“I had a good time,” I say eventually, and even in the blue light of the early dusk, I can see the corner of his mouth twitch. It’s obvious he doesn’t believe me. “Really,” I say, pushing forward stubbornly. “It was a lot of fun.”
He doesn’t answer, only gives a grudging nod.
With a sigh, I open the door and step out, but once I’ve shut it again, I lean into the open window. “Seriously,” I say. “Thank you.”
This time, he lets out a grunt, as if I’ve said something preposterous, and I realize all at once that I’m not the one doing this wrong. He is.
He shifts the car into gear and starts to pull away, but I jog after him.
“Hey,” I shout, hooking a hand around the open window, and he looks over at me, startled, then slams on the brakes. I bend down again, staring at him hard, and this time he looks back at me. But there’s a challenge in his eyes. He’s daring me to say the wrong thing, and I understand now that it was always going to be like this, no matter how I reacted. It’s like he’s been steeling himself for this moment for so long that it almost doesn’t matter how it actually unfolded. He’d already made up his mind about how it would go. He’d already decided how I’d feel about it, before I even had a chance.
But, for once, I don’t feel like acting the way someone else wants me to. I don’t feel like going along with anything, or being agreeable, or putting on a happy face.
For once, I feel like being honest.
“I thought this was a date, too,” I tell him, my cheeks already burning. “Or at least I wanted it to be.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Griffin,” I say, so sharply that he looks over. His expression is hard to make out in the growing darkness. “I’m not just saying that. I’m not trying to be polite. I really like you, okay?”
It’s true. I’m not saying it to make him feel better. Or because I feel bad for him, or even because he’s so distractingly good looking. I’m saying it because it’s a fact. And if I can spend so much time saying nice things when I don’t really mean them, why shouldn’t I be able to say them when I actually do?
“I’ve liked you since the first day of Spanish,” I continue, in spite of the fact that he’s turned away again, making it hard to tell just how much of an idiot I sound like at the moment. “Te gustar.”
He glances up at me with a frown. “Me gustas.”
“Why, thank you.” I beam at him, but his face remains impenetrable, and my smile slips. “Look, the point is, I had no idea you had Asperger’s then, and I still couldn’t stop thinking about you. So why would anything be different now?”
“It just is,” he says quietly.
I shake my head. “Not for me.”
“How could it not be?”
“Because I like you. You. The same you I’ve liked all year.” I laugh. Something about all this honesty is making me giddy. Or maybe it’s just Griffin. “How many times are you gonna make me say it?”
“It’s not that easy,” he says, but if he’s expecting me to agree with him tonight, he’s picked the wrong girl.
I grin at him, then give the hood of the car a tap, just before turning around to leave. “What if it is?”
* * *
As soon as I get into my car, my phone lights up with a text from my sister.
The glowing white letters read Date: yes or no?
I text her back: Inconclusive.
But then, a moment later, I change my mind and write, Yes.
* * *
The next day, I’m standing in the middle of the blacktop, a whirling blur of kids running circles around me. In the distance, the older campers are playing a well-coordinated game of kickball, and usually I’d be jealous of the order of it all, the calm sense of purpose to their activities. But today I can’t help laughing at the younger kids—my rowdy, frantic, overexcited crew—who are ostensibly making chalk drawings, though only two of them are actually sitting on the pavement with a fat piece of chalk in hand. Elan Dwyer is drawing an elephant with wings, and Bridget DeBerge is tracing her foot. The others have started an impromptu game of tag, and they’re sprinting around with obvious joy, red-faced and giggling and utterly delighted.
All of them except Noah, who has found a basketball.
I bend down beside him so that we’re both surveying the hoop from the same angle. He’s already panting from the heat, which is muggy and thick, and he smells the way all little kids do in the summer: like bug spray and sunscreen and sweat. He’s holding the ball with both hands as he considers his next shot, his arms already sagging.
I think of the miniature basketball from yesterday with a pang.
“How’s it going?” I ask, and he continues to squint at the basket as if he hasn’t heard me. “You know,” I say, pointing at the hoop, “the trick is to line yourself up just right.”
“No it’s not,” comes a voice from behind me. “The trick is to get the ball in the basket.”
I whirl around to find Griffin standing on the grass just beyond the pavement, wearing his usual outfit and holding the green and white basketball from the display case in one large palm.
“Hey,” I say, looking from the ball up to him and then back at the ball again. “What are you doing here?”
He nods at Noah, who is staring at him, too. “I thought this might work better,” he says, holding out the ball. Noah doesn’t move; he just continues to watch Griffin for what feels like a very long time. But then some switch flips inside of him, and his face brightens, and he rushes over to grab the ball.
“What do you say?” I yell after him, as he tucks it under one arm and runs back toward the basket.
“You’re welcome,” Noah calls over his shoulder, and I laugh.
“Close enough.”
Griffin is still standing a few feet away, looking nervous and out of place. Amid the frenzy of high voices and peals of laughter and churning legs, he’s like an oasis: calm and still and focused.
He clears his throat. “Do you think we could talk for a minute?”
“Sure,” I say, looking behind me and catching Grace’s eye. I make a motion toward the corner of the building and mouth, “Be right back.” When she nods, I turn back to Griffin. “Come on,” I say, and he follows me around the side of the brick wall, where it’s shady and cool and the voices are muffled and distant.
We stand facing each other, and he steps forward so that he’s very close to me. This time, I’m the first one to look away, glancing down reflexively, where I notice an apple juice stain on my camp shirt. I lift my chin again, forcing myself to meet his eyes, surprised when he doesn’t waver.
“That was really, really nice of you,” I say, trying to hold onto my thoughts beneath his clear gaze. “To go buy a ball for him.”
There’s a hint of a smile on Griffin’s face. “I didn’t buy it.”
“What do you—” I stop, and my mouth falls open. “No way.”
He nods. “I went back last night after I dropped you off.”
“It must’ve taken so many hours.”
“It did.”
“And so many quarters.”
“It did.”
“Well, thank you,” I say. “I mean, I have no idea how you managed to do that, given your Pop-A-Shot skills, but—”
“I need to tell you something,” Griffin says, cutting me off. He looks instantly apologetic. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to … Well, see? This is what I mean. This is why I don’t have very many friends. I interrupt a lot. And I don’t always notice other people as much as I should. I once left my grandma in a department store because I was so busy reading about mycology on my phone.”
“What’s mycology?”
“The study of fungi.”
I squint at him. “What does that have to do with your grandma?”