Apparently, it’s hilarious, because Brad bursts out laughing. “You are so repressed.” He sounds like a warm little brook hidden partway through a hike on a summer’s day, an unexpected delight. And I don’t think I’m repressed at all because I look at him and my heart does a very deliberate jump and I know exactly how I feel.
But why choose to dwell on that when it won’t go anywhere? What am I going to do, put my hands on his cheeks and kiss his annoying face? Of course I’m not. You have to be sensible about feelings like this, or they’ll run away with you. Liking someone this much is a dangerous game because what do you do when they’re gone?
I don’t know what to do with myself, so I pull a pillow out from behind his back and whack him with it.
“Hey!” He laughs harder, tugs it out of my grip, and whacks me back.
“Ow!” I yelp.
His amusement is replaced, instantly, by concern. “Shit, are you—”
Which gives me enough time to grab another pillow.
“Ah! Stop.” Brad wraps burning fingers around my wrist and says sternly, “Violence is not the answer.”
“You just whacked me!”
“That,” he says loftily, “was self-defense.”
When I transfer the pillow to my other hand, he grabs that wrist too. I try to shake him off; it does not work. He looks quite smug. So I lunge at him, which does not go how I’d hoped, since he’s still holding both my wrists.
He falls back on his elbows, and I end up leaning quite heavily over him. If I were choosing to be interested in Bradley, this would be the perfect situation. I could take the weight off my right knee and let more of myself rest on him, and our mouths would be very close, and he would be in the ideal position to notice that I smell beguilingly of my lime shower gel and coconut edge control. Then he’d put his tongue in my mouth and come away with an enduring passion for fruit salad.
I let myself imagine that scenario for a few dangerous seconds before remembering that I’m not allowed to be interested in Bradley. So I keep all my weight on my right knee. The mattress sinks a bit, and I wobble and bite my lip.
Then Brad falls all the way onto his back and pulls me down with him.
SUNDAY, 2:04 P.M.
Jordan: what’s going on man keep me updated
Jordan: Brad
Jordan: BRAD! TF yall doing over there????
Jordan:
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BRAD
Is this a bad idea? It might be a bad idea. But I’m like 18 percent sure I just caught a vibe, which is actually very sure, for me, and while I’m certainly not in love with Celine—that would be ridiculous, Jordan is deranged—I am definitely a tiny bit obsessed with the idea of kissing her. I think about it all the time. Like when we’re arguing in Philosophy or when we all go into town to get frappes. Pretty soon she’s going to notice how much time I waste thinking about her mouth—unless I can get ahead of the issue by getting at the mouth in question.
That would fix things, right? Actually doing it, I mean? That would fix the kiss obsession. Or make it ten times worse. Only one way to find out.
I pull her to me, a soft weight that presses my spine firmly into the mattress. She says with a low-level glower, “What was that for?” Coming from Celine, this is basically a polite inquiry.
I give her my best smile. “This friendship thing is going really well, don’t you think?” I am testing the waters. If she says Sure is, handsome, and licks my neck, I’ll take that as a green light.
Celine props herself up on her elbows to look down at me—but she doesn’t get up. “Am I squashing you?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Her gaze avoids mine and her round cheeks hollow a little bit, like she’s nibbling the insides. This close, she is all gleaming darkness and shiny pink makeup and long eyelashes that flutter away from me. “Um. Yes. It is. Going. Well.”
I beam. “That was great, Cel. Deeply emotional. Ten out of ten.”
She rolls her eyes, but she still hasn’t moved. I’m feeling very optimistic about this, if you ignore the way my stomach is churning with nerves and terrible potential futures are flashing against the back of my skull like a sped-up cinema reel. I throw a very thick, dark curtain in front of the screen and say, “I’m going to suggest something.”
She is rightly suspicious. “What?”
“Do you. I mean. Would you…like…to…” Whew. This is harder than I thought. My heart is playing a drum solo right now. How did I get Isabella to make out with me? Oh yes, I remember now: I said, “Bella, I really like you,” and she handled the rest. But if I tell Celine I like her, she’ll probably jump out of the window as a reflex. For some reason that makes my heart hurt.
And yet…
“Celine, I really like you.”
She rolls off me and lands on the floor with a very loud thud. Well, crap. I scramble to the edge of the bed just as she pops up like a daisy.
“Everything all right up there?” Dad shouts.
“Dropped a book,” I shout back.
“Sorry,” Celine says breathlessly, rubbing her hip. “Didn’t realize the…floor was…there.” Then she smiles brightly.
My stomach plummets into the earth’s core. “Oh God. You don’t like me.”
Her jaw drops. “What are you talking about, Bradley? Of course I like you!”
“Right.” I nod rapidly, trying not to die of embarrassment. Sadbarrassment. “Of course! We’re friends!”
“That’s what you meant, right?” she asks. “As friends.”
That is very sweet of her, to give me an out. Except she’s still smiling—not one of her normal, accidental smiles where her eyes scrunch up into dark shiny gems, but a perfect, polite smile that seems nervous. Or anxious. Or…something else I don’t want her to be.
“Well, no,” I say slowly. This is ridiculous. I am ridiculous. There is an enormous possibility I am making things worse—
Which might be worth the tiniest possibility of making them better.
“No,” I repeat, more confident now. （If I’m going to do things wrong, I might as well do them with style and conviction.） “When I pulled you on top of me and, you know, gazed dreamily into your eyes and said I liked you, I did not mean as friends. Obviously.”
Her mouth opens. Her mouth closes. Between that and her slow, slightly dazed blinks, pop her in a bowl and she could be a goldfish.
“It’s okay, though,” I add quickly. “I’m not going to be weird about it, or anything. I’m…I’m glad we’re friends.” Friends is good. Friends is an infinite number of times better than before. There is no reason for my internal organs to be blowing away in the winds of my desolation. I am completely fine.
“Well,” Celine says. Her voice is so pretty. Like shiny metal. I am very okay right now. “Gosh,” she says after a moment.
I manage to be patient and reasonable for another 0.3 seconds. “Not to pressure you, but I would love a few complete sentences right now.”
She sits down on the bed very suddenly. Actually, it’s possible she fell. “Are you sure?”
I almost fall at that. “Am I sure?”