I avert my eyes from his midsection and consider his question. “No,” I say finally, recalling the help he gave me.
He laughs. “And they say cheerleaders are brain-dead.”
I choose to ignore his jab. “Tell me how you knew, then, if you weren’t there.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t there.” He rocks back on his heels, and a breeze flutters the edge of his T-shirt.
Don’t. Look. At his stomach. “Would you stop playing games?” I yell. And it’s decided: yelling at him feels pretty good. “What do you know about the book?”
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cheerleader go so crazy over a book before.”
Not “What book?” And suddenly I know without a shadow of a doubt that he knows about the Bible. I clench my jaw, nostrils flaring. “You listen to me. I’m going to get that book back. Whatever it takes.”
“Maybe we should just calls the cops,” Paige says.
Like he’s going to stick around long enough for them to arrest him. And for what? I have no proof of anything. It’s my word against his.
I unlock the door.
“Indie. What are you—”
I step outside and slam the door behind me. “Look.” I take a page out of Bianca’s playbook and poke him in the chest. “I’m not going to ask—”
And holy crap, I forgot how tall he is. This plan seems much less sound now that I’m face to sternum with a giant. What did I think, that I was going to beat the truth out of him? Perform a citizen’s arrest?
“You were saying?” His dark eyebrows pull up as though with concern, but his deep-set eyes flash with amusement.
I swallow.
“Go on, I’m intrigued.” He waves a hand adorned with chipped black nail polish and a chunky silver ring, as if to say “Continue.”
“Who are you?” I ask, my tone considerably kinder than before. “I mean, what’s your name?” I give him a wide smile, but from the look in his eyes, it’s more alarming than alluring, so I pull it back a few notches. What the hell—I scrunch up my hair at the roots, throw in a tip of my head so my hair tumbles in front of my eyes, bite my lip. This has got to work—guys are so simple.
“You’re kidding me, right?” he says.
“What?” I ask innocently, but I can feel myself blushing.
“I’ll tell you my name, but not because of your little bimbo act. Maybe Quarterback Jack would fall for that sort of stuff, but not me.”
My mouth drops open.
“Oh, don’t be too offended. You’re cute and whatever. I just like a girl with a bit more going on up here.” He taps his temple.
“I’m plenty smart, jerkwad. I’ve got the third-highest GPA at my high school. And FYI, I would never be interested in a guy like—”
“Third-highest, huh? And I bet Blanca is first, right?”
“It’s Bianca. And— Ugh! Why am I arguing with you? I don’t even know you!”
He smiles, placing a hand on his chest. “It’s Bishop. Nice to meet you.”
“Bishop,” I repeat.
“That’s what I said.” He leans back against the side of the car.
“Okay.” I cross my arms over my chest. “So what’s your last name?”
“Haven’t got a last name,” he says.
“Who are you, Pink? Everyone has one.”
“Not me.”
I shield my face with my hand so he doesn’t see the tears of frustration welling in my eyes.
“Come on, Ind.” Paige tugs on my arm. “This is stupid. He’s not going to tell us anything.”
I give him my back, because great, I’m crying.
“Oh, come on, don’t do that,” he says.
“Do what?” Super. My stupid voice just cracked.
He sighs. “All right, then. I’ll tell you everything.”
I glance over to see the smirk on his face that’ll confirm he’s lying, but for once he’s stone-faced.
Maybe he isn’t such a jerk after all.
“Just don’t do that anymore,” he says, gesturing to my tear-tracked face. “It’s terribly unattractive, and I do hate to be seen with unattractive girls. Bad for the reputation, you know?”
My anger surges back full force. “Just tell me what you know, already.”
“Seriously, can you clean that up?” He circles a finger at my face.
“God, you’re a—”
“Jerk? I know. So listen, you have to take me somewhere private if I’m going to tell you anything.”
“Absolutely not.” Sorry, buddy, but I’ve seen that episode of Oprah. “Never let them take you to a second location” is, like, Rule #1 of foiling predators.
“Why not?” he says. “Too busy driving around looking for me?”
I huff. “Actually, we were just about to go to a party, thank you very much.”
“Awesome, except a party isn’t exactly private. Unless it’s a party for two.” He winks at me.
Ew.
I cross my arms. “As much as I love that mental image, can you please quit playing games and tell me what you know already?”
“Sure,” he says. “As soon as we go someplace private.”
“You’ve got to know that I'm smarter than that.”
He starts to walk away, and I panic. If he leaves now, I may never see him again. And then all hope of finding the Bible will be lost. It’d ruin Mom. Completely destroy her.
“Wait!” I call out.
He spins.
I heave a sigh. Sweet Jesus, I can’t believe I'm doing this. “Fine. I’ll go with you. But we have to stop somewhere first.”
For a few seconds, both Paige and Bishop stare at me like I’ve just sprouted a second head. But before I have time to think about the dangerous situation I’ve just gotten myself into, Bishop yells, “Shotgun!” and skids across the hood of the car to land in front of the passenger-side door.
Sorry, Oprah.
10
Bishop is already adjusting the passenger seat to accommodate his long legs before I can even get into the car.
“No way.” I settle into the driver’s seat. “Paige rides up front.”
“She doesn’t care. Look, she’s already in the back.” He swivels in the seat to face Paige. “You don’t care, right?”
Paige snaps the buckle of her seat belt. “It’s fine.”
I purse my lips. But actually, it’s probably better not to have my back turned to him. And I have to say, he looks much less intimidating with his legs all smushed up like he’s riding in a clown car.
“So where’s this party at?” He rubs his hands together.
I start the car. “You’ll see when we get there.”
“Oh, like a surprise. How fun.”
I glance at Paige in the rearview mirror. She catches my eye and gives me a look that distinctly says “What the hell have you gotten me into?” I quickly turn my focus back to the road. I don’t know what to tell her. Sorry, I wasn’t really thinking straight? My apologies if he hacks out our innards with a rusty pocketknife?
I could drop her off at home, or even back at Jessie’s house, but the truth is I don’t want to be alone with this guy, even if the drive is less than ten minutes. Guess I’ve grown rather fond of my innards.
“Got any tunes?” Bishop reaches for the dial on the radio. He skips from station to station.
“Would you quit that?” I ask.
“Got Sirius? An iPod? A CD, even?” He opens the glove compartment and rummages inside.
I slap his hand away. “Do you mind?”
“What?”
“Don’t touch anything, okay? Just sit there and be quiet.”
He snorts, but miraculously, he obeys.