It's 5 o'clock. I'm here, so what are you up to, Lucy?" Crap. He's suspicious. She'd almost let herself forget the truth behind the nickname Brett slapped onto him.
"Don't be so suspicious, I don't hate you for getting Brett to dump me—" lie, that's a filthy lie; she does hate you, just a little, thank you very much "—Kendra just said she wants to thank you in person. I'm simply helping to bring people together." It's like poison on her tongue but damn is she a good actress. She must be. There's no way he'd look that convinced if she wasn't.
"Thanks, Lucy. I'm glad we can all finally be friends," she wonders for a second if that's a smile tugging on his lips. But she has other things on her agenda, other priorities, like getting Brett back.
"Oh, please, you make it so easy," she smiles, taking his hands. But what—is—that?
It's not a spark.
It's not a firework.
She doesn't know what to call it but she absolutely, positively hates it. She wants it to go away as quickly as possible. Her hands are away from his as quickly as she can manage and she's strutting off like she's on a goddamn catwalk the next second.
It—whatever the hell "it" is—stays. Burning. Lingering. Taunting her. And, dear God, what is it? She has to know. She can't not know what it is!
What is it and why did Evan Goldman make her feel it? She shouldn't have grabbed his hands. Why did she grab his hands? She isn't a touchy feely person. She hates hugs, she shivers when that hobbit—Eddie—gets near her, she's revolted by her parents kissing her head, she rarely even links arms with Kendra and Charlotte (and sometimes Molly and Cassie). So what in hell possessed her to take his hands?
Did it just feel like the right thing to do? Was it the right body language? Did it send the right message?
Wait. Did he feel that not a spark or firework but something electric and explosive thing too? She has to know. She has to. He had to have felt something. Some weird, disturbing chemistry there.
But she likes Brett! Why is she obsessing over this?
"Because it's important," she hisses.
"What's important?" Charlotte. With loose lips and itchy trigger fingers (not in the blam! gunshot way, but in the taptaptap! texting way). Charlotte who knows all about boys. And is in between spilling about the Kendra—Evan rumor. With something that big, would Charlotte even bother with some weird, disturbing not a spark or firework but something electric and explosive thing Lucy felt when she held Evan's hand for a second?
She hesitates. She can just say, "none of your business" and be on with it or she can try and put it in words.
Charlotte's eyebrow arches. Ugh. Lucy hates when she does that weird little eyebrow dance.
"This weird, disturbing … Thing I felt when Evan grabbed me to ask me what the history homework is," she improvises. It's better than Charlotte knowing what really happened.
"What weird, disturbing thing?" The curly haired girl jumps on the morsel of gossip.
"Well, it wasn't a spark or a firework but it was kind of electric and explosive—what would you call that?" Her own pale hand falls on Lucy's hip.
"… A flare?" She shrugs.
"A flare?" Lucy's eyebrow arches.
"Like a flare gun," Charlotte explains.
"Well, what the hell does it mean?" The tall girl almost snaps. Charlotte may be her friend (and a surprisingly good one at that) but she has no patience for this. She simply has to know what that strange thing means.
"Do you … Like like him? I mean, that would just be, like, oh, my God, since Kendra is cheating on Brett with Evan so, like, if you had a thing for him—especially since you and Brett used to date until Evan got him to dump you and you and Kendra are BFFs—it would just—oh, my God!" Charlotte squeals just a little.
"I don't like like, Evan!" And maybe she's just a little too quick to say that.
"Really?" Charlotte giggles.
"Really." Lucy deadpans, glowering a little.
"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," she giggles, "I said that right, right?"
"Oh, shut up," the pale girl snaps before stalking off. I can't believe she actually quoted Shakespeare correctly while insinuating that I like like Evan! I mean, since when does she know Shakespeare!?
Brett punches Evan. Square in the nose. A pang of guilt hits her. And again when she sees Kendra's face.
"Come on, Lucy." Should she? Maybe Charlotte was right about the flare gun. She wishes Charlotte would stop making that face—this decision would be so much easier.
But her legs move on their own and wait! Can't she rush to Evan's side and call Brett an ass and maybe even be friends with Patrice again?
...
She can't.
That stupid, stupid feeling comes back—flare—and she almost screams. It's so, so awful and wonderful and she wants it gone!
Why won't it leave? She hates it.
Tingling and electric and strange. Unique. Original.
And still there when she slumps down on the carpeting of her bedroom.
"I hate this. I hate him," she mutters. She pulls her knees up, examining her hands. Pale. Slender. Kind of small. Tingling. That weird, disturbing flare gun-esque thing that he makes her feel. She still wants to know—she still doesn't know—if he feels that too.
She could ask. She could get his number so she could ask.
Should she?
She's dialing Charlotte's number before she knows what she's doing. "Charlotte," she coos.
"Yello," Charlotte chirps back.
"Listen, I need a favor," she says—and yes, she needs a lot of favors right now. It crosses her mind that she has no idea if she and Kendra are still best friends and that she doesn't really want to be with Brett for some reason and that, dear God, she wants to be best friends with Patrice again. All because of that stupid flare gun feeling thingy.
"Anything, what'd'ya need, Luce?" The other girl giggles. She does that a lot.
"The Brain's number—don't even start. I told him the wrong pages for the history homework and I need to correct him," she lies. Again. How many is that today? Fifteen? Sixteen? Too many lies for one day.
"Whatever you say. Just give me, like, a minute. I'll get it for you, lates," she declares.
"Great. Text it to me, Char," Lucy smiles just a little. She can sort everything else out later. Hopefully.
Her phone is buzzing soon enough. She dials the number—maybe she adds him as a contact—and he answers on the third ring.
"Hello?" He sounds worn out. Another pang of guilt.
"Evan?" She doesn't know why she thought this would be a good idea.
"Lucy? What do you want?" He sounds bitter, cold. She doesn't blame him.
"It's … Did you feel a weird, disturbing flare gun-esque thingy when I grabbed your hand?" Her voice squeaks. She didn't know she could talk that high.
It's so painfully quiet. She wouldn't be surprised if you could take a knife and cut through the awkward.
"Um … Er … Yeah," he murmurs.
She hangs up.
"Oh, my God."
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