Mr. Duncan began his lecture before Justin could answer her. Kari rolled her eyes and spun around. I’d never been so glad to hear a teacher speak.
I stood in the parking lot like an idiot after school. Roger’s egg car wasn’t in its usual space. Just perfect.
Naomi wasn’t by the fountain at lunch, and she never showed up to PE. My wrist still ached from volleyball. Choosing to slam one’s flesh into a hard ball seemed wrong. How anyone enjoyed that was beyond me.
“Hey, Drea,” a sharp voice said behind me.
My heart pounded as Kari approached me. “Hi,” I mumbled.
“Have you seen Justin?”
“He was talking to the film teacher when I left class. Probably still there.” I eyed the ground, hoping she’d go find him and leave me alone.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her studying me. Her arms were folded tightly across her stomach, toe tapping on the pavement.
“So”—she shifted her weight—“are you guys, like, seeing each other?”
That particular phrase always threw me. Whenever Mom said she was seeing someone, I always thought—well, duh.
“Not like that.”
She wrinkled her nose at me. “What do you mean like that?”
“I mean, he’s not my boyfriend.”
“That’s not what I was asking.”
“I don’t understand.”
Kari rolled her eyes and pursed her lips. “I’m not in the mood for games. Did you guys hook up or not?”
I backed up a couple steps. “He’s just my partner in film.”
A white sedan pulled up, and the driver tapped the horn twice. I could make out Casey’s long blond hair and broad shoulders.
Kari held a finger up, asking Casey to hang on. “If you see him on his way out, tell him to call me.” She shook her head and got into the car, slamming the door. Casey revved the engine and sped out of the parking lot.
Slow footsteps emerged behind me, and I got the prickly feeling of someone staring at my back. I looked over my shoulder and met Justin’s stare. What a convenient time to show up.
“Hey,” he said, peering in the direction Casey’s car went. “Sorry about that.”
“About what?”
“That she was interrogating you about me.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and kicked a rock.
“Are you hiding from her?”
He sighed, rolling his eyes up to the dull sky. “Kinda—yeah.”
“Bad date?”
A smile tugged at his lips. “That’s the problem. It wasn’t a date.”
“Why? Did you want it to be a date?”
He crinkled his brow at me and shook his head. “You’re an odd duck, Drea.” Before I could ask what the hell that meant, he continued. “I signed up for a camera the weekend after next. Mr. Diaz said everyone waits until the last minute, so I figured we’d beat the rush. Any ideas?”
“Not really. The only movies I’ve made are of sea lions, clouds, and my mom’s retarded ex with my crappy HI-8.”
“Hey, it’s better than nothing.” He scanned the parking lot. “You need a ride home?”
“It appears that way. But I can call someone.”
“Someone, huh? You’ve got a lot of friends in a town you just moved to.”
I looked away, my stomach tensing at the thought of being alone with him.
“Okay, suit yourself,” he said. “Later.”
Then again, getting a ride home from Justin seemed a lot more exciting than waiting for Mom or even worse—Grandma. “Wait,” I called after him. “You can give me a ride home.”
He turned around and walked backward with a grin. “Oh, can I? Thanks, I feel privileged.”
I followed him to his car, scanning the shiny black paint. M3 gleamed back at me in silver. It looked like a 2006—333 horsepower. Not bad.
He held the passenger door open for me. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite on the first ride home.”
I hesitated. “Huh?”
Justin rolled his eyes and waved me in. “Never mind.”
I slid into the black leather seat, breathing in the faded stench of cigarettes. Probably from Kari. I didn’t like picturing her in this seat.
He got into the driver’s side and started the engine. A song with grinding guitars and piercing synthesizers roared through my ears, but he quickly turned it down and mumbled an apology.
“They’ve got a V-8 M3 now,” I said.
He backed out of the parking space. “You don’t strike me as a car fan.”
“I used to read Car and Driver and Motor Trend a lot. Now I’m more into sound design.”
“You’ve got some interesting hobbies. So—where do you live?” He pulled onto the main street.
“Make a left at the light.”
“Can you give me a general area?”
“It’s near the bay. That street you make a left on—”
“Holly?”
“Yeah. Keep going straight and then Holly turns into something else after you pass this really big church. I live three streets down from that.”
He glanced over at me with wide eyes. “Oookay. Let me get this straight. I hang a left on Holly, and Holly turns into something else, hopefully another street. And you live on the third cross street after the church.”
“Yeah, it’s either the third or fourth.”
He shook his head, smirking. “Please tell me you know the name of your street.”
I looked out the window, my cheeks growing hot. I never paid attention to names—only landmarks and how many left or right turns it took to get there.
He touched my shoulder before shifting again. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”
A few moments passed before he tapped a button on his wheel, turning the music back up. The beat was danceable, and I liked the mix. Most modern songs overdid the compression to the point of killing any dynamic that once existed—they were just loud. Period.
“Who is this?”
He squinted at me as we pulled up to a red light. “Why—you hate it?”
“No, I kind of like it, actually.”
“It’s a band called Black Lab. They don’t normally do electronica. It was kind of an experiment, but I like bands that take risks.”
“Me too.”
“Do you consider yourself a music snob?”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Yes.”
He raised his eyebrows at me. “Same here. And you lost points for not knowing Black Lab.”
“Don’t play the music game with me. I’ll win.” At least I did every time someone challenged me online.
“Oh.” He shook his head. “This is gonna be good. Try me. Throw some names out.”
“Porcupine Tree.”
“I’m torn between ‘Deadwing’ and ‘The Sound of Muzak’ for my favorite song, but I think In Absentia is a better album.”
“It was a little mellow for me. I preferred Deadwing—it was more visceral and dark.”
“Of course.” He rolled his eyes. “Okay, here’s one for you. Puracane.”
“My favorite song is ‘Shouldn’t Be Here.’”
“Because it’s dark and visceral?”
“No, I can relate to it for some reason.”
“Why? You wake up on a lot of random couches?”
“No, I just get it.”
He tapped his finger against the steering wheel and gave me a sidelong glance. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Some melodies just talk to me. The lyrics don’t matter.”
We drove in silence for a minute. Brick buildings, kayak places, and bike riders whizzed by.
“So if you love cars so much, how come you don’t drive?” he asked.
I focused on two older women in the car next to us. One had purple hair. “I don’t have a license.”
“Why not?”
“I kind of flunked the test.” I didn’t want to tell him there had actually been six of them.
“Kind of? We’ll have to fix that.”
“Are you going to take it for me?”