Just Another Girl (4 page)

I can hear the door groan noisily behind me, slowly grinding its way back down. “Yeah, sometimes.”

“Do you see your dad much?”

“Not much.” Then I notice that Owen's bike helmet is strapped over his seat. “Are you wearing that?” I ask. I realize that mine is probably buried somewhere deep in that awful garage.

He shrugs. “Not necessarily. It was just there.” He laughs. “The last time I rode I was probably under sixteen and didn't want to get a ticket.”

“Interesting that they think we should be safer on our bikes before we turn sixteen. I mean, do they see how some kids drive?”

“I'm a good driver,” he says as he tosses his helmet into the back of his pickup.

“Yeah, but do you remember how to ride a bike?” I swing a
leg over, hop onto the seat, and take off. I can hear him yelling behind me, telling me to slow down, to wait up, but I'm so outta there. It's like I want to escape. Not from him exactly, but maybe just from my life. Besides, I want to see what this boy's made of!

4

“You didn't warn me it was going to be a race,” Owen huffs when he finally catches me at the foot of the trail in River Park.

“Sorry.” I grin sheepishly. “I just got caught up in the moment.”

“You're a good rider.”

“Thanks. Did I wear you out?”

“Are you kidding? I was just getting warmed up.”

His face is slightly flushed, and I'm curious as to what kind of shape this guy is actually in. He used to play most of the sports, but I haven't been paying that close of attention lately.

“Did you do track this year?”

He kind of laughs. “Is that some kind of insinuation? Like you think I'm not in my best form?”

I sort of shrug. “No . . . just curious.”

“As a matter of fact, I didn't do track. Did you?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” I don't admit that the only reason I did track was to get a break from Lily. As usual, I encouraged
her to sign up to train for the Special Olympics, and when she balked, I told her I'd be doing track too. That cinched the deal, and the track coach seemed glad to have me back for another year, plus my high jump had improved thanks to my height. Even so, I do not plan to go out for track during my senior year, although Lily could change that too.

“So do you plan to go full-out on the trail too?” Owen says with a slightly concerned look.

“I don't know . . .” I narrow my eyes as if I'm sizing him up. “I could take it easy on you. By the way, why didn't you go out for track? You used to be the best hurdler out there.”

“I did something to my knee at the end of basketball season.” He bends down to rub his right knee, which I now notice has two very small scars on either side. “I had surgery in March, and I wasn't supposed to do anything for six weeks. Kind of wiped out track season for me.”

“Sorry,” I say, feeling guilty now. “If I'd known, I would've slowed down.”

He laughs. “Actually, bike riding is one of the things that the doctor did recommend. That and swimming and some other boring exercises. But I'm pretty much good to go now, just a little out of shape . . . as you probably noticed.”

Now I feel really bad. The poor guy's practically a cripple, and I'm out here running him into the ground. “I'll take it easier on the trail, okay?”

“Don't slow down for my sake.” He's getting back into the saddle again, and I can tell by the glint in his eyes that he's
about to take off, probably hoping to leave me in the dust. “This is just the kind of workout I've been needing,” he calls as he takes off. Suddenly I'm eating his dust and wondering why it's always harder to keep up when you're the one who's behind. I'm sure it must be psychological.

But I have to admit it's kind of fun trailing Owen now. I can study his physique without him being aware. His broad shoulders are hunkered down slightly, his tan, muscular calves pump up and down, his narrow hips and waist . . . Okay, time to focus on my own form before I have a wreck. Then I wonder if that's not exactly what Owen was doing while riding behind me. Hopefully, he liked what he saw.

Suddenly I want to pinch myself. Is this for real? Am I really out here on a hot June day riding bikes with Owen Swanson? Seriously, it's almost like a date. Not that I'd know since I've never even been on a real date before. Oh, sure, a couple of guys have asked me out. One was a nerdish academic named Neal. We had geometry together, and sometimes he helped me. And, sure, he was nice enough, but not the kind of guy I could get excited about dating, plus he had this really bad case of acne. I'm not a snob, but I just have a hard time looking at the kind of zits that threaten to erupt at any given moment. Call me squeamish, but I know my limitations.

The other guy was just a hormonal jerk who seemed to have only one thing on his mind—as in S-E-X. I'm not kidding. Whenever he looks at me or any other female, including Mrs. Fowler, an English teacher who has to be in her fifties,
it's like he's seeing us all naked. Really creepy. No girl in her right mind would go out with a perv like that!

But why am I thinking about guys like that when I'm out here riding bikes with Owen Swanson—Mr. McSteamy!

Finally we've ridden all the way to the mall park, and we're both pretty winded. “That was great,” he says as we walk our bikes over to the picnic table area. “Just what I needed. I hope I didn't wear you out, Aster. Was I going too fast?”

“Not at all. I was letting you set the pace. But maybe we should call a taxi or something. I mean, will you be able to make it back okay?” I tease.

“Very funny.”

“The truth is, I was having a hard time staying with you,” I say. “You seem to have warmed up just fine.”

“Except that I'm starving now—and thirsty. Want to grab a bite to eat before we head back?”

I shove my hand into an empty pocket and grimace. “Shoot, I didn't think to grab any—”

“Hey, this is my treat, Aster.”

I shrug, trying to act like no big deal, like the word “date” isn't rumbling around in my head. “Cool.”

So we park and lock our bikes, then head into the mall, which is about thirty degrees cooler than outside and rather shocking. Of course, the only thing I can think about as we walk toward the food court is that it's probably Rose's lunch
break about now, and the last thing I want to do is run into her. I'm sure she'll say something totally embarrassing, plus she'll be sure to tell Mom and Lily about how she saw me out with a
guy
. And then the homeland inquisition will begin.

