Joyride (8 page)

I'm never going to get this girl figured out
. “You'd prefer I stole it?”

She bags it all up for him without asking and hands the plastic bag to him along with his change. “Have a good night, sir.”

“Did I mention we could be friends?”

Her face softens. “We are friends. That's why I gave you half off on your gum.”

“The sign said it was buy one get one.”

“But the point is I remembered.”

“Alriiighty then.”

He grabs the bag then and turns to leave. Just before he pushes the door open, Carly says, “Arden?”

He turns, waiting to be blasted for something else.
What, is she going to dissect the way I walked to the door?
“Yes?”

“Thank you for checking on me.”

“You're welcome.”

He returns to the police car then, unsure whether or not progress has been made.

*   *   *

Arden is the first to social studies for once in his life. Even Mr. Tucker is surprised to see him, peering over his reading glasses from his desk to get a better look. “I'm not offering extra credit, Mr. Moss,” he says, pressing his glasses back up his nose.

Arden grins, holding up his empty hands to show he hasn't even brought his book to class. “I'm not asking.”
Not from you, anyway
. He takes a seat in the back row, which will give him a panorama of the class. And hopefully, the perfect view to study Carly.

He feels like a spider lying in wait for a precious, elusive fly to finally land in the intricacies of his web. A skittish fly with long black hair and the gift of impulsiveness and a penchant for retreating from him.

Carly is one of the first five to arrive to class, do-gooder that she is, and when she appears in the doorway her gaze immediately connects with Arden's. She gives him a confused half smile and takes her seat on the opposite side of the room from him. She even picks the opposite corner. Arden wonders if they're starting from square one again.
I knew she was full of it when she said we could be friends.

How can I get this girl to talk to me?

His friend Jake takes the seat next to him in the back row and offers him a pencil and paper. “Nah, man,” Arden says. “I take notes with my phone.”

Jake snorts. “While you're ‘taking notes,' you should look up the last video post on Mudslide. The guy has your same truck.”

“Will do.” Mudslide is a Web site dedicated to trucks and mudding. Arden uses it sometimes for ideas on how to get out of the giant mudholes he's put his 4
×
4 through—and his future plans to do the same.

As soon as the bell rings Mr. Tucker is on his game. “Homework, please.” Arden has nothing to pass up so he gives the girl in front of him a high five when she reaches around for it. She smiles like she's just been given a hundred dollars. He'd usually take the opportunity to flirt—the girl is definitely his type, all big breasts and perfect teeth—but he notices that Carly is searching frantically in her backpack for something.

And Arden's hoping she doesn't find it. Then she'll know it's not the end of the world if your homework isn't turned in. It's just a grade. An expectation that others have of you. By not turning it in, you're showing them that they can't control you. That you're symbolically shunning their established set of rules and make your own.

But find it she does, and right in time. To Arden's surprise, Mr. Tucker, the mascot of impatience, waits for her to dig it out and unfold it for him. Even gives her a little smile.

What's up with that? Surely my new accomplice isn't a teacher's pet?
Gross.

But it becomes apparent that she is. During class, she sits up straight. Takes notes, probably verbatim. Smiles when Mr. Tucker makes a stupid joke. She even gets up to sharpen her pencil and
Mr. Tucker stops his lecture to let her do it
.

How have I missed this before?

Of course, when the bell rings, she's the last one to pack up, because she has to organize everything just right in her binder.

Oh geez.

“Carly, wait up,” Arden calls. There are still a few students packing their things, and they exchange curious glances with each other. When Arden reaches Carly and offers to carry her backpack, Mr. Tucker gives him a disapproving frown.

“Oh, crap,” he hisses to Carly. “Is Mr. Tucker your dad?”

She snickers. “Um. No.”

“Then why is he looking like I've just invited you to my backseat instead of offering to carry your bag?”

Carly scowls. “Because even Mr. Tucker realizes for me and you,” she gestures between them for emphasis, “to be chitchatting is weird.”

