ME: Okay, well … good night. Or, good morning?
RYDER: LOL. Good morning, Amy.
I frowned, reading his message again.
Amy?
I was about to write back, to correct him, but he’d already logged off. I figured maybe it was just a typo, a mistake. We were both sleep deprived, after all. But as I was about to log out, a terrible realization hit me.
Amy had never logged out earlier. Why would she? It was her computer, after all.
I’d been instant messaging with Ryder for hours, and this whole time — this whole damn time — he thought I was Amy Rush.
And that’s how this whole stupid thing began — with a lie that I, for once, hadn’t even meant to tell.
Chapter 4
“Wait … so he thinks he was talking to me?” Amy turned to face me, stopping our Saturday morning trek through the hub of commercialism and public massage chairs known as Oak Hill Mall.
I gave her a sheepish grin, one I had perfected a long time ago. Amy didn’t look so much angry as … horrified.
“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were logged in. On the plus side, he’s not mad about the e-mail.”
I expected her to point out that it was her laptop and Ryder had e-mailed her so of course she was logged in and how could I be so stupid? But this was Amy. Ever-sweet, ever-forgiving Amy.
“It’s an honest mistake,” she said. We kept walking, dodging around a group of middle school girls who were emerging from Hot Topic. “But what does this mean? What did you two even talk about all night?”
“Nothing,” I said. “And … everything? It was bizarre. He’s obnoxious, but … maybe he’s not quite as awful as I thought?”
“Well, I guess that’s nice to know.”
We stepped into the food court and headed toward the closest counter. A bored-looking guy stood behind the cash register, readjusting his navy-blue hat that was, by far, the worst part of his work uniform. It made me wish I didn’t have to ask him my next question, but alas, a girl’s gotta make a living.
Or at least make enough money to buy a new cell phone.
“Hey,” I said to the bored guy. “This place hiring?”
“Yeah.”
That was seriously all he said. Then he stared at me, his eyes nearly as dead as his monotone voice. Dear God, I hoped something besides this job had been responsible for sucking out his soul.
“Can I get an application?” I asked.
“I guess.”
He turned around and went in search of an application, moving slow and stiff, like a zombie. A zombie that smelled like deli meat.
I turned to Amy and raised an eyebrow. She shrugged.
“So, anyway,” she said. “About Ryder —”
“Amy!”
Amy jumped and we both turned to see a thin, blond girl waving. She was probably a few years older than us, and she was sitting alone, eating a burrito. She kept waving, then signaled Amy to come over and join her.
I looked at Amy. The smile she gave in return was fake, but only I would’ve known that. She raised her hand in a small, embarrassed wave and then turned away, ducking her head as if she hadn’t realized the girl wanted us — well, not us, Amy — to join her.
I glanced between the disappointed-looking blond and my anxious-looking friend. Before I could say anything, though, Zombie Cashier returned with my application.
“Here.”
Amy snatched it from him, said a quick, “Thanks,” then tugged me out of the food court.
“I was gonna apply at some other places,” I said.
“You can do it later.” She handed me the application. “You wanted to apply to the bookstore, too, right?”
“Yeah.” I frowned at her. “So who was that girl?”
“Madison,” Amy said.
“Who?”
“She used to date my brother. Before Bianca.”
“Huh.” I glanced back as we walked away from the food court. The girl, Madison, was still eating alone. And she looked rather annoyed about it. “For some reason I don’t remember her.”
“Weird.” She shrugged. “Anyway, about Ryder …”
“Right.” We walked into the bookstore and made our way toward the front counter. “I still can’t believe I chatted with him all night.”
“Do you think you like him?” she asked.
“Of course not,” I said. “I just … maybe don’t despise him? Plus, it’s weird now that I know he thought he was talking to you. But maybe it’s not a big deal.”
We reached the counter and I asked the woman behind the register for an application. Once I had it in hand, Amy and I decided to browse the shelves for a while.
“So, what are you going to do?” Amy asked, picking up a copy of Cyrano de Bergerac. She was supposed to read and analyze a play for her drama class.
And then I said possibly the most ironic thing that has ever come out of my mouth. “I’ll just tell him the truth.”
Amy glanced up at me, and the surprise on her face did not go unnoticed. “That’s it? That simple?”
“I mean, it’ll be weird,” I admitted. “‘Hey, Ryder. So I know you thought you were talking to a smoking hot, boobalicious lady the other night, but actually it was me, her moderately attractive but still utterly charming best friend. Sorry about that.’”
Amy balked. “Sonny, don’t say that.”
“What? That you’re boobalicious?”
“Well, that, too,” she said. “But that you’re only moderately attractive. You’re beautiful.”
I laughed. “I love that you’re trying to boost my ego right after I refer to myself as utterly charming. But let’s be serious. Next to you, anyone looks only moderately attractive.”
She ducked her head and picked up another play in order to hide her face.
“Anyway, it’ll be fine. I’ll tell Ryder what happened. It doesn’t have to be dramatic.”
And the funny thing is, at the time, I really believed that.
When Amy and I returned from the mall that afternoon, Mrs. Rush drove me out to the high school. Luckily, it appeared that the battery had died because I’d accidentally left the lights on, not because it needed to be replaced — that would have been a nightmare. But with a little effort and a pair of jumper cables, Mrs. Rush managed to get Gert purring again. Or wheezing, which was a more accurate description. Either way, I was mobile once again.
Which meant I was able to park Gert in the grocery store parking lot, where she waited for me on Monday morning.
Amy had set her own phone alarm to my schedule, and while the shrill siren noise sent me bolting upright, Amy hadn’t even stirred. I’d reset the alarm to her schedule (and turned the volume up a little) before sneaking out of the house.
Most days, I got up early, got ready at Amy’s, then sat in the parking lot until it was time to head to school. Usually, I dozed off in Gert’s front seat, then had to rush to avoid being late for class. Not today, though. Today I forced myself to stay awake.
I knew Ryder always arrived to class early, and I wanted a chance to talk to him before Mr. Buckley started lecturing about the Crusades or the Inquisition or whatever tragic religious conflict we were learning about now. I was hoping to explain what had happened in our IMs, make it known that I no longer thought of him a complete tool bag (only a partial tool bag) and maybe, just maybe, invite him to sit with me at lunch.
Ryder had other plans, however.
As expected, he was already in the classroom when I walked through the door. He was flipping through the pages of our textbook and jotting down notes on a yellow legal pad as he went. He was wearing a dark green T-shirt with some strange logo on it that, even across the room, made his eyes pop more than usual. Once again, I was struck by how attractive he was. And now that I knew he wasn’t 100 percent awful … well, let’s just say there was an uptick in his hotness factor.