Andrew Smith - Winger

Annie opened her door.

No matter what she wore, Annie Altman always looked perfect. She had changed into faded jeans that were just wearing through at the knees and along the bottoms of the pockets, with a pale blue sweater that really made her black hair and blue eyes stand out, even in the dim light of the hallway.

I had never seen her dressed in “home clothes” before, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

And, I am such a loser, I couldn’t even speak when she asked, “Want to see my room?”

Her room was so . . . Annie. The walls were covered with paintings, and sculptures of fish and birds that she’d made. Her windows looked out into the forest, and she had French doors that opened to a stepping-stone path.

Next to her bed was a Wonder Horse, one of those spring-mounted things kids used to play on, like, a hundred years ago.

“Wow,” I said, but my voice cracked like a kid who suddenly realized he was alone inside the bedroom of the girl he loved, which made sense, considering the oppressive reality of my surrounding conditions. “Do you still ride?”

Annie laughed. “Come on.”

She opened the paned doors and led me onto the path outside her room.

WE WALKED ALONG THE ROCKY beach in the sunset.

The water in the sound was so black and rolling, jagged and alive. Everything smelled like the sea and trees. Between the cracks in the rocks, I could see the claws of wedged-in crabs, spitting bubbles, sometimes moving slightly like they wanted to keep an eye on us, like they were spying on us.

“Tomorrow morning we can go run out past that point.” Annie’s hand indicated a distant and darkening stand of trees.

“This is so nice,” I said. My shoes were wet from walking too close to the water. “Thanks so much for asking me, Annie.”

“I knew you’d like it.”

“I never knew you were such an artist,” I said.

“Just like you,” she said.

“Crud. You are so much more. I draw stick figures. You make stuff that’s real .”

“I can tell my mom and dad really like you.”

I pulled out the leg of my trunks. “I got the trunks on.”

“They look good.”

We stopped and turned back toward the house. It was beginning to get dark.

I was convinced she was playing the same game with me that I was playing with her, but I wasn’t going to fall for it. Not for a second. There was still that sensible and pathetic part of my mind that kept telling me Annie Altman only thought I was a little kid and nothing else.

But we did stand there for a minute, and I could smell her, and feel the warmth like a static charge coming from her. And she looked at my face, and we were so close when she said, “Your stitches look like they’re getting better.”

I leaned closer to her. Damn, she looked so nice, and I was so impressed by how she lived and the beautiful things she’d created there with her own hands, and I wanted to . . .

Do not kiss her, Ryan Dean West.

Ugh.

I am such a loser. She knew exactly what she was doing.

She started back to the house and said over her shoulder in her singing voice, the voice that knew everything and made nothing matter, “Don’t even tell me that you didn’t almost do it just now, Ryan Dean.”

Damn.

I couldn’t say anything.

Annie stopped and looked back. “So there. We’re even. Admit it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. I followed after her, and when I caught up beside her, I held her hand.

“I bet JP would be jealous,” I said.

“Don’t even go there, West. You said we shouldn’t talk about JP to each other.”

“Okay.”

I sighed. In the fading light, we hadn’t noticed that her mother and father had been standing just down the beach, watching us. But we didn’t let go of our hands.

Her father’s arm was around her mother’s shoulders. Doc Mom smiled and said, “You look so nice walking on the beach together.”

After dinner, Annie and I went out to the pool house to go for a swim.

Unfortunately, her parents came along. They just sat there reading in lounge chairs, but they were keeping an eye on us too, and I think they enjoyed doing it. But when we sat in the hot tub, I started playing with Annie’s feet and rubbing her legs with mine. It was the best feeling I could ever have dreamed up, and I could tell Annie liked it too, but it was really making me crazy. So I leaned my head back on the deck and closed my eyes because I wasn’t about to let her think I wanted to kiss her. Or something else. But I will say that all Annie would have had to do was whisper, “Let’s go skinny-dipping,” and those goddamned red lifeguard trunks would have been hanging from the rafters.

IT FELT SO COMFORTABLE SLEEPING in that bed that I guess I must not have wanted to wake up. When I did, the sun was already pouring through my window and someone was knocking on my door.

“Ryan Dean. Are you still sleeping?”

It was Annie.

“I was. Until maybe two seconds ago.”

“Sorry.”

I rubbed my eyes.

“You can come in,” I said.

The door cracked open, and she cautiously peeked her head into my room. I could see she was dressed for a run.

I folded my hands on the pillow beneath my head. This was like a dream come true: Annie Altman waking me up in the morning after we practically took a bath together the night before.

“Come get some breakfast, and let’s go for our run. It’s beautiful out there.”

It’s not so bad in here, either, I thought.

“Okay.” I sat up and rubbed my chin. “I’ll be right there after I get ready. I think I need to shave.”

Annie laughed. “Yeah, right.”

“Hey. I have one whisker . Right here under my chin. Just one. I’m thinking of giving it a name, but I don’t know if I should let it grow out or chop its head off.” I tilted my head back and put my finger on my jaw. “See it?”

“No.”

“Well, you can’t see it from way over there. You have to get close.”

She moved to the edge of the bed.

Score.

“Look,” I said. “It’s even dark and everything.”

I kept my chin up, and Annie leaned over me.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “I can see it.”

She was so close.

She said, “It looks so lonely and lost, maybe you shouldn’t shave it. And maybe you should name it ‘Ryan Dean.’ ”

I looked into her eyes.

“I better get out of here,” Annie said, straightening. Then she spun around and went to the door.

“We’re not even anymore, Annie.”

Then I heard her call “Pedro,” and that little disgusting animal came nail-tapping-panting-slobbering-excited-grunting into my room. Annie left, shutting the door just as Pedro sailed up onto my bed and began frantically mounting my foot. I scooped him up by his little sweaty armpits, his hips still pumping at the air, opened the door with my elbow, and scooted him like a shuffleboarded puck-puppy to the opposite end of the hallway.

Annie was smiling, standing there, watching me.

I looked at her and said, “So, are you going to give me time to get dressed, or is it okay if I come to breakfast in my underwear?”

She laughed, and I said, “And, no, we are not even. Ryan Dean West has officially pulled into the lead.”

“It’s not fair if you count getting Pedro to think about kissing you.”

“Good one, Annie. In that case I’m way ahead of you.”

I went back inside my room and got into my running gear.

DOC MOM FED US BAGELS with butter and sweet tomato jam she’d made from her own summer garden, and we drank black coffee and orange juice. And throughout the meal, the doc parents were both trying to talk to us, but our feet were twitching and we needed to get outside.