Silver Stilettos

11 | secrets over sushi

I bought my SAT book in silence. Reed skulked behind me, hands jammed in his pockets. I handed a wrinkled twenty and a ten to the cashier, whose chipper customer service deflated when I didn't return her bright smile and chirp of "Good afternoon, did you find everything you were looking for?"

I hated when people asked me that. Like I couldn't find my way around a store without assistance. 

The book's weight dug the bottom sharp corners into the flimsy plastic bag, threatening to rip. I wished Reed would say something, but he just followed me out of the store, arm brushing against mine in quiet camaraderie. It was comforting to have him there, his solid presence warming my cold arms.

"Are we still getting sushi?" he asked after a moment.

Sushi did sound good, but my stomach was a tangle of knots. The idea of eating raw fish and cold rice did not bode well. "Okay," I said, and in matching silence, we trekked into the restaurant next door. It wasn't a posh place, but the limited seating capacity and the dim overhead lighting made it appear fancier than it was. 

Next to the entrance was a glass case of ready-to-go meals wrapped tight in cling film. Behind the case was a long counter where the chef had deep silver tubs of colorful vegetables and meats. In the chef's masterful hand was a sharp knife and a bamboo mat, rolled tight. He flashed us a smile and pointed the blunt end of the knife at me, waving it in a sit anywhere gesture.

A waitress with blunt bangs and hair chopped to her ears approached the corner table where Reed and I had seated ourselves. With a bored yawn, she handed us the menus, but Reed shook his head. "I've been here before," he said. "I'll have the sashimi and the smoked salmon sushi rolls, no wasabi, but extra ginger."

"All right." The waitress turned around and barked the order to the chef in Japanese. Turning back to me, she lifted an eyebrow. "And?"

"Um, a small order of the vegetable tempura and the spicy California rolls," I said, settling on something safe that hopefully wouldn't roil my stomach.

"Soy-ginger dipping sauce for the table?" she asked. 

I nodded.

"Water for me," said Reed. "Mayuri?"

"Water's fine." 

The waitress gave us a half-hearted smile and wandered behind the counter, chatting to the chef while he rolled out new bamboo mats for our meal.

I took the moment to study Reed. It wasn't lost on me that he'd selected a table in the corner, so  our backs were against the wall, allowing him a full, unobstructed view of the entrance.

Self-conscious under my gaze, he tucked his long, yellow stardust hair behind his ear. His eyes crinkled up at the corners as he smirked. "See something you like?"

"Your self-preservation skills make me wonder if you weren't a spy in your previous life," I said, off-hand enough to throw his smugness into a tailspin. 

His smirk melted into a hesitant smile. "Sorry?"

"You're always on your guard." I pointed at the entrance. "I notice we're not sitting near the front."

"You're always watching me in class," he countered. "I notice things, too."

I inclined my head, doffing an invisible hat to him. "I take your point. I suck at surveillance."

"Is that what you were doing? Surveilling me?" Reed's face gave nothing away.

Um, loaded question. I could hardly tell him that I'd had the hots for him all month, ever since the first day of school. I definitely couldn't say that I liked his sleepy eyes or the way he exuded an artistic, too-casual-to-be-trying-hard look with his trademark hoodie and glimmering nose ring and ripped jeans.