I kept my eyes on the street, still searching for signs of Ami, but there were none. How odd, I thought. Where was she? How could she forget me? Why didn't she call the school and have Mrs. Brentwood or someone tell me she would be late?
We started away from the school. It was too late to change my mind, and I really wasn't doing anything terribly bad, I thought. She would understand.
"Actually, your cousin will be happy if I take you home every day," Trevor said, rushing us into a relationship, at least in his mind. "I can even pick you up in the morning. It's nothing to swing by their house."
"I don't think so," I said gently. "My cousin goes past the school on his way to work."
"Not really. It's a longer way for him."
"Whatever," I said, surprised to hear that. "He wants to do it."
"Okay. So tell me more about where you used to live and the school you attended. It wasn't a private school, right?"
"Did you leave someone behind, some lover pining away like in that Shakespearean sonnet we read today?" he asked with a coy smile.
He grimaced and then looked at me skeptically. "What did you do, break up just before you left or something?"
"I've never had a steady boyfriend, Trevor."
"Afraid of relationships because of what your parents are going through? Can't blame you," he said before I could respond. "You know, three out of every five kids at our school come from divorced parents. My parents are doing fine," he made sure to add. "I'm not afraid of having a serious relationship."
"Were you going steady with Gelmaine Osterhout?"
"What, did she tell you that? I never--"
"No, Lynette Firestone warned me today that I was making an enemy by stealing her boyfriend."
He shook his head.
"Just like Lynette. She has to live through everyone else because she doesn't have a life of her own. I've taken Germaine out, but we're hardly going steady. You're not really afraid of her, are you?" he asked with an impish grin.
"Hardly," I said.
He glanced at me and then stopped smiling.
"So when are you going to tell me your life story?"
"As soon as I finish writing it," I said, and he laughed.
Many a truth was told in jest, I thought, thinking about my diary.
A little while later we pulled up to the gates. It was really pouring. The wipers couldn't keep up.
"I guess they won't hear me blowing my horn. I'll go to the call box," he said, pulling his jacket over his head.
"You'll get soaked."
"Anything for a fair damsel," he said, imitating one of our poems in English class.
He got out and went to the box. The rain was coming down in sheets. His jacket, which looked like an expensive leather one, was getting soaked. Whoever was to respond to the call box was taking her time. It could only be Mrs. Cukor or Mrs. McAlister, I thoug
ht, unless Ami was home, but why wouldn't she have called the school?
He turned and shrugged, the rain streaming down his cheeks and soaking his pants and ruining his shoes. "Get back into the car!" I shouted.
Suddenly, the gate started to open.
He rushed back, throwing his soaked jacket behind the seat. We started up the drive.