Текст книги "Lying Out Loud"
Автор книги: Kody Keplinger
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“But what if he tells other people about this e-mail?”
“Who would he tell? No one can stand him. He doesn’t have friends.”
She sighed, which I took as permission to continue.
“You mentioned my friend in your e-mail. Sonny would also like to be present for this ‘conversation.’ She loves to watch me fool around with guys. Though recently, I found some creepy voodoo dolls of the guys I’ve been hooking up with in her drawer. And, come to think of it, a few of them have had some serious accidents. I hope the possibility of a few broken bones doesn’t scare you off.”
This time, she giggled. Just a little.
“I have to say, Ryder, I’m so glad you e-mailed me. I’ve had my eye on you since you got here. I tried to play it cool, but secretly, I’ve been building a shrine to you in my closet for months. It’s nothing special – just a few pictures I took of you on my phone while you weren’t looking and a life-size sculpture I made of you using garbage and gum I scraped out from under your desk.”
“Oh, that’s so gross!” Amy gasped. “Ew.”
I continued, “I can’t wait to show you my work of art. I know you’ll appreciate it. So it’s a date. Friday night. I’m going to blow your mind, Ryder. You have no idea. Love (because that’s what I am, in love with you), Amy.”
I sat back and admired my brilliant prose. Beside me, Amy was giggling, but she also looked a bit nervous.
“You can’t really send that, you know,” she said.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “That’s cool. I got it out of my system. But you’ve got to admit – it’s a pretty epic love letter.”
“Sure,” Amy said.
“I’m saving it,” I told her. “You’re going to want to look back on this one day when I’m some sort of famous poet … or criminal mastermind being hunted by the authorities. Whichever comes first. It’ll be worth something.”
I leaned forward and moved to click the SAVE button, but Amy’s elbow bumped mine by accident, and my hand slipped. Instead of SAVE, I clicked SEND.
“Uh-oh.”
Amy saw it at the same time I did. Her eyes went wide and she slapped a hand over her mouth. “What just happened?”
I clicked over to drafts, hoping to see the e-mail there, safe and sound. But no. “It sent,” I said.
“No, no, no!” Amy looked horrified. “Oh my God.”
“Well … he’ll never ask you out again?” I offered. “Ugh. I’m sorry. That really wasn’t on purpose. I swear.”
“I know. I bumped you.” She bit at her pinkie nail. “This is awful. I can’t believe we sent that. It’s so mean and … There’s no way of, like, getting it back, right?”
“That’s not exactly how the Internet works.”
“Ugh.” She buried her face in her hands. “I hope he doesn’t read it.”
“He might not,” I said. “He might realize too late that asking you out was a mistake and he doesn’t have a chance in hell, so he won’t read the e-mail. He’ll save himself from the heartache. There’s actually a good chance of that.”
Amy looked skeptical.
“I’m serious,” I said.
But I was just saying that to make Amy feel better. I knew he’d read it. He’d be an idiot not to. I just hoped he didn’t forward it to anyone. If someone teased Amy about this, I’d never forgive myself.
I wasn’t convincing her, though. I could tell she felt awful, and I wished that I’d just wallowed earlier.
“I should send him an apology e-mail,” she said.
“No,” I said. “I’ll do it. I’m the one who wrote the stupid thing. I’ll e-mail the apology.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yep.” I would hate every second of it, but I’d do it for her.
“Thank you,” she said. “Now let’s go to bed. I’m exhausted.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m tired, too. Practically falling asleep as we speak.”
It wasn’t the last lie I’d tell that night.
Chapter 3
I pretended to sleep until Amy started snoring. It really was astonishing that someone so adorable could make such a horrific noise. It was about ten times louder than her speaking voice, and it came from deep in her throat. Amy wasn’t usually a mouth-breather, but at night? Jesus.
