The Inside of Out (22 page)

“On Nassau Isle a pirate lives, more famous yet than he. 'Tis Blackbeard, Edward Teach, by God, who'll teach him verily . . .

“Now Bonnet sails with foolish pride, and feels so wild and free, but in Charleston Bay a gallows sits, on the Battery . . . Waiting there for . . . Stede . . .”

When I was done, I opened one eye, then the other. Adam was staring at me with a look I'd never seen before, face slack, muscles primed—like he was about to rush over and kiss me.

So. Mean.

“Hey!” I lobbed the shell at him. It hit him in the nose, wiping the faux-longing right off his face. “Don't make fun of me.
I know it's terrible, that's why I didn't go through with it.”

“It's not terrible!” Adam jumped to his feet, dusting off sand. “Daisy. It's the opposite of terrible.”

“Are you an expert?”

“Nah, that'd be Eli. Musician of the family. Big shot guitarist.”

“Fancy.”

“He is. Very fancy. Didn't used to be. But.” His face clouded, but before I could blurt something sympathetic about how I sometimes fantasized that I had an older sibling I could squabble with, instead of just my cat, he brightened again. “You've got to record that song for me. I want to listen to it again. At least seven more times.”

“Ain't no way.”

“Oh, come on, Daisy.” He clenched his hands together, pleading. “I'm your biggest fan!”

Hannah used to be my biggest fan. Now, improbably, it was Adam Cohen, ace college reporter, Mr. Journalistic Distance himself.

I crossed my arms. “I'll record it for you if you can prove your investigative mettle by bringing me concrete proof of Bigfoot's existence.”

Adam extended his hand. “Deal.”

I shook, and he held on and I held on and we stood watching each other like something was supposed to happen but neither of us knew what. Suddenly, and horribly, and wonderfully, I knew what I wanted it to be. And I knew he was thinking,
Why is she still holding my hand? This is awkward.
So I let go.

Then he clicked his car open and drove me home.

It wasn't until I was back in my house that I realized Adam hadn't asked me for homecoming updates. I texted him to let him know, and he wrote back:
“You're right! Does tomorrow work?”

I made sure at least five minutes had passed before I replied,
“Sounds good,”
then read his collected texts again, perusing them like old photographs.

When my homework was done, I brushed my hair, sat in front of my computer at just the right angle—and sheepishly recorded “
The Ballad of Bloody Stede,
” emailing it to him with the explicit warning of pirate-level violence should the video ever find its way onto the Internet.

He wrote back instantly:
“You have my solemn vow.”

That Adam Cohen was too much.

I was bound to bump into Natalie Beck between classes, no matter how diligently I schemed to avoid her. I knew this. I just hadn't expected to
physically
bump into her on my way into the cafeteria, so hard that we both ricocheted off the sides of the open doorway.

“Jesus, Daisy.” She let out a near-silent cry, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Sorry!” I bent to pick up her little designer lunch bag, but she snatched it back before I could. “My mind was wandering. I wasn't trying to start a rumble or . . .”

I stared at her hands. They were balling, unballing, tapping her sides, trembling.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She looked incredulous for one-tenth of a second.

“I'm
spectacular
.” She motioned grandly to the open doorway. “You going?”

Natalie was barely keeping it together. Because of me. What I'd done.

“I'm actually . . . not hungry,” I said, then spun around—and let out a cry as my forehead connected with somebody's rock-hewn chin.

QB laughed. “Hello to you too.”

“Gah,” I said, staggering back. “Sorry. I'm like a pinball today.”

He caught my elbow. “You going in? Wanna sit together? Darius is sick, so there's room at my . . . table . . .”

His voice trailed off as his eyes wandered past me to where Natalie was still standing, her escape thwarted by QB's arrival.

“Oh,” he said. “Natalie.”

“Hey, Chris,” she said.

She called him Chris too.

“I'm gonna eat upstairs, actually,” I said, inching myself out of the Bermuda Triangle of awkwardness. “In the math wing. I have a test.”

As if that made any sense at all.

“Yeah, cool,” he said. “I'll come with you.”

QB pressed his hand against the small of my back as we retreated, and I glanced behind me to see Natalie's brow furrow, more with confusion than the jealousy he was obviously trying to incite.

