Bounce by Natasha Friend Page B

all over Mr. B’s shoes?”
    I wouldn’t tell them the truth in a million years.
    â€œIt was awesome,” I say. “I got totally wasted and kissed the soccer team.”
    In stereo: “The whole team ?”
    â€œWell,” I say, “not Ajax. Obviously. That would be disgusting. But everyone else.”
    Oh, I wish I had a camera right now. The looks on their faces must be captured.
    Our stepsister is out of control.
    It’s hard to tell if they’re horrified or proud. Either way, they have been rendered speechless, which is reason enough to celebrate.
    I think I will eat after all.
    I walk into the kitchen in my pajamas—flannel, with tiny horses and hay bales on them, circa sixth grade.
    I walk into the kitchen with gel spikes on my head and pillow creases on my face and morning breath from the tenth circle of hell.
    I walk into the kitchen and
    there
    he
    is.
    â€œHungry?” he asks.
    I can’t believe I’m wearing horse pajamas.
    â€œI made the mother lode of French toast.”
    I can’t. Believe. I’m wearing. Horse pajamas.
    â€œYou want o.j.?”
    What I want is a toothbrush.
    And a comb.
    And the power to turn back time so I can run upstairs and start the morning over again, wearing a tube top and darkwash jeans.
    I don’t say anything. I’m afraid to open my mouth.
    But then Linus pulls out a chair and pats it, and I sit down at the table next to him. Suddenly, I can imagine a million mornings like this one, where we will wake up and eat breakfast together, and it won’t matter what I’m wearing because what we have goes beyond the superficial. What we have is the real deal.
    So what if the sweater twins are here right now, running their motormouths? So what if Cleanser Boy—who very likely ruined my entire school year by asking Maya Glassman to dance—is stuffing his face with bacon? All I am thinking about is Linus. Linus Gartos, whose fingers are long and beautiful as he spatulas another slice of French toast onto my plate.
    I could stay in the kitchen like this forever. The air is warm and smells like syrup. On the radio: soft rock. There is no On-drey-a. No honeymooners. There’s just Linus and me, and right now that’s all that matters.
    Later on, we play cards—baby games like Crazy Eights and Old Maid because of Phoebe.
    When it’s my turn, Linus hands me the deck and our fingers touch.
    â€œYour deal, tough guy,” he says, winking.
    Tough guy. Our private joke. Only someone whose nose has been bashed could understand.
    Somehow I manage to shuffle without dropping any cards. I even try the waterfall.
    â€œSweet moves,” he says.
    And I say, “Plenty more where that came from.”
    He smiles, and I smile, and I ask him to cut the deck, and he does, and now our fingers are touching again.
    I could definitely get used to this.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    Sunday morning. The honeymooners are back. Eleni bursts through the door calling, “Kiiiids! We’re hoooome!” It’s obvious she thinks we’re the Brady Bunch and should all be lined up on the stairs in exact height order, big TV smiles plastered on our faces.
    I stay where I am on the couch, stuffing myself with Oreos, my dirty sneakers propped up on the coffee table.
    I listen to Birdie say, “Well, the place is still standing. That’s a good sign. I don’t smell any smoke…” and Eleni laughs like a hyena, and then Phoebe comes charging down the stairs. “Mommyyyyyy!”
    By the time they make it to the den, everyone is crowded around, asking questions about their trip. Stupid ones.
    How was the drive? Was the foliage beautiful?
    Did you mountain bike?
    Did you have room service for, like, every meal?
    (It wasn’t a hotel, Clio—duh—it was a B and B.)
    (Shut up, Cassi. B and B’s have room service, too.)
    So, was it, like, the most romantic week EVER?
    Did you white-water raft? Did you