Vibes (6 page)

We didn't smile. We didn't speak. We just stood there. Looking.

I tilted my head. I didn't know what I was telling him by tilting my head, but I knew he'd understand.

He took a step toward me.

I took a step forward.

We were close enough to feel the heat of each other's bodies.

And I knew, I was certain, dead sure, that he was going to kiss me. I closed my eyes and I waited for it. I closed my eyes the same way I'd done that day behind the garden shed. I waited and waited, until I opened my eyes again and saw that he'd turned pale.

"Uh," he said, "Hildie's not home." He gripped the doorknob behind him and squeezed it so hard that his whole hand turned white.

"Oh" was all I could say. And that's when I got my very first real psychic vibe, though it took me a long time to believe it. I distinctly heard him think,
She's even sicker up close.

And I watched as he shrank back into the house and closed the door between us.

That closed door hurt me like a brick in the face. I'd made a complete fool of myself. I was so stupid to believe he could ever like me.

I couldn't go to the Petersons' house after that, and soon Hildie was finding excuses not to come to my house. The only place I ever saw Gusty was at school, and he seemed to agree with me that it was best if we pretended we didn't see each other at all.

And today I'm supposed to meet with Gusty for character education. Finally, proof that there is a God and he is a total sadist.

I'm standing outside the Bistro door staring at Gusty like a stalker perv, but I can't make my feet move toward him. He's too much. The loose way he sits, his long, muscular legs, his baggy jeans, the shine of the sunlight on the pale hair along his arms, his tan skin, that amazing curve in his jaw line, the way he bites his lower lip, his voice, his smell. Too much. Way too much.

And I can't stand to hear the way he thinks about me. It hurts too much.

I have a simple solution.

I put on my headphones, turn Placido Domingo way, way up.

And then I run away.

Cowardice is underrated.

Or maybe it isn't, because while I'm standing in the lunch line waiting for my serving of congealed pickled herring, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and there's Gusty, his bottom lip sticking out and his eyebrows jammed together. I'm too nervous to get a clear read on his thoughts, but I can tell he's pissed.

"Hi," I say. I can usually put on a pretty convincing fake confidence, but at the moment I'm about as solid as the fish jelly that has been slapped onto my tray.

"We were supposed to meet during free period this morning, right?" he asks, but it's not really a question.

"Em—"

"Were you out smoking cigarettes with that redheaded guy?" The green of his eyes burns at me.

"I forgot, I'm sorry."

"If you'd rather work with him than me—"

"No!" I almost shout before I remember to act nonchalant.

"Jesus, you freak, will you move your ass?" yells the nasty little freshman. She's holding a slimy spoon covered with fish flakes. "I have fish to dispense."

"Your sex life is not my concern," I tell her before walking to my table. Gusty follows closely behind all the way. I can feel him there. I sense him. The only psychic vibe I get from him is anger—wordless, annoyed anger that I wasted his time.

I sit down across from Jacob Flax, who, amazed by Gusty's presence at our lowly table, launches into an intense friend-making mission. "Hi, Gusty! How's it going?"

"Okay," Gusty says, still glaring at me. He sits next to me and just stares, waiting for me to speak.

Jacob, clueless as ever, starts spitting. "I notice your hair is very blond. Say, do you think it's okay for a guy to get highlights? I was thinking about getting highlights myself but I was wondering—maybe it's not very masculine. But perhaps you've gotten highlights. I don't mean to insult you."

"I spend a lot of time in the sun," Gusty tells him before leaning against me so that I have no way of avoiding him. "Listen, if you don't want to work with me, just say so, okay?"

I am temporarily rendered mute by the awesome feeling of his hard body pushing against my soft body. I can't even chew my fish, and that's not just because it's disgusting, though disgust is certainly a factor. I swallow hard, take a big gulp of milk to wash the fish down all the way so that my breath won't smell bad, and then whisper, "How about we meet after school?"

Now I can manage to glance at him. He's looking at me with his head tilted to one side and he's biting his lip. I try to read his thoughts, but it's hard to do with him so close to me that I can smell him—a sharp mix of peppermint and polished leather.