And, of course, the instant we walked out of sight of the cafeteria, my stomach started to growl.

After we'd settled in an empty hallway, QB unzipped his lunch container, revealing a pristinely packed meal. There was a folded napkin on top, on which his mom had scribbled: “I love you, Mr. Awesome!”

He quickly turned it over. “Where's your lunch?”

“I'm on a diet,” I lied. To my disappointment, he believed me.

“Are apples okay? I'm not gonna eat this . . .”

“Oh my God yes thank you,” I said, snatching the Golden Delicious from his outstretched hand and polishing it against my jeans. “So. How are
things
?”

QB took a bite of his chicken drumstick. “Good, actually. Better.”

He didn't sound better. Maybe because he'd just seen the ex. I hoped my smile would be contagious.

“Enjoying your winning streak?”

“It's not a streak until you've won more than one,” he said, nudging me. “But yeah. Practice has been awesome. We're like a new team. Darius even has a college scout coming out to the next game.”

“How about you?” I asked.

QB flushed. “Nah, I'm not that good. But my grades are okay and I don't need a scholarship, so I'm not worried.” His face fell. “Don't know where I'm gonna go, though. I was going to apply wherever Natalie did.”

He eyed me cautiously, waiting for me to mock him.

“Yeah.” I rested my head against the cement block wall. “I was going to apply wherever Hannah did.”

We sat in silence, staring at the empty hallway. I straightened.

“But actually, I've been getting a lot of college brochures all of a sudden, now that I'm an Internet celebrity. I'm thinking maybe NYU, if I can get my grades up. New York seems pretty cool.”

“I could see you in New York,” QB said, and I locked it in my memory as the nicest of many nice things QB had ever said to me.

Between carefully rationed bites of my apple, I watched him polish off what looked, agonizingly, like homemade sweet potato chips, then said, “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded, but I flinched, too shy to voice the real question that had been tormenting me since the first week of school. Instead, I asked, “Why does everybody call you QB?”

QB cleared his throat, his eyes going wistful. “The first year of football, fifth grade, I played quarterback. I thought I was pretty good till I got to high school and saw Darius throw the ball.”

“You're a great . . . um . . . line? Wait—no—wide receiver.”

“Thanks,” he said wryly, returning the favor of not mocking me. “It was fun to be QB, though. Still is fun to be QB, I guess.”

“Okay.” I drew a breath, feeling braver. “Question two.”

QB crumpled his trash into his lunch container, shrugging a go-ahead.

I copped out again.

“What's with the hunting jacket?” I asked, pinching his red sleeve. “This isn't exactly the right climate for flannel.”

“It was my dad's.” He glanced down at it. “He died when I was five, so it's—”

“Oh my
God,
Chris.” I covered my mouth. “I did
not
mean to pry.”

“It's stupid, I guess.”

“Not at all!” This poor guy. What the hell was wrong with me?

He managed a lopsided grin. “Any other questions?”

“Okay,” I said, figuring it couldn't get worse. “Why do you hang out with me?”

He blinked, confused.

I nodded to the hallway, where Pete Brandt had just passed us, tripping over his own giant feet as he rubbernecked, jaw agape.

“You're Palmetto royalty,” I said, lowering my voice. “Aren't you worried I'll spoil that for you?”

I steeled myself for his inevitable reaction. Pity. Disdain. A long speech about how important it was to be kind to the little people in life.

“I'm gonna be honest,” he said. “I'm not really following this conversation?”

I squinted. Behind the blank veneer of QB's eyes, I could only make out . . . more blankness.

“I'm
not popular,
” I explained, the understatement of the day. I'd had one friend for the past five years. And lately she was more one-third friend.

“You're not
un
popular. You just do your own thing,” he said. I gaped at him but he shrugged, daring me to contradict him. “There isn't really, like, a popular, unpopular thing at this school. We all just hang out with who we hang out with. Right now I'm hanging out with you.”

“Are you kidding me? I'm
Crazy Daisy
.”

He rubbed his temples. “From grade school? That was forever ago. Nobody calls you that anymore. I mean . . . you've always seemed pretty cool to me.”

The hallway seemed to splinter into component parts—carpet, doorknob, fire alarm—and then reassemble itself into something that suddenly made a hell of a lot more sense. Grade school
was
forever ago.

