“Thought you might want a ride,” I say. The confidence I had when I darted to her classroom is gone. I’m pretty sure there’s no way this girl is getting in a car with me. I just hope she doesn’t laugh out loud.
The look she gives to the blonde walking up behind her confirms my suspicions. Her friend, I’ve seen her around. I think she might be the sister of one of Owen’s exes, or maybe related to someone my brother’s friends know. She knows me, and that’s enough; her eyebrows are high on her forehead when she looks at Emma. That expression is all about warning her to stay away.
“Oh, I was…I was going home with Melody. We were going to get ready…there’s…there’s a dance here tonight,” she says, delivering the news in fits and starts.
It’s cute the way she takes her time with every word, not sure which thing will hurt my feelings more. I’m use to it all, though. I didn’t know about a dance, because I don’t really go here. And yeah, it’s probably better she rides home with Melody…
“But if you can wait a few minutes, I’d…I’d love a ride,” she says, surprising me enough I falter on my feet. I catch myself quickly, pushing my hands in my pockets and leaning against the wall.
Her friend tugs on one of the straps of her backpack, but she ignores it, shirking away.
“Is that heavy? I could carry it for you,” I say, reaching for her backpack. I glance at her friend when I do, letting her know I saw her tug the strap, and I know what she meant by it—don’t go, Emma, not with him. She sneers at me; I know we have an understanding—an agreement to disagree.
“Sure,” Emma says, letting me slide her heavy pack from her shoulder. I layer it over my own backpack, slinging it over my arm, and I wait while she has a whispered conversation with her friend a few feet away from me.
“I just need to get some things from the office. I missed a few classes this morning,” she says.
“Sure,” I say, following her down the hall. I smile when I see her step carefully with her Converse; she’s placing one foot inside every square, alternating from black to white. I do that sometimes.
“Step on a crack, you’ll break your mother’s back,” I mutter. I’m laughing to myself when she halts instantly, spinning to face me, her face serious.
“My mom broke her back last year…” she says, and I look to both sides, feeling like an asshole. When I glance back at her, a grin starts to crawl along her lips. “I’m just fuckin’ with ya,” she winks.
“Oh my god, that was the funniest not-funny thing anyone’s ever done to me,” I say, pulling my knit cap over my face and rubbing my eyes before sliding it back on.
“Sorry,” she smiles, sheepishly.
I hold her stare for a few seconds, until she looks away blushing again. I love that she blushes. And I love that half smile she gives me. It’s unsure, cautious. She starts to move toward the office again, and I follow a few steps behind.
“It was more funny than not funny,” I say, not wanting her to feel bad. Honestly, that little stunt just gave me one more thing to be infatuated with when it comes to Emma Burke.
I follow her through the office doors, and Margot, the main secretary, lights up when she sees me. I don’t know many of the teachers here, but the office staff knows me well. They helped process the transfers and paperwork for the Excel Program, and I spent a lot of time waiting in the office for Owen my freshman year on days I didn’t have a full schedule.
“Andrew Harper, how’s that brother of yours?” Margot asks, leaning over the wraparound counter by the secretaries’ station.
“He’s good,” I smile. “I’m driving up with mom and Dwayne…I mean…Mr. Chessman…to watch his game this weekend. He’s starting.” I’m genuinely proud of Owen. In many ways, my brother was my hero. I think that’s why life sucks so much now that he’s gone. Of course, Emma is making things suck just a little less.
“You can call him Dwayne, sweetie. That’s what we call him, too,” Margot winks. She moves to a file at her desk, pulling papers together for Emma while continuing to talk to me. “And I hear you’re pretty damn good on skates, so maybe we see you starting for some university too in a few years?”
“Yeah, I don’t know…maybe. It’s more of a hobby,” I shrug. I’m not great at compliments, or attention, or…praise. Margot’s husband is one of the guys who shows up at the rink on weekends, and we usually play on the same squad. He’s a good guy, and a hell of a goalie for a forty-five-year-old. Their son plays for Northwestern’s club team.