Gusty has always smelled like that.

He looks at me distrustfully but nods. "Okay, I'll meet you
right here
after school."

"Okay," I croak just as Mallory walks up holding a tray full of weird potato salad.

"Hey," he says, but his voice sounds deflated. His eyes, which are the only part of his face not covered with acne, look at Gusty with dread.

Gusty stands and eyes Mallory right back. There's some kind of primate-level contest going on, and it's one that Jacob dearly wishes he was a part of. Finally Gusty sort of tosses his chin back, like a backwards nod at Mallory, and Mallory backwards nods back. Jacob gives a little wince as Gusty finally walks off. "Okay!" Jacob calls after him. "It was good talking to you, Gusty! I think I'll spend more time in the sun and see how that works!"

Mallory sits down next to me just in time to get sprayed in the face by Jacob saying "works."

"Dude! You have
got
to do something about that!" he says, wiping himself off before giving my arm a little squeeze. "Heya," he says to me. "What is the deal with that mean little freshman serving the food? She just suggested I improve my looks by submerging my face in acid."

"She's a total bitch. I love her," I say, but I can't tear my eyes from Gusty as he walks away.

"Mark my words," Mallory says. Something in his dark thoughts makes me look at his face. "She will pay."

I'm glad he's thinking about the spunky freshman and not me, because there's a devious plan turning over in his mind.

It's not without my heart in my mouth that I go to the Bistro for the third time today. I'm sweating a whole lot, and the only thing that keeps my jaw from trembling is biting my lip a little too hard. When I walk through the door Gusty watches me from under his baseball hat so I can't tell what his expression is. As I sit down across from him, I listen hard for his thoughts, and all I can get is
Why is everything so difficult with her?

When you're psychic and your character education partner is mad at you, the best policy is to get down to business. "What's our assignment?"

He hands me a piece of paper with a single sentence written at the top:
For each partner, working together, please make a list of your ten greatest personal attributes.

"This school blows," I say.

"I kind of like it," he says cheerfully. I search his mind, but I don't get any word thoughts. Maybe he's trying not to be mad at me anymore. He takes a pencil from his backpack and makes a line down the center of the paper. "Who first?"

"You go."

"Okay." He looks at me, the pencil poised above the paper, and waits, his pale yellow eyebrows raised.

"What?" I say.

"What are my ten best personal attributes?"

"How should I know?"

"You can't think of
one
good thing to say about me?" He blinks at me, a little hurt for some reason.

I can think of about a hundred ways he's the hottest guy I've ever laid eyes on, but I'm pretty sure that's not the assignment. I feel in the back of his mind the word
sick
forming. Before he can think it all the way I blurt out, "You're enthusiastic."

"Enthusiastic?"
He seems disappointed, but he writes it down. I notice that he spells it with a
z,
so obviously spelling is not his forte. "What else?"

"Can't you think of one?"

He crams the pencil into his mouth and spins it on his tongue. It reminds me of the way he looked when we were kids and we used to play video games together. "I'm really good with my hands," he finally says. "Did you ever see the birdhouse I made for my dad? I carved birds and pinecones on the side. No birds live in it, but my dad says they would crap all over it anyway."

"Okay, put 'good with hands.'"

It takes him a long time to write it, which reminds me again of how dumb he always was. But I guess that's not his fault, just like it's not my fault I'm not gorgeous.

"I have another one I'm good at," he says eagerly. "I'm a total rasta on my board."

"You're a what on your what?"

"I rule as a skater. I can ride almost any trick switch, except for the darkslide and the flamingo. I can do a sex change totally diamondz, and I've almost perfected my pop shove-it underflip."

"What language are you speaking?"

"Skater." He grins, aware that I've caught him showing off.

Something about the sheepish way he's looking at me makes me laugh. "This will go faster if you stick to English."

"Gnarly, Betty," he says quietly.