It used to keep me up when we were little. We’d have sleepovers, and I’d stay up all night, staring at the ceiling. Eventually, I got so used to the demon that possessed Amy’s body at night that it became a sort of rhythmic, guttural lullaby.
Not tonight, though. Tonight I was wide-awake.
Slowly, I crawled across the huge bed and climbed over Amy. She kept snoring. Once she started, there was no stopping her until someone shook her awake the next morning. She took being a heavy sleeper to a whole new level.
Even so, I found myself tiptoeing across the carpet toward her desk. I picked up her laptop and slipped out the door and down the hall.
The Rushes’ house was ridiculous. Three floors, giant bathrooms, ginormous walk-in closets – Wesley’s room even had a freaking balcony. But my favorite, favorite room in the Rush house was the recreation room. It was just down the hall from Amy’s room, and it was every teenager’s dream. There was a pool table; huge, comfy couches; and, as of Amy’s seventeenth birthday, an old-fashioned pinball machine. But the best part was, hardly anyone knew it was here.
I’d been to a few parties at the Rush house – usually thrown by Wesley when he was home from college – and no one ever seemed to find this room. With the door shut, it was easy to mistake it for just another bedroom. Which made it the perfect little hideaway when you wanted a break from the rowdy youths. Or, you know, when you wanted to make out.
The only time I’d ever found the rec room occupied during a party was this year, on the Fourth of July, when I caught Casey Blythe, a former Hamilton High cheerleader, sucking face with her boyfriend, this nerdy kid named Toby Tucker. But Casey was best friends with Wesley’s girlfriend, so she had inside intel on where all the best places to fool around in the Rush house were.
Other than that little incident, no one ever seemed to come into the rec room besides me and Amy. We hung out in here sometimes, when we didn’t have homework to do. I’d play a game of pool against myself while Amy utterly destroyed on the pinball machine.
Tonight, though, it was just me. I wasn’t in the mood for a solo game of pool, so instead I got cozy on one of the couches and propped open Amy’s laptop. I had a paper due in English, and I figured I might as well get started on it while the productivity booster known as insomnia stuck around.
I’d just opened a new Word document when I heard a small ping and frowned. Then there was a second ping. The same sound, but somehow more insistent.
I hadn’t realized an Internet window was even open, but when I clicked around for a second, I discovered I had an instant message on my e-mail server.
From Ryder Cross.
RYDER: I know I’m not the most well-liked guy right now, but that e-mail really wasn’t necessary.
RYDER: I was putting myself out there, and I don’t appreciate you and your friend (I know you didn’t work alone) mocking me.
I shrank back into the cushions, shame writhing in my gut. I didn’t give a shit if I was a jerk to Ryder, but I hated that he thought Amy had been part of it. I mean, she had, but not willingly. Neither of us had actually wanted to send that e-mail.
I sighed and, since I promised Amy I’d apologize to him, started to write back.
ME: I know. I’m sorry. We got carried away. It’s not an excuse, but I had a shitty day and I took it out on you. We really never meant to hit send. I’m sorry.
A second later, he responded.
RYDER: I accept and appreciate your apology.
RYDER: I’m sorry about your bad day.
ME: Thanks.
I opened my Word doc again, thinking that was the end of it, but barely two minutes later, there was another ping and I groaned.
“Damn it, Ryder. I already apologized. What more do you want from me?”
But when I saw his instant message, I couldn’t help but smile a little.
RYDER: I know this is random, particularly since we’re not in the same class, but you have Mrs. Perkins for English, right? Have you written the paper on Julius Caesar yet?
ME: Funny. I was literally about to start on that. I know. I’ve procrastinated.
And then, because I couldn’t help myself:
ME: I bet the kids back at your school in DC weren’t so irresponsible.
RYDER: Ha-ha. I know. I bring up my old school too much. Is it that annoying?
ME: Yes.
ME: Incredibly.
RYDER: Sorry.
RYDER: But, if it helps, whether the kids in my old school procrastinate or not, I do. At least with English.
