The first time he kissed her, it was an accident, an honest-to-god accident. It wasn't on her lips, was on her shoulder, but it was definitely a kiss. It made the smacking sound and everything. Picture a playground, fifth graders running amok, a blond girl threatening to beat up a fat boy. He hid behind a small, dark-haired friend. Safe. But he managed to trip, take her down with him in a tumble down a grassy hill. At the bottom, she was on her back on top of him and her shoulder was against his mouth. SMACK.
He counted it.
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Carpooling to Sunshine Girls, it's next door to Karate. Mom wasn't ready, they came in for a sec. Weird having girls from school seeing the living room, his baby-pictures hanging up. He didn't know what to say. The other kids stood close together, didn't say anything either.
He sat in the front so he wouldn't have to sit squished against strangers.
Carly Shay said a boy's name. Mom got all giggly; then the car filled with girly shrieks, laughter, blushes. Mom was talking about clothes, makeup. Mom didn't talk about that stuff. Mom talked about baseball, Pokemon.
What was happening?
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Hers wouldn't fly. Everyone else's was flying, but not hers. Tears pricked sixth grade eyes. She was too old to cry about stupid paper airplanes. She sat on the side, watched her classmates' planes zoom around. There was one that made it all the way around the room before gliding in at her feet.
Written on the side were the words US AIR FORCE. She picked it up, looked at it.
"It's my dad's plane." Gibby explained.
"So's mine," A neater hand labeled her flightless plane the same.
He showed her how to fold the wings so that it flew.
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He had a wallet. Not a lot of seventh-graders actually had wallets. No need. No credit cards, no license. His had stick gum, a medical alert card—diabetic—and a picture: a man who looked like him, but bigger, and a boy who was him, but littler.
"Me 'n dad," he said, "Before the divorce."
She looked at the picture, looked sad, didn't meet his eye. "My mom didn't even stick around for a picture."
"Oh,"
She handed the wallet back. Bored, no Sam to play with today.
"Gum?"
"Nah,"
He jerked a thumb down the grassy hill. "Swing?"
"Okay."
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Three kids in his class were doing a web show now. That was so cool. It was hilarious. They were popular. The girls were pretty: the blond bully, the nice girl. The guy holding the camera was cool, the best long-divider on the math team. Gibby liked watching the show, liked knowing what all the kids in homeroom were talking about when they recounted their favorite parts the next day in school. He liked it more when they invited him to do the show with them, to be funny, too.
It was kind of like having a lot of friends.
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Gibby looked forward to the afternoon every day. He knew he didn't need to let his bullies matter, but that wasn't as easy as it sounded. Bullies were bullies because they were good at it. Give 'em the boot. Move on. Have some fun with friends. Problem was he didn't have that many friends. Not until those three started looking out for him, started waiting for him outside after school.
"Hi Gibby,"
"Hey, man,"
"Walk with us, Gib."
Sam was mean to him, but not always. Freddie talked to him like a person. Carly smiled at him. He liked afternoons.
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The dog's bark was loud, startling. Carly shrieked as the golden retriever bounded straight for them. "Is that you're dog?" Sam asked.
"Never saw it before in my life," Gibby said, dropping his backpack on the sidewalk as the runaway dog reached them. There was no collar, no tag. It put its forepaws on Gibby's chest, licking eagerly at his face, whining.
"She likes you," Freddie smirked as Gibby bumped noses with her.
Carly laughed, gave the stray a pat. "I think she's begging you to take her home."
"Sorry," he said to the dog, "I don't go for blondes."
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It was a game to get him a date with the girl he liked, live on the internet. Sure. Whatever. Sounds fun. Kind of. Number one was cute the way she played with the voice changer before introducing herself. Number two's introduction was boring. Number three was gone. That one was Sam anyway. Number one must be giving honest answers saying stuff like that. Number two was boring with predictable answers. Number one was hilarious. Number two was too sweet.
"I pick number one!"
"Yay!" Number one cried, then "Wait—What? WHAT?"
Oh, number one was Carly. Huh. That's… okay.
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The root and berries retreat. Ugh. She wanted to die. It was cold and wet and crowded in this stupid tent. Thank god it was time to sleep, so the flute-playing stopped. She was sandwiched between Wendy and Tasha. She sat up.
The rain had stopped. Maybe she could go out and get some air.
"No!"
It was Gibby, crammed into the corner of the tent. He mumbled indistinct things then cried, "Help!" and sat straight up. Awake.
They looked at each other with wide eyes for a moment.
"Nightmare," he explained.
"Oh,"
"Don't worry about it."
"Okay,"
"'Night,"
"…'Night,"
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First impressions are hard to break. Gibby broke his pretty easily, though. First, she thought he was weird, was uncomfortable to be around him. It took a while, but eventually she realized his many peculiarities weren't so bad. In fact, she loved them. He lived by No Such Thing As A Stupid Question. He showed enthusiasm when he felt it. He was not prejudice against things to be enthusiastic about. He wore his emotions on his sleeve, had powerful emotions.
He was sweet, loyal, funny—to be fair not on purpose, but funny none-the-less.
He wasn't weird. He was Gibbeh.