I'd really like to keep this thing—this whatever it is—with Owen to myself. I so don't want to see Rose. And I don't usually bother God with trivial requests like this since I know he has more important matters to tend to like wars and global warming, but I'm desperate.
Please, please, please . . . don't let me be seen by my older sister while we're—

“Aster!”

I stop walking and take in a quick breath as I realize my silly prayer is too late. I've been spotted by my sister. “Hey, Rose,” I say calmly, like it's nothing unusual for me to be strolling through the mall with the handsome and popular and so-out-of-my-league Owen Swanson.

“What's up?” she asks as she does a quick inventory of Owen. She has some kind of lime smoothie drink that she seems to have coordinated with her T-shirt. Does she do that on purpose?

“Not much,” I say casually. “Uh, do you know Owen Swanson?” I give Owen a stiff smile. “This is my older sister, Rose.”

He smiles politely and actually shakes her hand. His dad, the car salesman, must've trained him well. “Pleasure to meet you, Rose. I think I remember you from a couple years back. Aren't you my brother's age?”

“Wayne Swanson?” she says with a bright smile. “Yes, we
graduated together just over a year ago. Seems like longer than that now. So how is old Wayne doing anyway?”

“He just got home from his first year of college, and Dad's got him working at the lot for the whole summer.” Owen chuckles. “I think it's to make up for some of Wayne's lessthan-impressive grades this past year. He insisted on going to this hoity-toity private college, and the tuition was a little steep, and now our dad's a little miffed. Looks like old Wayne'll be hanging at Lincoln Community College next year.”

“I've taken some classes there.” Now Rose gets her superior expression, her chin out and her nose tilted up ever so slightly. “I suppose it's a little better than high school, but trust me, they don't call LCC
Last Chance College
for nothing.” Then she makes an L shape with her thumb and forefinger, but thankfully, she doesn't thump her forehead with it. Talk about sophisticated.

But Owen just laughs, and I suppress the urge to point out that Rose may have
started
a couple of classes at that loser school, but she never finished them. Seriously, LCC might be the last chance for my big sister. It only adds to my aggravation to remember that she wasted precious tuition money that she somehow pressured our dad into paying for. Not that it's likely to happen again anytime soon.

“Well, you kids have fun.” Rose tosses me a sly little look, which I pretend to ignore. “Nice meeting you, Owen. Tell your big brother hey for me.”

“Sure will, Rose. Nice to meet you too.”

I blow out a loud breath as we walk away. “Sorry about that.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, Rose, she's kind of weird.” I turn and look at him helplessly. “In fact, my whole family is pretty weird.”

He just smiles. “Aren't all families?”

Now I actually consider this. The truth is, I don't know for sure. I've always been pretty certain that my family was one of the strangest ones on the planet. But perhaps I'm wrong. Still, I'm relatively certain that Owen's family, despite his older brother's unfortunate grades, can't be nearly as peculiar as mine.

We cruise around the food court restaurants until we discover that we both love gyros, which somehow seems like fate to me. I mean, how many seventeen-year-old guys would pick gyros on pita bread over a Big Mac or a Whopper? Is that merely a coincidence? I do not think so! Of course, he teases me when I order root beer to go with it. Well, I suppose we don't have to agree on everything.

“You know what I want to say?” he says as we sit down at one of the less messy tables. I do my best to wipe it down with napkins, but it's still sticky.

“What?”

“It's going to sound corny.”

Okay, now I'm really interested. “What?” I demand.

“I seriously want to say, ‘Aster Flynn, where have you been all my life?' ”

Now I cannot help but laugh. But it's a horrible-sounding snort of a laugh. I think it's because I'm so excited that I'm practically giddy. I can't believe he just said that. But suddenly I get totally paranoid. I glance around with suspicion.

“What's wrong?”

“Okay, where are the cameras?” I demand.

“Huh?”

“Are you punking me?”

“What?”

“Where's Jamie Kennedy?”

“Is that show even still on?”

“I don't know.” I look all around the semicrowded food court, but nothing seems out of line. No lights, no cameras. Not even a cell phone pointed in my direction. “But
are
you punking me?”

“No, of course not.”

“Oh.” Now I feel really stupid.

“Sorry.” He looks slightly offended as he picks up his gyro and attempts a bite with the meat falling out from both ends and yogurt dripping.

“Were you serious?” I ask quietly. “I mean, what you just said a little bit ago?”

“I know, it sounded pretty lame.”

“Well . . . unexpected anyway.” I peel the wrapper off my straw and stick it in my root beer. I wonder, why does everyone think it's so cool to date anyway? Not that this is a date. I know that it's not. But, really, this isn't
that
fun. I mean, it's
kind of exciting and interesting. But it's also really stressful and nerve-racking, like I wouldn't be surprised if I broke out in hives. And what did he just say to me exactly? “Where have you been all my life?” Give me a break! He has got to be punking me. Either that or I'm asleep and dreaming this whole thing.

“It's just that you're pretty cool, Aster.” He looks directly at me now. “And you're really pretty too. I don't know why I didn't notice you before.”

This causes me to nearly choke on my first sip of root beer. Be still, my heart. Just breathe . . . and swallow. “Seriously?” I stare at him. “You think that
I
am cool?” Okay, I'm probably more blown away by the “pretty” comment. But I settle on “cool.”

“I do.”

“Well then . . .” I take another slow, cautious sip, careful not to choke, and I attempt to process this. Owen Swanson thinks that I, Aster Flynn, am cool—cool and pretty. That's a lot to absorb straight out of the blue. How does a girl respond to something like that? What do I say to him?