RYDER: Especially with Shakespeare.
ME: Not a fan of the bard?
RYDER: I wouldn’t say I’m not a fan. But I am not the best with iambic pentameter. Every word of dialogue goes right over my head.
ME: Alert the press! Ryder Cross just admitted he’s not perfect at something. Quick, has hell frozen over?
RYDER: Never mind. Forget I said anything.
ME: I suck with Shakespeare, too.
RYDER: Yeah?
ME: Yeah.
It was true. I was the most miserable translator to have ever touched the work of Sir William. Last year, when we were studying Macbeth, I got so lost trying to understand it that at one point I threw my book across Amy’s bedroom and swore I’d never go to school again. “Who needs English?” I’d asked her. “I’ll be a mime. I’ll join the circus. Screw my education!”
Lucky for me, Amy is excellent at deciphering Shakespeare’s long monologues, and she taught me a trick – it all starts making sense if you hear it. Seeing the words on the page is too much, too difficult to find the rhythm, but if you hear it, it becomes clearer. And lucky for me, Amy, who would make a brilliant thespian if she weren’t so painfully shy, was willing to read to me.
I’d gotten an A on my Macbeth paper because of her, and now I was about to have an encore performance with my Julius Caesar paper. Amy had read me the play two nights ago, and she hadn’t had to do nearly as much explaining this time.
ME: It helps to hear it.
RYDER: What?
ME: If you can get someone to read it to you – someone who understands it – it starts making a lot more sense.
RYDER: Oh. I don’t really have anyone who could read it to me.
RYDER: My mom could, but I’m not asking her.
ME: What about a study buddy? Someone else from English class?
RYDER: Again, I’m not the most well-liked guy at school right now. Even the teachers can’t stand me.
I didn’t know why, but somehow his honesty about this surprised me. Not that it was a secret. No one really tried too hard to hide their disdain for Ryder, but he was so arrogant, so conceited, that I just assumed he thought the world was as fond of him as he was of himself.
But just then, he didn’t seem too conceited. Actually, he was almost tolerable.
RYDER: Which, if you ask me, is entirely unprofessional. Not that I’m surprised. Most of these people are hardly qualified to call themselves educators.
Scratch that part about tolerable.
ME: I’m going to ignore that.
ME: Maybe you could watch a staged play? I bet you could find a video online. Or at the library?
RYDER: That’s not a bad idea, actually.
When he didn’t type anything else, I assumed the conversation was over. I went back to my paper, but after writing, deleting, rewriting, and deleting the first paragraph, I realized there was no way I could focus right now. Something Ryder said had lingered in my head, and perhaps I am nosy, but I just had to ask.
ME: Why won’t you ask your mom for help?
RYDER: It’s … complicated.
A minute later:
RYDER: Do you really want to know?
ME: Sure. It’s not like I’m doing anything else right now.
RYDER: What about your paper?
ME: I already told you I’m a procrastinator. I’m sure your parental drama is far more interesting than Brutus’s betrayal of Caesar.
ME: Though hopefully less bloody?
RYDER: LOL. Yes, less bloody.
ME: My, my, Ryder Cross. I never took you for the chat-speak type. LOL indeed.
RYDER: That’s my dirty little secret. I sometimes write like an actual teenager. Don’t tell anyone.
ME: Too late. I now have dirt on you. Mission accomplished.
He wrote back with an emoticon of a face sticking its tongue out at me. I laughed.
ME: More dirt! This is my lucky night!
RYDER: Damn it. I’m playing right into your hands, aren’t I?
ME: That you are, sir. That you are.
Whoa, wait. Was I bantering with Ryder Cross? My archnemesis? The Lex Luthor to my Superman? The Loki to my Thor? The peanut butter to my jelly? Okay, I know most of the world thinks those last two go together, but I personally find the combination rather abhorrent and just ew.
But I totally was. Ryder Cross and I were teasing each other in a surprisingly nonhostile way. I suppose this was the power of the Internet.
