She shakes her head.
“You write in that notebook all the time.”
It isn’t a question, but she answers, anyway. “Almost every day.”
“What, is it a journal? Like a diary or something?” you ask, and her cheeks turn pink as she lowers her head. “Ha! It is, isn’t it? Have you written anything about me?”
You reach for the notebook, but she snatches it away. The pink on her cheeks is full-blown red now. “It’s not a diary. It’s a story.”
“A story,” you say. “What kind of story?”
“The kind you write,” she says. “Or, well, the kind I do. Because I am. I’m writing a story.”
She fumbles her way through that explanation.
You laugh. “Yeah, but what kind? Drama? Action? Mystery?”
“All of that,” she says. “It’s a bit of everything.”
“Does that include romance?”
She doesn’t answer, throwing a question back instead. “Why are you so interested?”
“Because I am,” you say. “Would you rather I just humored you?”
“No.”
She’s quick with that answer.
She’s blushing again.
There’s noise outside the library. Students roam the halls. Lunchtime is coming to an end.
You shove off of the table, getting to your feet. Looking around, you sigh deeply before your eyes meet hers. “You want to get out of here?”
Her brow furrows. “Get out of the library?”
“No, I mean get out of this hellhole,” you say. “My car’s parked outside, if you want to go.”
She gives you a look, one that says she thinks you’re joking, but once you pull a set of keys from your pocket, she realizes you're serious.
“Club meetings are starting,” you say. “It’s not like you’re missing anything. Besides, what’s life without a little adventure? Might give you some inspiration for your story. We'll call it a 'fuck your clubs' field trip.”
You walk away.
She hesitates, just a moment, before grabbing her things and following, falling in step beside you. Her eyes dart around the parking lot. “We won’t get in trouble, will we?”
“No promises,” you say.
Despite your answer, she doesn’t waver.
You drive a blue Porsche. It’s not as flashy as some of the other cars, but it’s enough to make her pause. “Wow.”
She’s fidgeting as she gets in the car.
You don’t waste time driving away.
You head into Albany, going through a drive-thru to grab some lunch. You buy her a sandwich and a chocolate milkshake, although she insists you don’t have to—she has no money. Food in hand, you head to a theater in town. You lead her inside, slipping through a back door.
People are everywhere.
A dress rehearsal is in progress. Looks are cast your way, a few people greeting you as they rush past. This isn’t your first time coming here. They’re confused, though, when they look at her, like her presence is something they can’t fathom. She hesitates, so you grab her hand and pull her through, letting go once you’re clear of the crowd.
She stares at her hand as the two of you take seats out in the empty theater. You eat and chat and watch the rehearsal. A Dr. Seuss musical. She sips her milkshake, laughing at the Cat in the Hat causing chaos on stage, and you get so lost in the moment that time slips away.
“We need to go,” you tell her. “It’s three o’clock.”
Even rushing, you barely make it back to the school before the day is over. You park your car, but you don’t get very far. An administrator is lurking. Hastings saw you leaving together and tattled.
“Cunningham. Garfield.” The man looks between you. “My office. Now.”
Twenty minutes later, the two of you are sitting in that office when both fathers show up. They walk in together, neither man smiling as the administrator explains the situation.
Your father says nothing. He just stands there, listening.
Her father, on the other hand, is fuming. His nostrils flare as he yells, “What the hell were you thinking? Skipping? Do you know what it costs me to send you here? And how many times do I have to tell you never to get in a car with a stranger? Are you crazy?”
She stares down at her hands, biting her cheek, not answering his questions.
Three days of detention. That’s the punishment.
You all walk out together.
It’s sudden, out of nowhere, as your father’s calm mask slips. Right in front of the school, he says not a word, but he swings, hitting you in the chest with a closed fist. It’s hard enough that the girl hears it from a few feet in front of you. Hard enough that her father hears it, too.
They both turn to look.
The blow knocks the air from your lungs. You fight to catch your breath, grabbing your chest, but you’re not surprised at all. This isn’t some fluke.
“Go straight home,” your father says, his voice calm, even as he gets right in your face. “I hope you know this isn’t over. We’ll deal with it later.”