Huntley Fitzpatrick - The Boy Most Likely To

I edge away, scratch the back of my neck, which doesn’t itch, a little dizzy.

She pulls my arm to her stomach, holds it steady, and plasters on the patch. “Change it once a day. Different location. Six to eight weeks.”

“Did you have a secret vice, Alice? You sound so knowledgeable.”

“I read directions. Another thing guys rarely do.” Patting my arm, she flips my sleeve back down, hesitates a second before meeting my eyes. “What you’re doing is tough, Tim. Not drinking, no drugs. Living on your own. Add quitting smoking. I admire you for it.”

I stare at her. “For real?”

“Of course. I’m nineteen and still at home. This is no easy thing” – she reaches out and taps where the patch is under my shirtsleeve – “but you don’t always have to take the hard way. Not when there are easier ways.”

My throat tightens. Of all people I expected to . . . whatever, Alice might be dead last. I swallow. Her green-brown eyes are sincere. I lift my hand a few inches toward her cheek. Then drop it, shove it in my pocket as I stand, jingle the loose coins in there.

Alice inspects me sharply for a sec, school-marm-over-her-glasses-style, then licks her lips and looks away, wiping her palms on her scrubs. She stands up. “What’s it with you and the Grape-Nuts? Besides pizza, it’s almost all I ever see you eat.”

“I like Grape-Nuts.”

“You live on Grape-Nuts. That’s more than liking. It’s obsession.”

“You sure are getting worked up about this.” To keep my dangerous hands occupied, I pour myself a bowl, get milk out of the fridge, sniff at it.

“Well, it isn’t rational.”

Her tone is mad huffy. Why? What’d I miss?

“All this emotion over cereal? What do you care what I eat?”

“You’re all thin and pale, Tim. You look like you’re not sleeping. People worry about you.” She lobs her droopy, too-big purse back over her shoulder. “I should get going. I’m on babysitting call tonight.”

I move between her and the door before I can think. “Okay, Alice. I’ll grant that worrying people has always been a talent of mine. But my family’s pretty much given up. You’re the one who came all the way over here to save my ankles and so on. Are we talking worrying people . . . or are we talking worrying you? ” The words rush out, hover in the air. I’m noticing again how little Alice is, aside from those curves, barely coming up to my shoulders. Five two? Five four?

She yanks her purse onto her shoulder again, looks down. Her cheeks go pink.

“Well?” I ask, because I’ve pushed it this far already.

One finger after another, she ticks things off. “You’re my little brother’s best friend. Though sometimes I have no idea how or why he puts up with you. You’re a minor. You’re a potential, if not an ongoing, disaster. You –” Then she sighs, shuts her eyes. “Listen, I have a long day tomorrow. Three classes, a clinical. When I get through it” – her voice drops to a low mutter, like even she doesn’t want to hear what she’s saying – “could we just meet for dinner? Like a . . . sample date?”

This goes through me like an electric shock.

A date.

With Alice Garrett?

Wait.

A sample date?

“What would we be sampling?”

She looks like she might laugh. Doesn’t. “Not that . I don’t do hookups.”

“I didn’t mean that. I never thought that for a second.”

She gives my shoulder a shove. “Of course not.”

“Okay. But it was like a millisecond, a nanosecond. Then I remembered how much I respected you and that I would never –”

Alice puts her hand, her fingertips, over my mouth. “Tim. Stop talking now.”

I snap my mouth shut.

“We’d be sampling dinner. ”

Then I remember a certain two-hundred-and-fifty-pound boyfriend. Who apparently already hates my ass. “Wait. Is this a setup? Are you trying to get my ass kicked by ol’ Brad?”

She shakes her head quickly, pulling her hand away from my face and burying it in the pocket of her scrubs. Her purse strap falls down again. My hand goes to slip it back up, but then no, I shove it back in my pocket.

Alice hesitates for a second, then: “This has nothing to do with Brad. He wouldn’t mind, anyway.”

“Then he’s even more of a putz than I thought. Hard to believe.”

Her eyes flick to mine, then away. “It’s not like that.”

It’s not? Okay. So that makes me . . .

Dinner.

“Meet me at Gary’s Grill in Barnet. Six thirty. Tomorrow night.”

Barnet is three towns away. Apparently Alice isn’t prepared to be seen in the immediate vicinity with her underage, recovering alcoholic sample date.

I say I’ll meet her there. She nods, gives me a subdued version of her sexy, crooked, smile, then her lips brush my cheek. That Hawaii smell. Oh, Alice .

“See you then.”

I nod, speechless, and shy-Alice morphs back into take-charge-Alice, jabbing a finger at me. “Don’t you dare be late. I hate it when guys pull that, like my time doesn’t matter. Like they’re all casual and time is a relative thing while I’m sitting there with the waiter pitying me.”

“Should we synchronize our watches?”

“Just don’t let me down.”

Chapter Thirteen

Waiting out in front of Hodges, school number one of my three, is bizarre. I’ve been back for Nan’s this-or-that achievement awards, but my neck still starts to itch as I stand there, like I’m stuck in the old uniform, gray flannel pants and stiff white shirt.

Here to pick up Samantha, offered to walk with her to the condo she and her mom moved into a week ago – ol’ Gracie’s brilliant plan to get her away from Jase and the Garretts next door, by relocating crosstown. Out of sight, etc.

She comes out of the big-ass oak doors, down the steps with the stone lions, spots me, waves, then halfway down the path, gets called over by this cluster of girls. They’re laughing and gesturing, and in their matching outfits, long straight hair, prep-clean looks, Hodges could slap ’em right on the cover of the school catalog.

Sam’s not like that, but she blends.

Then I see something else. My sister, walking with her head down, rooting through her bag like she’ll find the Ark of the Covenant in there. She’s so preoccupied, I think she’s gonna crash right into the girls, but she makes a wide, careful path around them. So I get it. She sees them, but doesn’t want them to see her.

Sam does, though, raises one hand, hello. But Nan keeps walking, rummaging away, because that treasure in her bag must and shall be found.

She’s not short, Nan, five seven or so, but from here she looks it.

Text her: You okay?

I think she’s gonna look around and spot me, propped against the magnolia tree only a few yards from the brick pathway, but she doesn’t.

Nan: Why wouldn’t I be?

Chew my lip, try to figure out whether to say I’m right here or not. Nan would be . . . not happy with the Sam pickup – I mean, she knows we’re still friends. But . . .

I settle for: Just checking in.

Nan: That’s out of character.

She’s stopped on the path and is making this phony face like she’s oh so excited about whoever’s texting her. It’s a “for the benefit of others” face.

Me: Yeah, well, I’m all about turning over the new leaf. So . . . you know where I am if you need me, K?

Nan: Who are you and what have you done with my brother?

Me: Ha.

Nan: Look, I’ve got a thing. Gotta go.

Right, the infamous “thing” we all have. Jesus, Nan.

As I’m trying to figure out whether to call her out on it in person, Sam strides up next to me, cups one of her ears, then the other with a few swift taps. “Water in my ear. Forgot my earplugs, and I’m going crazy trying to up my time before tryouts next week. So, you’re actually asking me for advice, Tim? The apocalypse, much?”