ME: So … your mom?
It took Ryder a little while to type out his response.
RYDER: My mom left my dad. But instead of just divorcing him and moving to a new house and letting me continue at the school I’ve been attending since I was five, she insisted on packing up everything, moving hundreds of miles away, and dragging me with her. It’s like she didn’t care what I wanted. I had friends in DC. I had a girlfriend. I was at one of the top schools in the country. But that didn’t matter. She had gotten a new job and I had to come with her to this tiny town in the middle of nowhere. I freaking hate it here.
RYDER: Sorry. I know my saying that is why everyone here hates me. I guess to be fair, it’s not so much the town as the situation. I don’t want to be here.
ME: No … I get it, actually.
And I did. I knew Ryder didn’t like Hamilton – everyone knew that – but I’d never really thought about it from his perspective. Being pulled out of a place where you were happy, where you had friends, couldn’t be easy. I couldn’t imagine how miserable I’d be if I’d been forced to move somewhere hundreds of miles from Hamilton. From Amy.
I’d probably be kind of an asshole, too.
RYDER: So, yes. That’s why I’m not asking my mom for help. I’ve barely spoken to her since we got here in August. Petty, I know.
ME: You’re seventeen. I think you’re allowed to be petty. Especially about something like this.
ME: But why can’t you go back? Live with your dad?
Again, Ryder took a while to write his answer.
RYDER: I asked. Before we left, I asked to stay. But my mom wouldn’t let me.
ME: Why?
RYDER: I have no idea. Because she’s selfish? Because she wants to punish my dad by keeping me away? Not that she has any right to punish him. She’s the one who left. She’s the one who asked for the divorce. Dad doesn’t want it. He still hasn’t signed the papers.
ME: Do you think they might get back together?
RYDER: That would be difficult with her being a few states away and all.
RYDER: I don’t know. And lately, I can never get ahold of my dad. His secretary always says he’s busy, and he doesn’t answer his cell. I know he’s got a lot going on in Washington, but …
RYDER: Okay, I know this isn’t the cool thing to say, but I miss him.
ME: I’m sorry, Ryder.
RYDER: I don’t want you to be sorry. I don’t want anyone to be sorry. Except maybe my mom.
I pulled up Google and tried to find a picture of Ryder and his family. I figured it wouldn’t be hard since his dad was in Congress. They probably had plenty of photos from the campaign trail.
Within a minute, I’d found one. In the picture, Ryder was standing between his parents. His dad was older than I expected. Or maybe he just looked old because of stress. I knew politicians supposedly aged quickly. His hair was gray but well kept. He had Ryder’s bright green eyes and a charismatic smile that could definitely win a vote or two. On Ryder’s other side was his mom, a very pretty black woman in a perfectly tailored suit. She was tall – taller than her husband – and while her eyes were darker than Ryder’s, they had the same shape, large and striking.
And in the middle was Ryder, dressed in a suit very similar to his dad’s. His hair was a little longer then, but not too much. What I couldn’t help noticing, though, was his smile. It was huge and genuine and … so happy. I’d never seen the boy from my class smile like that before. I didn’t know he could.
ME: I could help you Parent Trap them if you like?
RYDER: What?
ME:The Parent Trap?
RYDER: Sorry. Still lost.
ME: Oh. My. God.
ME: You’re kidding, right?
ME: THE PARENT TRAP? Twin girls meet for the first time at summer camp and scheme to reunite their parents? The remake starred pre-train-wreck Lindsay Lohan?
ME: YOU HAVE NEVER SEEN THE FREAKING PARENT TRAP????
RYDER: I have not, but does this really warrant cyber-shouting?
ME: YES!!!!!!
RYDER: Okay.
ME: I weep for your childhood.
I spent the next twenty minutes explaining the plot of The Parent Trap to him, complete with YouTube clips from both the original film and the remake. When I was done, Ryder informed me that it didn’t sound like that great of a movie, and I told him to, with all due respect, shove it.
