Starstruck by Cyn Balog Page B

sand, make a huge disturbance, get the tourists to give us dirty looks and the lifeguards to whistle at us, but we didn’t care. We didn’t care what anyone thought about us then; it was just fun. That’s about it. To this day, I’m not sure how one would win at a game like that.
    I cringe as I force away the mental image of him reaching for me, putting his hands on my body, touching the folds of flesh that weren’t there all those years ago.
    “Maybe some other time. I’m just going to get you those donuts.”
    I hurry away before he can say another word, and walk into the empty bakery. Christian doesn’t even come out when the bell above the door jingles; he’s probably OD’d in the back room. I throw a dozen cream donuts into a white paper bag and return to Wish’s truck a minute later. “Awesome,” he says.
    “Yeah.” I’m already holding the truck door, ready to slam it. “So, thanks.”
    “Hey,” he says, which makes me turn toward him, and our eyes momentarily meet. He leans over. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”
    I nod.
    “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
    I nod again. “But you don’t have to pick me up. I’ll just see you at school.” When he opens his mouth to protest, I say, “I don’t mind taking the bus. I, um, like it.”
    “Okay,” he says, his face solemn. “Have a good—”
    I wasn’t expecting him to say anything else, so I accidentally slam the door before he can finish. That was rude. I give him a smile and wave and try to look as happy as possible. I’m thinking I pulled it off when I go into the bakery and Christian, who somehow miraculously appeared out of nowhere, says, “Dude, you look like you’re coming from your own funeral.”
    I want to tell him to go blow it out his crack pipe, but I’m still not sure about his past. On the off chance he’s a mass murderer, I’d better keep quiet. I’m starving from not eating lunch, so I grab a carton of Nesquik and a coconut strip and walk past him, gnashing my teeth.
    “Was that the boyfriend you told me about?” he asks, obviously mistaking my teeth-gnashing for a sign I’m open to conversation.
    “I guess. I don’t know.”
    “You don’t know?” He laughs. “Because, dude, you guys seem really in love.”
    I narrow my eyes. Murderer or whatever, he’s a jerk and must be silenced. “Could you please not spy on me?”
    He shakes his head, those dirty dreads brushing the tops of his shoulders. “No way, man. You and your sister are the most entertainment I get here.”
    I give him a look.
    He shrugs. “If you don’t want me to watch, don’t park outside the window.”
    I definitely prefer the walker-using help of previous years. The most annoying thing about them was the faint smell of approaching death and their tendency to bring up the benefits of Metamucil to customers. “I’m going to start my homework. I know you probably don’t know what that is, but …”
    He’s grinning at me like he knows he’s under my skin and happy to be there. And I feel the same way I’ve felt pretty much all day. Foolish.

17
    T HE NEXT MORNING , I stare up at the ceiling, at a brown-edged water spot in the shape of a boot. Until my mom had the roof fixed, every time it would rain, I’d get the Reilly’s Irish Bakery version of Chinese water torture.
    But even though I haven’t been dripped on in years, I’ve never felt worse torture in my life.
    Wish has always been my best friend. He’s never done anything mean to me. He doesn’t have that in him. But now he’s acting almost too nice. If I could look into his heart, though, I bet I would see the same thing that all my classmates see when they look at me.
    Evie pulls aside the curtain and comes into my room as I’m lying there in the dark. “Are you dead?”
    I just groan.
    “The bus will be here in fifteen minutes.”
    I roll over. Just thinking about which goofy Hanes sweatshirt and khaki elastic-waist pants I can wear makes me ill. “I’m not