Chapters (67)
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- Chapter 34
- Chapter 35
- Chapter 36
- Chapter 37
- Chapter 38
- Chapter 39
- Chapter 40
- Chapter 41
- Chapter 42
- Chapter 43
- Chapter 44
- Chapter 45
- Chapter 46
- Chapter 47
- Chapter 48
- Chapter 49
- Chapter 50
- Chapter 51
- Chapter 52
- Chapter 53
- Chapter 54
- Chapter 55
- Chapter 56
- Chapter 57
- Chapter 58
- Chapter 59
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- Crave, by Tracy Wolff
- Keystone, by Katie Delahanty
- Sting, by Cindy Wilson
- Keeper of the Bees, by Meg Kassel
For a few moments, he blinks confusedly at Lalana. She proceeds to plant a kiss on the two-dimensional face.
“Well, that’s disturbing,” he says, his eyes bright. Although, let’s face it. Everything about him is bright, from the light reflecting off his cheeks to the glow that radiates from inside him. What’s more, as smart as he is, he’s not arrogant in the slightest. Unlike other people I know. Other people I’ve forgotten.
Now, if Zeke asked me to prom, I would actually consider it. Maybe. Probably.
Archie walks into the room, still in his Marie Curie shirt and khaki shorts. Contrary to popular belief, my brother’s not actually dirty. Instead, he bought a dozen of the same T-shirt and shorts after reading an article about decision fatigue and highly effective people.
“Barack Obama and Michael Kors wear the same outfit every day,” he’d explained to me. “It’s one less decision they have to make so that they can focus on more important things.”
I gaped at him. “But President Obama wears power suits. And Michael Kors wears all black. Not…” I gestured helplessly at his decidedly unfashionable getup.
He pushed the glasses up his nose. “Are you seriously asking me to wear tight pants when I sit in the basement all night?”
I guess not. But his insistence on comfort does make him the target of hushed and not-so-hushed snickers at our school.
“Hi, Lalana,” he says now, oblivious to my scrutiny. “Nice cutout.” My best friend is currently dancing Thor over the tabletop. We all stare at his bobbing head, transfixed.
Damn. Chris manages to look hot even on a stick.
“At the risk of interrupting…” Archie says drily, as though he expects nothing less from my friends or me, “do you mind if Zeke and I grab some food? I know I said I would have dinner with you, but we’re in the middle of a project. Besides—” He glances slyly at the acrobatic Thor head. “It doesn’t look like you need any more company.”
“Oh, sure.” I shove the perfectly arranged beef and broccoli platter at him. “Here, take this. I’ll eat the tofu. It’s my fave anyhow.”
Oops. I haven’t taken any photos of the beef and broccoli yet. But the foodie account can wait. Zeke and Archie’s friendship is way more important, and I’m thrilled they’re hanging out again.
With one last smile from Zeke, the boys leave.
Lalana and I take one look at each other and dissolve into laughter.
“Did you”—she wheezes—“see the look…on Zeke’s face…when I was fondling Thor?”
“And Archie!” I gasp. “I think he was wondering if I was somehow switched at the hospital!”