But we kept IMing after that. About other movies (he was totally into indie art-house flicks, the more subtitles the better, which is, frankly, disgusting) and books (we both struggled with Shakespeare and hated Nathaniel Hawthorne with equal passion) and just … random stuff.
ME: Okay, deep dark secret time. I am a wannabe grunge rocker.
RYDER: Seriously?
ME: Seriously. I don’t play any instruments. I can’t sing to save my life. But I guess that didn’t stop Courtney Love. And I have a lot of secret angst.
ME: If I could pull off flannel, I’d wear it every day.
RYDER: I think you’d look cute in flannel.
I blushed, then realized I was blushing and immediately felt disgusted with myself.
RYDER: So what are you secretly angsty about?
RYDER: If I can ask.
ME: Mostly my mom.
RYDER: This seems to be a running theme this evening.
ME: She is … flaky. To say the least. Unreliable. Truthfully, sometimes I think she wishes she never had me. Sometimes I think she pretends she didn’t.
The second I sent that message, I regretted it. It was way more than I’d planned to share. It was too honest. Too much. Too close.
I didn’t talk about my mom. Not in detail. Not even with Amy. I was the queen of glossing over things. Of turning small truths into big lies.
But now Ryder Cross, of all people, knew one of my darkest secrets. Or, at least, a tiny piece of it. I felt uncomfortable, suddenly, and I was eternally grateful that he couldn’t see me. That even though I’d shared too much, I could at least hide behind this computer screen.
RYDER: Wow. That does sound like inspiration for a grunge album.
RYDER: I won’t push you to talk about it, but obviously I understand complicated family situations, so if you ever want to share, I’m here to listen.
ME: Thank you.
We chatted for a little while longer, mostly about his favorite band – Goats Vote for Melons, which I’d never heard of, despite his fears that they were becoming too “mainstream.”
ME: God, you are such a hipster.
RYDER: Ugh. I’m NOT a hipster.
ME: Exactly what a hipster would say.
He sent me the smiley face with its tongue sticking out. Very mature and all. Then he wrote:
RYDER: I should probably go. It’s late.
RYDER: Whoa – look out your window.
ME: Both creepy and cryptic, but all right.
I glanced up and gasped, startled. Outside the window, the sun was just beginning to peek over the trees. I looked at the clock and was stunned to see that it was nearly six in the morning.
I’d been IMing with Ryder all night.
ME: Wow.
RYDER: I know.
ME: I had no idea we were on here this long.
RYDER: Me either.
ME: I should get to bed.
RYDER: Me, too. But I really liked “talking” to you.
ME: I liked “talking” to you, too.
And, weirdly, I had.
ME: Let’s do this again sometime.
RYDER: I’d like that.
ME: Okay, well … good night. Or, good morning?
RYDER: LOL. Good morning, Amy.
I frowned, reading his message again.
Amy?
I was about to write back, to correct him, but he’d already logged off. I figured maybe it was just a typo, a mistake. We were both sleep deprived, after all. But as I was about to log out, a terrible realization hit me.
Amy had never logged out earlier. Why would she? It was her computer, after all.
I’d been instant messaging with Ryder for hours, and this whole time – this whole damn time – he thought I was Amy Rush.
And that’s how this whole stupid thing began – with a lie that I, for once, hadn’t even meant to tell.
Chapter 4
“Wait … so he thinks he was talking to me?” Amy turned to face me, stopping our Saturday morning trek through the hub of commercialism and public massage chairs known as Oak Hill Mall.
I gave her a sheepish grin, one I had perfected a long time ago. Amy didn’t look so much angry as … horrified.
“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were logged in. On the plus side, he’s not mad about the e-mail.”
I expected her to point out that it was her laptop and Ryder had e-mailed her so of course she was logged in and how could I be so stupid? But this was Amy. Ever-sweet, ever-forgiving Amy.