Arden rolls his eyes. “You care too much what people think.”

“I don't have the luxury of being careless.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

She shakes her head, as if conversing with him is a bother. “I can carry my own backpack. Thanks though.” With that she stalks out of the room and into the hallway traffic.

He has to run to catch up with her.
That's probably why people are looking at us,
he thinks to himself. They've never seen me try so hard.
Everyone must see what Carly is doing is rejecting me, over and over.

And deep down, maybe he does care what everyone thinks. Maybe just a little.

But obviously not enough to stop him from chasing after her. He snatches the backpack from her shoulders, which halts her in her tracks. She turns around, fuming. “Are you serious?”

“I figured out why people are staring at us,” he says quickly. “It's because I've never been rejected like this before.” This he keeps to a whisper. He hates himself for it too. That something like that would matter to him.
I guess I haven't completely freed myself from the expectation of others.

She rolls her eyes. “You're really that full of yourself?”

“Look, I don't know how to talk to you, okay? I'll just be direct. I want to give you a ride home today.”

“No.”

“Yes, dammit! All I'm asking is to give you a ride home.”

“I have a bike.”

“Which we both know fits in the back of my truck.” She crosses her arms, the makings of yet another rejection forming on her lips. He wipes a hand down his face, hoping to erase any frustration that might be showing there. “Look, if you agree to it, I swear I won't talk to you for the rest of the day.”

It irritates Arden that this seems to appeal to her. “You promise?”

Oh my God, who is this girl?
“I promise, or pinky swear, or whatever it is you chicks do.”

“How can people actually think you're funny?”

“What'd I do now?”

“Where is your truck parked?”

“In the front lot.”

“My bike is in front too. I'll see you at last bell.” Then she walks away. No good-bye. No thanks. To Arden, it's hard to view this as a victory.

Hopefully this will all be worth the headache.

As he turns to go to his next class, he catches Carly out of the corner of his eye being rammed into a locker. The force is so hard she loses her grip on her backpack and it drops to the floor. The guy who ran into her—Ashton is his name, he thinks, because he tried out for the football team freshman year—simply keeps walking as if he didn't nearly just dislocate her shoulder. He's a big guy, bigger than Arden, and seems oblivious to what he's just done. Carly recovers quickly, throwing her backpack over her shoulder again and moving on.

Arden scowls. Has he ever done that to her? He wouldn't know. Up until just days ago, when he started planning his attack on Cletus, he hadn't been aware of her existence.
It could very well have been me who ran into her, and just kept walking
. She definitely acts like she's used to this sort of thing—she doesn't even bother to unleash her crabbiness on her assailant.

Why does it bother me that neither party seems affected by what just happened? And why am I walking toward Ashton like I'm about to do something?
“Hey, Ashton,” Arden calls out, passing Carly in his wake.

Ashton stops and waits for Arden to reach him. “What's up, man?”

Carly tries to walk by them, but Arden grabs her wrist before she can. He pulls her in beside him. “Did you know you just ran into Carly?”

Ashton has a solid eighteen inches on Carly. He glances down at her. “Carly?”

“It's not a big deal,” Carly says quickly. “I was in the way.”

Arden shakes his head. “No, you weren't.” He turns his attention back to Ashton. “You ran right into her, man. She hit the lockers pretty hard. I think you should apologize.”

Ashton shifts his books between his hands. Arden can tell he doesn't want to apologize. He probably doesn't even believe he ran into her—a rhino wouldn't notice running into a mouse either. But Ashton knows Arden outranks him in every kind of social status there is. And he's probably aware that Arden doesn't back down from a fight. Ever. After all, it's the best way to get suspended—and piss off his father.

Ashton looks at the small crowd gathering around them, then back at Carly. “If I ran into you I'm sorry. I didn't mean to.”

“It's fine,” Carly chokes out. “Really.”

Arden nods to Ashton, an unspoken signal that all is well again. Having been dismissed, Ashton turns and walks away. And Carly melts wordlessly into the crowd.

