“Points for accuracy,” I quip, smiling at the sloppy, inaccurate spelling of HAPPY BERTHDAY ISA in blue highlighter at the top.
“I’m taller than a big kid.”
“I don’t doubt you for a second.” I really should stop feeding into people’s delusions. “But thank you, Jer. I love it.”
He grins the same type of shit-eating grin he must have learned from Mickey. “I asked Ro if he wanted to go halves on a present with me, but he said no.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “His loss.”
Jeremy is too smug for a twelve-year-old. I’d boil it down to the fact he thinks he’s the smartest kid in his grade (he’s the sixth smartest), and he’s friends with the “cool kids.”
I lean in closer. “Don’t tell him, but your gift will be way cooler anyway. You’re better at drawing.”
His eyes light up, but he acts nonchalant as he grabs a slice of toast. “Ms. Terry said I’m a natural at everything I do.”
Note to self: teach Jeremy how to be humble.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you to school today?”
“Yes,” he drawls. “It’s weird if you do.”
“Your loss.” I don’t know why I still bother asking. He hasn’t said yes in over a year. Jeremy thinks he’s too grown up to be walked to school by his foster sister, so it’s just me and Mickey now.
Shaking my head, I tuck the drawing away in my bag for safekeeping and head outside. Jeremy barely notices me pat his head before I leave, too caught in his fairy tale of Lord knows what.
My heart skips a beat when I see him. It’s been doing that a lot more lately. He makes butterflies erupt from every corner of my belly, and the entire world seems to revolve around Mickey. He’s trouble on legs, and he’s all mine.
I think.
I hope.
I’m all his, at least.
Now that he isn’t at school anymore, who knows how many girls he’s talking to. Before he graduated, all the girls in the neighborhood would throw themselves at him. He never looked at them once, but people change. He has so much more freedom, and I know the admin girl from his work at the garage, Cassie, always bats her eyelashes at him, especially when he’s all greased up, unshaven, and sweaty.
Then she gets handsy. Or at least tries to. Roman pushes her away like he’s uncomfortable, but I think that’s because I’m there.
In the morning, after school, and right after dinner on some nights, blonde-haired, blue-eyed Cassie isn’t around, and Mickey is all mine. When I’m at school, and once I’m in bed, I guess Cassie is all his.
But every morning, the space beneath my ribs blooms from the sight of him leaning against his motorcycle, muscled arms straining against a black t-shirt, with cargo pants belted around his hips.
I didn’t believe people when they said puberty does wonders, but Christ, they weren’t lying. He’s turned into the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
Mickey smiles from ear to ear the second he sees me. Not a devilish smirk or a mischievous grin, a smile. Does he smile like that at Cassie?
I shake my head internally. There’s no point in being jealous. It’s not like he’s ever made a move that might suggest I’m anything more than just a good friend. Or little sister. Gross.
“Morning, sweet Bella.”
Another thing I didn’t believe about puberty is how deep a voice could get.
The butterflies seem to be activated by voice command as well, because the deeper his voice gets, the crazier they react.
“Morning,” I whisper, unable to look into his eyes. They’re too hypnotizing, and the last thing I need is for the gremlins in my stomach to make my cheeks heat and for me to become all giggly.
I’m still studying and work at Greg’s shop a couple of times a week. I’m practically a child compared to Mickey now. Maybe Cassie is more his style because they both have the same kind of responsibilities.
The wings on those pesky butterflies sag every time I think of her. He hasn’t given me a reason to believe he’s into her, but who could ever fall in love with a girl who’s missing a part of her heart? Not to mention that Cassie is prettier.
Mickey reaches behind him and pulls out a plaid green pencil case filled to the brim with stationary, probably—hopefully.
The answer is obvious, but as I said, I don’t know how to function around him.
“I—"
He chucks it in my direction, and I already know I’m going to miss it. I lurch forward to catch it and fumble uselessly as it falls to the ground.
He chuckles, and I turn red. I’m too caught up in the sound of his deep voice and my incoordination to glare at him, though.
He doesn't say anything if he’s noticed I’m getting shier around him.
I wouldn’t be surprised if the prick likes that I keep getting flustered.
It’s so stupid. All I want to do is impress him, when I’ve quite literally done every embarrassing thing possible in his presence. I drooled all over him when I fell asleep on him two years ago, threw up on him once when I got car sick, went through an acne phase, and tripped over my feet more times than I can count. Oh God, and when I was twelve, I thought I was an amazing singer and tried serenading him by singing “Love Story” by Taylor Swift. He even caught me rehearsing it beforehand.
But that’s not the worst part. My rehearsals involved a complete dance routine.
I want to crawl into a hole and die just thinking about it.
I miss the days when I didn’t have a ridiculous, soul-consuming crush on Roman Riviera. The time when I could argue with him day and night because I wasn’t yearning for his approval. Now, like some idiotic little girl, all he needs to do is look at me, and I’m a puddle.
“I will hear nothing from you, because the pencil case has nothing to do with your birthday.”
“Hmm? Oh, right. Thank you.” I swallow as I quickly shove the pencil case into my bag, ignoring the hot blood rushing up my neck toward my face.
Two days ago, I told him I had forgotten my pencil case on the bus when we went on a field trip. This is just what Mickey does; he gets me things I need and things I never asked for.
Like the shirt I’m wearing of a Sumatran tiger, which is not stolen from anyone. We listened to a documentary on tigers a couple of months ago, and I decided then and there that they’re my new favorite animal. They’re the smallest breed of tigers, and there are only four hundred of them left in the world. I tried to hide the fact that it made me a little emotional, but Mickey must have seen right through it because, a week later, he gave me this t-shirt with the WWF tag still on it and a card that said, Thank you for your donation.
It was probably the first and last charitable thing Mickey will do in his life.“You get your actual present tonight.”
My heart soars. He’s spending less and less time with me at night. He always has some kind of excuse relating to work for why he has to leave early or not see me at all. He also seems to be perpetually bruised and tired. Case in point: his purple knuckles and the patchwork of yellow and green on his cheek.
Mickey told me he’s working so much because he’s saving up for when I graduate.
That makes sense, but the problem with his argument is that he’s a mechanic, and mechanics don’t normally work night shifts. Or get bloody knuckles and bruises.
I never knew him to be a liar, but he can be tricky, mincing words so they’re only half-truths. All it takes is for another half to disappear, and it’s a full lie.
I nod, and the slight twitch of his brow is the only sign he’s displeased with my response. If I weren’t so woozy and awestruck, I would tease him and say it’s because he forgot to get me something or joke that I made plans with Jeremy and he’s not invited.