rejection I just served him? He should be running away to the nearest cheerleader for consolation. With a face like his, he’d have no problem scoring the queen bee.
Not exactly sure how to react to his pursuit, I say, “They are.”
“I get it,” he says with a gut-tugging laugh. “You’re that kind of girl.”
Stopping in my tracks, I know I shouldn’t rise to the bait. But I can’t help demanding, “What kind of girl?”
He steps ahead of me, pushes open the door to the cafeteria, and nods me inside. I move forward because I’m hungry, not because he’s holding the door like a real gentleman. I could care less if he’s got manners.
As I pass by, he whispers, “The kind who ignores the rules.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands up at that display of arrogance. Easy as that, he thinks he can read me. Thinks he can put me in a little box as a certain type of girl. Well, guess what: He has no idea. No idea.
Stopping and spinning so fast he almost runs into me, I say, “I don’t ignore all the rules. Only the ridiculous ones.” Then, as a smiles starts to spread across his face, I add, “But I do ignore all the boys who think they can figure me out in under five seconds.”
As I turn and blend into the crowded lunchroom, I think I hear him say, “Oh, it’s been more than five seconds.”
The boy is obviously a wackadoo. It’s not that boys haven’t hit on me before. I’m no beauty queen, but I’m no hideous harpy, either. Freshman year, I almost went out on a date with a boy from my English class who played basketball. Right before our date, a Cyclops popped into town and I had to bail at the last minute. Thus ended my dating life. That night I realized how impossible a relationship would be for a girl who hunts monsters. I’ve been doing my best to drive the boys—everyone, really—away ever since.
Besides, it’s not that hard when you wear combat boots, fall asleep in class, and make yourself scarce as much as possible.
That makes Nick a bit of an enigma. He came back for more, even after my straight-up attempts to scare him away. I shove aside the tiny part of me that wishes he’ll come back for more again. I don’t wish that. I want him to stay beyond arm’s length.
Really, I think.
“Really,” I repeat out loud.
I grab a tray and get in the line for the pasta station. Hunting always leaves me starving the next day, and a nice heaping plate of pasta with extra meat sauce is just what I need. Forgetting Nick, I focus on filling my tray. I toss on a fruit salad, a couple of chocolate puddings—every little bit of caffeine helps—and a glass of apple juice before heading to the checkout. As I hand the cashier a five, I sense a presence at my side.
“That’s quite a meal,” he teases.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see his tray, with practically identical choices, right down to the double pudding.
This guy can’t take a hint.
I suppress the little thrill at knowing he hasn’t given up. I need him to give up, even if a part of me doesn’t want him to.
I pocket my change and head out into the sea of tables, away from Nick, beelining for my regular table in the farthest corner. The outcast table. On any given day there are between six and ten of us who chow together because we have nowhere else to eat. We don’t usually talk, but it kind of alleviates the stress of having to squeeze in at a pre-established table.
I slam my tray on the speckled gray surface, taking the spot between the witch and the manga boy. I’m sure they have names—I just don’t know them.
If I thought squeezing in between two other outcasts would keep Nick from following, I was wrong. He walks around to the other side of the table and takes the seat facing mine. He doesn’t look at all fazed to be sitting next to the gamer boy whose console never leaves his hands.
In fact, he’s smiling.
Clenching my jaw, I focus my attention on my food and ignore Nick.
I’m just forking a giant bite of pasta into my mouth when he says, “You’re not exactly the welcoming committee, are you?”
Manga boy and the gamer are oblivious, but I can sense the witch’s attention on us. Boys like Nick don’t usually hang at the outcast table. They never hit on the outcast girl.
I chew quietly, keeping my eyes on my tray.
When I don’t respond, Nick shrugs and then digs into his own plate of pasta. Guess he finally got it.
I suck down an entire pudding, trying to pretend I’m not disappointed that he’s giving up. It’s not like I want him to pursue me. I can’t want him to pursue me. My own ego liked the attention, I suppose, the interest in me as nothing more than an average girl.
Don’t be dumb, I tell myself. You’re not average. You don’t get the normal life with the bff and the boy. You’re destined for more than that. And your destiny is a solo adventure.
Still, I allow myself a brief moment of sadness when I stand to take my empty tray to the dish line and Nick doesn’t move. Doesn’t even react. And like that, poof, I’m forgotten.
“You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter quietly. I drop my tray and dishes into one of the big tubs. “You want him to forget you.”
I turn, eager to get out of the cafeteria, away from Nick and my irrational feelings. Only to walk smack into his chest.