“Well, I’m still not sure why you can’t just tell him it’s you he’s been talking to.”
“We’ve been over this,” I said with a groan. “I’ve tried. He won’t let me get a word out in person, and when I try over IM, he just logs off. And I’m scared if I tell him now or write it in an e-mail, he’ll think I’ve just been screwing with him.”
“So the alternative is … lying to him more?”
“Precisely. But for a good cause.”
“A good cause,” Amy repeated, dubious.
“My love life,” I said. “It’s in desperate need of some charity. Helping me would really just be doing a good deed.”
“I don’t know …”
“What’s there not to know?” I asked. “It won’t be hard and it won’t take long. Basically, we just have to convince Ryder that it’s me, not you, he’s interested in. Really, it’ll be beneficial to both of us.”
“How do we do that?”
“I’m glad you asked, my dearest, bestest friend. It’s simple. We start by making him warm up to me. I’ll act like I’m just playing nice for your sake, and he’ll agree because he’s into you. But then, we convince him that you aren’t at all the kind of girl he wants to be with, make him think he was wrong about you. By then he’s gotten closer to me, realized just how charming I actually am, and bam! Ryder and I are making out in Gert’s backseat while Boyz II Men plays on the stereo.”
“Who?”
I gave her a disappointed stare. “You should really listen to that nineties playlist I made you. You’d understand so many more of my references.”
Amy decided to ignore this and returned to the more important conversation. “I’m still not sure what you expect me to do,” she said. “How do we make Ryder think I’m wrong for him?”
“Well, first, I won’t IM him on your account again. And if he IMs you, you ignore him. Or say something rude.”
Amy grimaced, as if the idea of being rude, even to someone she disliked, was physically painful.
“Or you can ask me to say something rude. Whatever.”
“And what about in person?” she asked. “We go to school together. He thinks we’ve been talking this whole time — he’s already trying to hang out with me.”
“You blow him off,” I say. “Act flaky. Or self-absorbed.”
Even as I said it, I knew this was going to prove to be a challenge for Amy.
“I’ll help you,” I said. “You guys don’t have any classes together, anyway. But when he does come up to you, I’ll be your director. We’re pretty much together all the time as it is, and I know exactly what it takes to piss off Ryder Cross. I might as well have a PhD in it.”
“I’m still not sure …”
“Please, Amy.” I clasped my hands together and gave her the biggest, saddest eyes I could manage. “Please. I need this.”
“You really like him that much?” she asked.
“Yeah. I think I do.”
I was not a particularly romantic person. Up until now, I’d only ever had two crushes in my life. The first was my childish obsession with Amy’s brother. The second equally as unattainable crush was on Greg Johnson, the news anchor. A celebrity crush, if you will.
But Ryder was different. The fluttery feeling I got in my stomach wasn’t based on how he looked (though staring at him in history class was not entirely unpleasant) or just because he was nice to me (because he wasn’t always). My feelings for him had formed over the course of our instant message conversations — all of which had lasted hours. I’d never talked to anyone for hours before, aside from Amy. We’d just clicked. He was smart and surprisingly funny.
Even if he was also a pretentious hipster.
“You hated him a couple of weeks ago,” Amy said. “What if you change your mind about him again?”
“I won’t,” I assured her. “Believe me, Amy. He’s not the asshole we thought. I mean, he sort of is, but not exactly. Ugh. I know I sound crazy. Just tell me you’ll help. You have to.”
She looked down at her half-eaten lunch. “I guess I will. As long as it doesn’t go on too long —”
“Eee! Thank you!” I sprang across the table to throw my arms around her, my chest landing right in her plate of french fries. “I love you, I love you, I love you! You are my favorite human being, Amy Rush.” And with that, I planted a kiss right on her cheek.
She blushed, either pleased or embarrassed. Then she said, “Um … Mr. Buckley just walked into the cafeteria, and he’s giving us a very strange look. Probably because you’re on top of the table, so …”
I laughed and pushed myself up and away from her, easing back into my seat. “I’ve done weirder things in class. He’s used to it.”
“I don’t know if that’s something to brag about,” she said. Then her eyes widened. “Oh, no! Your shirt.”
“What?” I looked down.
Ketchup.
On my white shirt.
All over my boobs.
“Fan-freaking-tastic,” I said, even though I was laughing.
“Sorry,” Amy moaned. As if it was her fault I’d launched myself across the lunch table.
“It’s cool,” I said. “I’ll just tell everyone I’m dressed as a murder victim. I mean, we’re only a few days from Halloween. No one will think twice.”