“It’s an honest mistake,” she said. We kept walking, dodging around a group of middle school girls who were emerging from Hot Topic. “But what does this mean? What did you two even talk about all night?”
“Nothing,” I said. “And … everything? It was bizarre. He’s obnoxious, but … maybe he’s not quite as awful as I thought?”
“Well, I guess that’s nice to know.”
We stepped into the food court and headed toward the closest counter. A bored-looking guy stood behind the cash register, readjusting his navy-blue hat that was, by far, the worst part of his work uniform. It made me wish I didn’t have to ask him my next question, but alas, a girl’s gotta make a living.
Or at least make enough money to buy a new cell phone.
“Hey,” I said to the bored guy. “This place hiring?”
“Yeah.”
That was seriously all he said. Then he stared at me, his eyes nearly as dead as his monotone voice. Dear God, I hoped something besides this job had been responsible for sucking out his soul.
“Can I get an application?” I asked.
“I guess.”
He turned around and went in search of an application, moving slow and stiff, like a zombie. A zombie that smelled like deli meat.
I turned to Amy and raised an eyebrow. She shrugged.
“So, anyway,” she said. “About Ryder —”
“Amy!”
Amy jumped and we both turned to see a thin, blond girl waving. She was probably a few years older than us, and she was sitting alone, eating a burrito. She kept waving, then signaled Amy to come over and join her.
I looked at Amy. The smile she gave in return was fake, but only I would’ve known that. She raised her hand in a small, embarrassed wave and then turned away, ducking her head as if she hadn’t realized the girl wanted us – well, not us, Amy – to join her.
I glanced between the disappointed-looking blond and my anxious-looking friend. Before I could say anything, though, Zombie Cashier returned with my application.
“Here.”
Amy snatched it from him, said a quick, “Thanks,” then tugged me out of the food court.
“I was gonna apply at some other places,” I said.
“You can do it later.” She handed me the application. “You wanted to apply to the bookstore, too, right?”
“Yeah.” I frowned at her. “So who was that girl?”
“Madison,” Amy said.
“Who?”
“She used to date my brother. Before Bianca.”
“Huh.” I glanced back as we walked away from the food court. The girl, Madison, was still eating alone. And she looked rather annoyed about it. “For some reason I don’t remember her.”
“Weird.” She shrugged. “Anyway, about Ryder …”
“Right.” We walked into the bookstore and made our way toward the front counter. “I still can’t believe I chatted with him all night.”
“Do you think you like him?” she asked.
“Of course not,” I said. “I just … maybe don’t despise him? Plus, it’s weird now that I know he thought he was talking to you. But maybe it’s not a big deal.”
We reached the counter and I asked the woman behind the register for an application. Once I had it in hand, Amy and I decided to browse the shelves for a while.
“So, what are you going to do?” Amy asked, picking up a copy of Cyrano de Bergerac. She was supposed to read and analyze a play for her drama class.
And then I said possibly the most ironic thing that has ever come out of my mouth. “I’ll just tell him the truth.”
Amy glanced up at me, and the surprise on her face did not go unnoticed. “That’s it? That simple?”
“I mean, it’ll be weird,” I admitted. “‘Hey, Ryder. So I know you thought you were talking to a smoking hot, boobalicious lady the other night, but actually it was me, her moderately attractive but still utterly charming best friend. Sorry about that.’”
Amy balked. “Sonny, don’t say that.”
“What? That you’re boobalicious?”
“Well, that, too,” she said. “But that you’re only moderately attractive. You’re beautiful.”
I laughed. “I love that you’re trying to boost my ego right after I refer to myself as utterly charming. But let’s be serious. Next to you, anyone looks only moderately attractive.”
She ducked her head and picked up another play in order to hide her face.
“Anyway, it’ll be fine. I’ll tell Ryder what happened. It doesn’t have to be dramatic.”
