Going Under by S. Walden Page B

over to the window and peered
out in the direction I thought he’d gone. He was only a few houses
down, one foot poised on his skateboard as though he were about to
take off in the direction of my house. I watched him decide,
silently begging him to come my way.
    What I should have done was close my
curtains. I knew it, but he glided past my house a third time, and
I decided to check the mail.
    He rolled along towards me when I reached
the mailbox, and I looked over.
    “Hey, Brooke. I was wondering when you’d
decide to come out and say ‘hello’,” he said, stopping short of me
and kicking his skateboard up into his hand.
    Cocky bastard. I flushed and looked down at
the mail. Suddenly it was all so interesting: bills and a craft
magazine. Craft magazine?
    I felt him staring at me and stopped rifling
through the mail.
    “You saw me?” I asked, not looking at
him.
    “I especially liked the hand-on-the-hip
look,” he replied.
    I cringed. “Oh my God. I have to go.”
    “Please don’t,” he said, and caught my arm.
“I’m only teasing.”
    I finally mustered the courage to look at
him, and he let go of my arm.
    “Why didn’t you just knock on my door?” I
asked. “I saw you pass by, like, three times.”
    He shrugged and massaged the back of his
neck.
    “Okay. That’s not an answer,” I said.
    He grinned. “You looked busy.
Vacuuming.”
    I considered him for a moment. “Do you live
in this neighborhood?”
    “Just down the street.”
    Well, that was inconvenient. Everything
about this guy was inconvenient, from his incredibly sexy face and
hair and eyes and body, to the fact that he went to my school, to
the fact that he lived in my neighborhood. How had I not noticed
him until today?
    “But I’ve never seen you,” he said. “Did you
just move here?”
    “Well, my dad’s lived here awhile. I moved
in with him when my mom moved to California,” I explained.
    He looked at me as though he expected
further explanation. I don’t know why I wanted to give it to him.
It was presumptuous on his part, but for some reason it didn’t
bother me.
    “My parents divorced when I was in middle
school,” I said.
    “Jeez, they couldn’t pick a better time?” he
asked.
    “For real. I was already a frizzy, oily,
pimple-ridden mess. You’d think they’d have the decency to wait
until high school or something when things started leveling
out.”
    He grinned.
    “Anyway, I went to Hanover High up until
last year,” I said. “But I didn’t want to move across country my
senior year, so here I am.”
    “But it’s still a new school either way,”
Ryan pointed out.
    “True, but at least the area’s familiar, and
I have a good friend from my old high school I still hang out
with,” I said.
    He nodded.
    “So what’s your story?” I asked. “I never
see you hanging out with anyone at school.”
    He tensed immediately, clenching his jaw the
same way he did when I caught him in the stands with my camera at
the volleyball game.
    “I don’t have a story,” he said.
    I shuffled uneasily, unsure what to say. It
was obvious I hit a nerve, and I thought better about pressing him.
A little indignation flared up, though; after all, he clearly
expected me to share with him, but he was unwilling to do the same.
I never liked one-sided anythings, especially friendships.
    “Sooo, where’s your house?” I asked, trying
for something neutral.
    “It’s six down from yours,” he replied.
“Same side of the street.”
    “So we’re practically neighbors,” I replied,
and he nodded, dropping his skateboard on the sidewalk.
    “I better go,” he said.
    I felt the disappointment instantly. We had
only begun talking, and there was so much I wanted to ask him, to
know about him. Why was he at Beth’s funeral? Why was he a loner at
school? He was hot as hell, so I knew looks had nothing to do with
it. Why did he stare at me all the time at school? Why did he look
pissed at the volleyball game? Why did Cal tell me