"What's that?"
Gibby closed the mead notebook on his pen, shrugged," Nothing, just my journal."
Carly grinned, raised an eyebrow. "You keep a journal?"
He shrugged again, looked embarrassed. She shrugged, too. "Cool."
Class began, but Carly couldn't stop thinking about that journal. What did he write about anyway?
The notion of Gibby having thoughts intrigued her. Not that she thought he was stupid, but he seemed too laid back to be overly-pensive about anything. She supposed he did have a steady stream of girlfriends…
A thought struck her and made her double look him.
Could Gibby be—a romantic?
…
…
…
With the shiny metal glinting around his wrists, he whirled, went to his toes to crane over the crowd gathering outside the Groovy Smoothie to see her, "Call my mom!" he bellowed. It sounded weird because his nose was broken. His shirt was bloody. One cop opened the back door of his car. Gibby climbed in. The other bloody guy got in another car.
The crowd, still recounting the fight, dispersed. T-Bo complained as he picked up broken bits of his chairs while an employee mopped up smoothies and blood.
Carly's heart was hammering; Gibby was a bad boy now.
…
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…
He'd mentioned pounding a few guys into the dirt before. She'd never taken it seriously. It was Gibby. All talk. So when she saw him break two of a guy's ribs before bloodying his nose over a girl, it was—exhilarating. She'd never seen someone actually defend a girl's honor before. She rarely saw fistfights that weren't on TV. Gibby's reminded her of that awesome MMA fight she'd gone to.
He was stronger than he looked.
She didn't even realize she was daydreaming it, but if he was her boyfriend, he'd fight for her like that. He was so sweet.
…
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…
He wasn't like the others. He was… soft. Literally. There wasn't just muscle under his shirt like Griffin or Steven… He was still athletic with a punching bag, a baseball bat, but he was doughy. She didn't mind, though, because it wasn't his body she liked hanging out with. It was his easy-going, out-side-of-all-boxes thinking. Sometimes his thoughts were ridiculous, his timing odd, and it was hard to know if he meant it seriously or as a joke. There was something she loved about that.
So, yeah, he was soft with pudge, but it was okay to like that.
…Right?
…
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…
Giving her a ride to Yakima, Carly drummed on her thighs in time to the music. Gibby was driving. In the back seat, Guppy impressively sang along with the rapid lyrics. Carly's laugh was happy, innocent, made Gibby's back tingle. She twisted around to sing praises.
Bike!
Tires squealed. Belts locked. The world flipped over, and stayed that way. They were hanging upside down in a highway median. Weeds bowed into broken windows to tickle the roof at their feet. Hearts pounding, stomachs left behind, cuts and bruises, but otherwise okay. They shared an ambulance home.
She held Gibby's hand.
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…
She needed to know how to hit a ball, for a web-show-thing. He had time. She borrowed Sam's baseball bat.
"I'm here, let's practice," she said. He turned, looked her up and down. She was wearing a uniform, white with blue strips, tight knee-high pants, high socks, a baseball cap on her head, her long black hair in a ponytail. He smiled.
He put his arms around her to show how to swing. She understood how after the first demonstration, but did it wrong perfectly.
"I'll show you again," he said. He put strong arms back around her. She smiled.
…
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…
He had mad skillz with a rubber band. He could wrap it around his finger and thumb, shoot it to make it hit anything. But if you're close enough, it stung when it hit. He didn't mean to hit her—all Sam's fault. It popped Carly in the shoulder. She yelped, skin turning red there.
"Sorry!" he cried, rubbing it. Before he knew it, he was kissing it better.
The second kiss to this shoulder, a little kiss, soft lips to soft skin—didn't even make the kissing-sound—but their eyes met when he did it.
They both counted it.
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…
She'd finally found something he couldn't do.
She could pop a grape into the air, catch it in her mouth with a smile. Every time. Gibby was counting. They were going to run out of grapes before she missed one. Then one rolled under the bed.
She couldn't just leave it. While she was searching down there, he popped three into the air, caught them, had them swallowed before she reemerged with the lost one. Her nose crinkled as she pulled away a strand of hair from it.
She started to throw it away. Gibby stopped her and ate it.
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…
Carly was flipping out. She paced back and forth, her hand on her chest. She was talking a mile a minute, worrying over the fact that their friends were together-together now and that meant they'd drop her like a hot potato and she'd be alone. "ALL ALONE, GIBBY!"
"Carly," he tried. She didn't hear him. He tried again and then again until he had to shout it. When that didn't work, he caught her, kissed her on the nose. That stopped her.
"I wanna go out with you."
"You—you do?" she asked, breathless.
"Yeah," he said.
"Yeah, okay, yeah."
…
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…
She didn't know how to make the announcement. So she didn't. Acted very casual about it. This was something new. Usually she made great big important announcements the moment she had a boyfriend, called a press release. Not this time. It wasn't because she was afraid people would laugh. It wasn't.
It just wasn't Gibby's style. That was all.
Then Freddie and Sam wanted to go to a party on Saturday, but she couldn't. She had a date.
"What?" they said. "With who?"
Sam smacked Freddie.
"With….Gibby."
"Gibby?"
She took a leaf from his book, owned it. "Yup."
It worked.