 

Eleven

Something like wasps flutter in my stomach when I see that Arden is holding me to my word. He pulls around to the car pickup lane and hops out, already reaching for my bike. “You're sure?” I ask.

Because the truth is, I don't know why he's doing this. Why he's harassing me into friendship. I'm thinking he's feeling guilty for what he did at the Breeze Mart, and if that's the case, then I'm going to clear the air for good on the way home. I don't need Arden Moss's pity friendship.

Still, I feel that I should show a little pity for
him
, because of what he did for me in the hall today. I know he sees it as coming to my rescue instead of bringing more attention to me. And … it was nice to get an apology from Ashton. That's not the first time he's slammed me into the locker. The last time he did it, I had a nasty bruise on my arm that took weeks to yellow and disappear. I get that he's this big muscular beast and I'm small and slow. But maybe he'll be on the lookout for me now that something was said to him.

Now that someone like Arden said something to him.

So I guess I have to allow Arden to give me a ride home, as backward as that sounds. Still, my eye nearly twitches out of control when he opens the door for me. Because of what this looks like. Like he's wooing me. The last thing he wants is for people to think I'm rejecting him. The last thing I want people to think is that I'm one of Arden's conquests. One of his many, many, many conquests. Actually, the last thing I want people to think is that I exist at all. I'm supposed to be staying under the radar—trying to smuggle your parents back over the border isn't exactly considered a constructive pastime here in the States. The fewer people I know, the fewer I'm close to, the better. Because what will they say when my parents suddenly show up and we're one big happy family again? What questions will they ask? What answers will I give?

But here I am, mocking the radar that keeps me hidden. Here I am making faces at it.

I take Arden's hand as he helps hoist me into the truck. Lovely.

He cranks the engine and the faint smell of burning oil fills the cabin. The radio whispers country music at us while Arden adjusts his mirrors and backs out. I wait until we're just outside the school parking lot to begin my spiel. Deep breath. “You don't have to keep being nice to me,” I tell him. “In fact, I don't want you to.”

“I noticed.”

Of course he noticed. I wasn't trying to be subtle. “You already explained why you did what you did. I get it. You don't have to, like, make it up to me, or whatever.”

“Is that what you think I'm doing?”

“It's exactly what you're doing.”

“Well, you're wrong. I bet you don't like to hear that, do you, Carly Vega? Nope, I can tell by the way you're stank-eyeing me that you don't like to be told that you're wrong.”

“Who does?” And really, who cares?

Arden shrugs. “Good point.”

After a few seconds of silence, I start again. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Why are you all of a sudden interested in being my manservant at school? Any particular reason? Because just to be clear, I'm not going to sleep with you. Ever.”

He shifts in his seat, leaning against the driver's door with one arm, steering with the other. “Have I asked you to? Have I even tried to kiss you?”

“Then what do you want?”

He runs a hand through his hair. The result is not unattractive. “I can't … I can't explain it. Not without sounding stupid. I want to show you something. Do you have some time this afternoon? As in, right now?”

Do I have some time? Let's see. “It's now two o'clock, my shift at the Breeze Mart starts at ten. I have two loads of laundry I have to take off the line and fold before I can eat some dinner and get some sleep before my shift. Um, no.”

Maybe it's the look of pleading in his eyes, or the way his newly frazzled hair makes him look desperate. Maybe it's that I now feel indebted to him, even though I didn't ask for his help. Whatever it is, I feel I should follow up. “I mean, how long will it take?”

His eyes light up like I've given him a present. “Like half an hour, tops.”

“Okay. Show me.”

As soon as I say the words he maneuvers into the turn lane and does a U-turn. The exhaust on his truck sounds like a monster chasing after us when he presses the gas. Within five minutes we're pulled into the parking lot of Roaring Brooke's Goodwill. He cuts the engine and the monster hushes. “Stay here. I'll be right back.” He hops out and crosses the street.