Hello, my name is Loser

Chapter 9: Mischief in his eyes

My phone buzzes. Mom's text reads, Garage is all yours. I smother the anger that cuts into me.

I write back OK and watch as Bobby shoves two bites worth of burger into his mouth. He follows that with a big gulp of water and a contented sigh. There's only a smattering of fries left now.

My fingernails tap a steady beat against the table, "Ready?" As perplexing as it has been to watch him pound back food and wonder where he stores it all, I really want to go take a shower.

He wipes his mouth with a napkin, "Just gimme a sec, will ya?"

I could ask him to meet me later at the party...but a large part of me doesn't want to say goodbye again. Not yet. I lean back against the booth, "I've given you nearly an hour already." I check my phone screen pointedly.

"I see some things never change." He mutters, as he piles dirty utensils and napkins onto his plate, shaking his head.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You still have no patience. I remember when you refused to wait for the bus to school, and decided jogging would be faster, just because the bus was like five minutes behind schedule."

I cease tapping. That was around the time Dad had begun to show interest in my schooling. I say, "Yeah, well. You still move in slow motion." Oof, good one, Sam. I shrug off the negative memory like a spider web.

"Eating slower is better for you," He says and rises with the plate. "You should try it." Then he's heading into the kitchen again. What is he, a forty year old man?

When he returns I'm waiting by the booth, bag over my shoulder. The sunburn has left me with a wicked headache and feeling clammy. I have decided that my pale skin is meant for a life indoors. In fact, my ancestors were definitely cave dwellers. My brother is also unfortunately an example of our heritage.

As we navigate through the dinner crowd Bobby's head moves like it's on a swivel, dispensing farewells to practically everyone we pass. I nod my head quietly at his side, ignoring questioning glances. I wonder if they're confused by my appearance or that I'm with Bobby. Or maybe it's just that I'm Sam Monroe, daughter of Beth and Mark, two of the most renowned townies – and I'm back bitches.

The roar of Sunny's is abruptly extinguished when the front doors slam shut behind us. The warm summer night swallows us in its embrace. It's quiet except for the distant sound of cars. I inhale deeply.

"Is that your bike?"

Bobby is over at a bike rack to the right of the entrance, unlocking a sleek black bike with a basket in the front. He's pointing at a red heap of metal just beside the rack.

"Maybe." I say as I wrestle it upright.

He smirks, "Of course, it is. That thing is one strong breeze away from falling apart."

I snort, "Or a good collision away. Like with a maniac going at an ungodly speed in the morning."

We wheel our bikes toward the street, languishing in the calm summer air.

"For the last time. I didn't know it was you!"

"Yeaaah, okay."

He laughs, "At least not at first."

Bobby follows beside me as I wheel my bike down the street in the direction of my house. His black hair flutters like a tresseme commercial and I wonder how it would feel between my fingers.

He plays with the helmet in his basket, "So we gonna get on these any time soon?"

"About that. My ass kinda hurts –"