And the funny thing is, at the time, I really believed that.
* * *
When Amy and I returned from the mall that afternoon, Mrs. Rush drove me out to the high school. Luckily, it appeared that the battery had died because I’d accidentally left the lights on, not because it needed to be replaced – that would have been a nightmare. But with a little effort and a pair of jumper cables, Mrs. Rush managed to get Gert purring again. Or wheezing, which was a more accurate description. Either way, I was mobile once again.
Which meant I was able to park Gert in the grocery store parking lot, where she waited for me on Monday morning.
Amy had set her own phone alarm to my schedule, and while the shrill siren noise sent me bolting upright, Amy hadn’t even stirred. I’d reset the alarm to her schedule (and turned the volume up a little) before sneaking out of the house.
Most days, I got up early, got ready at Amy’s, then sat in the parking lot until it was time to head to school. Usually, I dozed off in Gert’s front seat, then had to rush to avoid being late for class. Not today, though. Today I forced myself to stay awake.
I knew Ryder always arrived to class early, and I wanted a chance to talk to him before Mr. Buckley started lecturing about the Crusades or the Inquisition or whatever tragic religious conflict we were learning about now. I was hoping to explain what had happened in our IMs, make it known that I no longer thought of him a complete tool bag (only a partial tool bag) and maybe, just maybe, invite him to sit with me at lunch.
Ryder had other plans, however.
As expected, he was already in the classroom when I walked through the door. He was flipping through the pages of our textbook and jotting down notes on a yellow legal pad as he went. He was wearing a dark green T-shirt with some strange logo on it that, even across the room, made his eyes pop more than usual. Once again, I was struck by how attractive he was. And now that I knew he wasn’t 100 percent awful … well, let’s just say there was an uptick in his hotness factor.
All of a sudden, I was nervous. I took a deep breath and tried to shake it off before walking over to him.
“Hey,” I said, sliding into my seat.
He didn’t look up, and I thought maybe he hadn’t heard me. So I cleared my throat and said again, “Hey.”
“Hey.” His voice was flat and he kept on working, not even glancing back at me.
Okay, so maybe this would be harder than I’d thought.
“So, uh … I need to talk to you about something. The other night —”
Suddenly, Ryder spun around in his seat, facing me. But the look on his face was less than kind. His eyes were narrowed and cold. Even in all our bickering, he’d never looked this pissed. I was so surprised that I sat up straight.
“The other night,” he said. “You mean that e-mail I received?”
“Um …”
“Because I know that wasn’t all Amy,” he said.
“No, it wasn’t. But, Ryder —”
“For the life of me, I can’t understand why she’d be friends with someone like you, Sonny.”
No, this definitely wasn’t going as planned. I gritted my teeth. “Will you just shut up and listen to me for a second?”
“I’m done listening to you,” he snapped. “Despite everything you’ve said, Amy and I have a connection. We chatted online all night after that ridiculous e-mail.”
“I’m aware,” I muttered.
“She’s funny and smart and beautiful …”
I rolled my eyes. Because of course. Of course he mentioned how beautiful she is.
“And you,” he said, glaring at me. “You’re just a …”
I waited, knowing what he was going to say. A bitch. Amy was funny and smart and beautiful, and I, Sonny, was just a bitch.
But he didn’t say it. He just shook his head, turned back around in his seat, and mumbled something. I don’t think he meant me to hear it, but I did.
“And you’re not good enough for her.”
My fists clenched beneath my desk. “Yeah?” I said. “Well, neither are you.”
Just then, Mr. Buckley walked in the room, putting a stop to any snappy retort Ryder might have thrown at me next.
Fuck it, I thought. I’d been wrong. Ryder was an asshole. That all-night chat had clearly been a fluke, and there was no point telling him the truth about it. Even if he let me get a word out, he wouldn’t believe me. Or it would just piss him off even more.
So I got my textbook and went right back to hating Ryder Cross.
