Perfect Couple (Superlatives 2)

Tia leaned against the lockers outside Mr. Frank’s room next door. Will propped his forearm above her and leaned down to say something with a grin. She laughed. I was glad they’d gotten together earlier this week. Will had just moved here from Minnesota. After a rocky start, he seemed to be adjusting better. And Tia, a comedian, finally was genuinely happy.

She noticed me watching them and must have read the expression on my face. She stuck out her bottom lip in sympathy.

I shook my head—nothing was wrong—and dove into Ms. Patel’s room.

“Hey, girlfriend.” Brody grinned at me as I walked toward him between two rows of desks. His green eyes were bright, but the shadows underneath were visible despite his deep tan. He’d always had the circles under his eyes. When we were in kindergarten, Mom had wondered aloud whether he was getting enough sleep. In middle school, guys had teased him about being a drug addict. Now the shadows seemed like a part of him, permanent evidence of his rough-and-tumble life—and love life. He held up one fist toward me.

I fist-bumped him. “Hey, boyfriend.” The way we’d reacted to our Superlatives title underscored how different we were, and how imperfect a couple we would have made. I never could have admitted this even to Tia or Kaye, but I’d puzzled endlessly over what our classmates saw in us that led them to think we’d be good together.

In contrast, Brody called me his girlfriend and teased me. The “Hey, girlfriend” and the fist bump had been going on for the full two weeks of school. Every time we did it, I was afraid someone would mention it to Kennedy. He would pick a fight with me because I looked like I was flirting behind his back.

Brody didn’t seem concerned that someone would mention it to his girlfriend, Grace. The idea of me threatening their relationship was that far-fetched. Although—and this thought had kept me awake some nights—Brody never called me his girlfriend and fist-bumped me when Grace and Kennedy were around. He did it only in moments like this, a period without Grace, with Kennedy missing. Aside from twenty other students and Ms. Patel, we were alone here.

And if Brody had progressed to telling my ex-boyfriend, Noah, what he’d like to do with me when we were really alone, he was getting too close for comfort.

After dumping my book bag beside my desk, I asked Brody quietly, “May I talk with you?” I nodded toward the back of the classroom.

His eyebrows rose like he knew he was in trouble—but just for a moment. “Sure.” He jumped up with a jerk that made the legs of his desk screech across the floor. Four people in the next row squealed and slapped their hands over their ears.

He followed me to the open space behind the desks, next to the cabinets. In the sunlight streaming through the window, I noticed his slightly swollen bottom lip and a faintly purple bruise on his jaw. He must have been hit in the mouth by another football player—or punched by an irate girl. Leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, he was back to looking as flaked out and heroin-chic as usual. I almost laughed, because he was so handsome and he’d said something so stupid to get himself in hot water—except that the person he’d said it about was me.

“I heard you were talking about me in football,” I began.

He gaped at me. I couldn’t tell whether he was horrified that I’d found out, or fake-horrified. He didn’t say anything, though. He eyed me uneasily.

“What if Grace hears?” I asked.

He gave the smallest shrug as he continued to watch me, like he hadn’t considered the possibility and couldn’t be bothered to care very much.

Well, here was something I cared about. “What if Kennedy hears?”

This time I got the reaction I’d been dying for, though I would never admit it. Brody narrowed his eyes at me, jealous of Kennedy, frustrated that he couldn’t have me for himself.

Of course, I could have been interpreting his expression all wrong. But in that moment, the rest of the noisy classroom seemed to fall away. Only Brody and I were left, sharing a vibe, exchanging a message. His green eyes seemed to sear me. He was gazing at me exactly the way I felt about him.

2

BUT THE NEXT SECOND, I decided I’d been mistaken. He blinked, and the mad jealousy I’d seen in his eyes looked more like sleep deprivation. He shrugged again. The move gave way to a stretch as he raised his arms behind his head and clasped both hands behind his neck.

He wasn’t preening for me. Hot athletic guys purposefully showed their bulging triceps to cheerleaders like Grace, not geek bait like me. The message to me was, If Kennedy confronts me, I will squash him like a bug between my thumb and forefinger.

Frustrated, I whined, “Brody!” just like I had, and every other girl had in kindergarten, when he tickled us and made us giggle during quiet time or dabbed paint on our noses just before our dramatic debut onstage in the class play.

My protest snapped him out of his jock act. He held out his hands, pleading with me. “Harper, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. You know me. I just blurt shit out sometimes. Or, all the time. The guys on the team asked me about the Superlatives thing. In football, when somebody asks you how you feel, you answer with a sex joke.”

“I see,” I said. “What you told the guys was a more offensive, more personal version of ‘I would totally hit that.’?”

Grinning, he pointed at me. “Yes.”

I tried an even better imitation of the assholes on the team. “?‘I would hit that thang.’?”