“Wow,” I said. “Thanks for . . . yeah. Huh.”

The bell rang and we stood with a mutual sigh. I was just about to say something horribly sincere, like that this was one of the best lunch breaks I could remember and did he want to be my pretend-brother, when Dana Costas walked by and the words died in my throat.

Spying us, she doubled back.

“Hey QB,” she cooed. “You got my birthday invitation, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Sounds cool.”

“Don't forget,” she said, backing away. “October twenty-second. Ravenel Country Club. Gonna be
swanky
!”

Then she tugged at one side of her dress like it was itching her, blushed for no reason, and scampered away.

“My invite must have been lost in the mail.” I chuckled. Then it hit me. “Hang on.”

“It was an email,” QB was saying. “You should check your junk folder.”

“
October twenty-second?
” I gawked around the corner, watching Dana squirm down the hall. “She's
seriously
having a birthday party the same night as the homecoming dance?”

QB shrugged. “The dance is canceled.”

My heart stopped. “No. QB.
Our
homecoming.”

“The gay one?” He ran his hand through his hair. “I didn't think we were invited.”

“Of
course
you are,” I said, and he brightened.

“Because I'm friends with you?”

“No!” I shook my head, frantic. “Because you're a Palmetto student. This is for all students, regardless of—”

“Yeah, I've gotta get to class,” QB said, wincing. “But tell me more about Gay Homecoming later!”

He fled with impressive grace. It could have been his football training—or maybe two years of dating the Beck had taught him a thing or two about how to escape a withering glare.

As I was settling into a desk in French, Raina poked her head through the doorway, motioning at me.

Prof Hélène looked miffed.
“La classe va commencer en deux minutes!”

I stood with my mouth slack, trying to form a reply
en français,
when Raina rattled off a stream of fluent Gallic gibberish that made Prof Hélène laugh. I chuckled too, pretending to understand, and she waved me out with a wink.

I shut the door behind me. “What was that about?”

“I said you have an interview with
Le Monde
and I needed to make sure you wouldn't embarrass the school with your terrible French.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“
De rien
. Listen, you missed yesterday's meeting. Are you going to be there today? Cal wants to go over plans for a rally this Saturday. It's going to be grassroots—a bunch of supporters and speakers outside the City Council building. We need to figure out a speech for you to read. Cal will write it, but he wants you to have input.”

I leaned against the classroom door. “Great. Yeah. Speech.”

Raina squinted. “You okay?”

“Yep, fine. It's just . . .” I blinked hard. “I can't today. I have an interview with Adam.”

“I thought that was yesterday.”

“He forgot to ask me some stuff, so we're having a round two. I'll be there tomorrow, ready to speechify, I promise!”

Raina stepped back. “A round two. With ‘Adam.'”

I gulped. “Yeah?”

“Is there something I should be nervous about here, Daisy?”

“Um . . .”

“We are seventeen days out. If there are any . . . loose ends . . . I need to know about them.”

“Oh wow.” I laughed, fanning myself. Why was this hallway so hot? “Okay, no. What you're thinking? Not happening. He's just a . . . not even a friend. He's a reporter. He's my reporter.”

Raina covered her face with her hand and peeked through her fingers at me.

“I mean, not mine,” I sputtered. “He's . . . there's nothing going on. On his end. Or mine. Our ends are staying completely . . .”

Raina's wince deepened.

“I'm the spokesperson!” I said, throwing my hands in the air. “I'm spokespersoning!”

“Fine.” She slumped like she'd run out of gas. “See you tomorrow.”

But before she could go, I grabbed her arm. “Did you hear about Dana Costas's birthday party?”

Instead of answering, she narrowed her eyes and scanned me for signs of mental illness.

“Never mind,” I said, waving at her back as she walked away. “Not important!”

“Where to today?” Adam drummed on the steering wheel.
“You wanna show me where Stede Bonnet was hanged? I'm curious now.”

Out on the front drive of the school, I could see Dana standing a few feet away from the Christian Values Coalition mob, her arms crossed over her chest like she was worried they were ogling her. A few seconds later, a miniscule blonde jogged out to join her.

Madison.

She whispered something in Dana's ear, they both giggled, then Madison veered left and disappeared—
into the crowd of protesters
.