We go back and forth, thinking of all his best qualities, until we come up with this list:

1. Enthuziastic

2. Good with hands

3. Skating switch stance, both street and vert styles

4. Good with dogs

5. Good listener

6. Generous

7. Popular

8. Tall

9. Friendly

10. Observant

"That's ten. Now you." He pauses, pressing his lips together really hard like he always does when he swallows. It actually makes him look less cute than he really is and gives the impression that he's a little insecure, which I suppose is possible, though I don't know what he has to feel insecure about other than the fact that he's not terribly
smart
. At least, he's not really book smart, but that doesn't necessarily make him dumb, I guess.

"What's your greatest attribute?" he asks me, and then I swear to God his eyes slip all over my boobs like a bar of soap.

I raise one eyebrow at him. He turns totally red, even redder than my raisin red lip-gloss, and I shift in my chair so that my shirt poofs out a little. I say pointedly, "I'm
smart."

"Smart," he says, and writes it down.

"I'm creative," I say, and suddenly I feel a little weepy for no reason. "I don't like this assignment," I tell him.

"What else do you like about yourself?" He presses his pencil eraser into his chin and waits. I remember this about him, too. He's quiet, and he watches people a lot. I try to hear what he's thinking, but he doesn't seem to be thinking anything other than
Let's get this done.

I shake my head. I don't want to admit to the cutest guy in school that I don't like very much about myself, but if I don't say anything, he'll know anyway. "I'm good at practical jokes," I say lamely.

"What kind of practical jokes?" He straightens up in his chair.

"Stealth ones. I'm a master."

"Maybe sometime you'll show me one," he says.

"When you least expect it," I say with an outlaw smile.

He looks at me, one eye cocked in a kind of grin, and I get all blustery.

I don't want to be blustery. I don't want to be sitting here with Gusty Peterson making me blustery. I just want to go home and be with my cat, alone, where I don't have to worry about what anyone is thinking, where I don't have to spend all this energy being nonchalant.

He writes down "Stealth practical jokes," and says, "What else?"

I'm quiet again, trying hard to keep my face from showing how stirred up I'm getting.

He watches me as he taps his pencil eraser against his perfectly chiseled cheekbone. Finally he says, "How about I come up with a few?"

I shrug.

He holds the paper so that I can't see it and starts writing.

Just then Eva Kearns-Tate, a.k.a. Evil Incarnate, walks into the Bistro with Mallory.

Mallory?

Yes, Mallory.

Next to each other, Mallory and Eva look like two praying mantises on the Atkins Diet.

Eva is obviously anorexic and the whole school knows it. Even from far away I can see the blue veins under her porcelain skin, and her cheekbones jut out so sharply, they look like they're trying to escape from her face. She's gorgeous still, but if she keeps it up she'll start to look really unhealthy.

When Mallory sees me he gives me a covert little wave and I nod at him, wondering what in hell's name he's doing here with the second most beautiful, evilest girl in school. I notice she's carrying a slip of paper, and I realize that, of course, the all-knowing faculty paired the most physically unappealing guy with the most self-centered girl to ever flip her hair. They stroll over to us casually. Evil smiles at Gusty privately. "Hi," she says to him, completely ignoring me.

"Hi, Evie," Gusty says, but his eyes are trained on Mallory like two cruise missiles. I hear him thinking,
Stay away from her.

"Hi, Eva!" I say to her, and smile really sarcastically.

Her dark eyes settle on me in such a way that if I wasn't well insulated with a layer of fat, I'd probably get hypothermia. "Character education should be just the ticket for you, Kristi. Maybe you'll learn some manners."

"She just said hi," Gusty points out, which amazes me. I never expect to see the ranks of the cool divided.

The fact that Gusty stood up for me just makes her madder. "Nice outfit, Kristi," she says. "Did you make it yourself?"

"Yes I did, thanks for asking. And how's your diet going? Are you down to a size negative one yet?"

She doesn't answer. She doesn't have to. She merely looks at my round, soft belly and smiles.

"Uh..." Mallory says, and pulls on Eva's sleeve.

Eva tilts her head to one side and gives Gusty a sexy smile that would make a jet engine stutter. He nods at her, but his eyes are on Mallory, and they're burning with an emotion I've never once seen in Gusty's friendly face. Hatred. He hates Mallory, probably because he thinks he's putting the moves on Evil. Oh, the irony.