Looking At Us

25. megan

Cris’s house was this huge mahogany thing, with three floors, large windows, and a miniature fountain in the front yard beside a monstrous flower bed. 

     ‘‘Who gardens?’’ I asked. 

     ‘’My mom, when she’s home,’’ he said. 

     School had finished ten minutes ago; Cris had gotten his English essay back (94%), and I had just watched a spider grow a new leg in fast-motion (ew) during Biology. Just as he’d promised, I was in his truck and on the way to his house. My hands couldn’t stop tingling from excitement; I gripped the strap of my backpack so tight that my knuckles turned white. 

     I remembered the look on Cori’s face as Cris asked me out. 

     Oh my God. 

     My feelings were a blur.

     He pulled up in the driveway and parked. Darrin, who had been silent during the entire drive home, leapt out and sped into the house. Cris and I followed unhurriedly down the pathway to his front door and entered the house. 

     ‘‘Cris!’’ yelled a masculine voice. ‘‘Kevin called, he wants to know if you want to go biking later.’’

     Cris set down his backpack and took off his Nikes, then grabbed his phone and dialed a number. A minute later, he said, ‘‘Kevin? Hi, it’s Cris. I can’t go biking today, ‘cause I’m hanging out with Megan—oh my God, no, Kev! Shut up. No, I won’t shut up, you shut up. Fine. Yeah, okay. Bye.’’ Then he hung up. 

     I said, ‘‘You’re turning down Kevin to hang out with me?’’

     ‘‘Yes, I am,’’ Cris said. ‘‘And don’t do the whole But I’m so weird kind of thing on me. It won’t work.’’

     ‘‘But I’m so—’’

     ‘‘Megan!’’ he said, grinning. He was incredibly handsome when he smiled. ‘‘Don’t try. Just don’t.’’

     I rolled my eyes. ‘‘Fine.’’ 

     Cris lead me into the kitchen where I shook hands with a man called Alex Domnall, who was Cris’s dad, and where I declined a slice of bocconotto—an Italian pastry—was insisted to try it, and then tasted it. 

     ‘‘Like it?’’ Alex asked.

     I nodded. ‘’I like it. Did you make this.’’

     ‘’I did.’’

     ‘’I am impressed.’’

     Cris took me upstairs to his bedroom, which had a Panasonic TV, surround-sound speakers, and posters of a band that I didn’t recognize but looked fairly old. 

     ‘‘Duran Duran,’’ Cris said. 

     ‘‘Who?’’

     ‘‘The band. They’re from the 1980s.’’

     I frowned. ‘‘You listen to oldies music?’’ 

     ‘’It is not old!’’ Cris turned to me, his face calm, like he’d had this conversation before. ‘‘Don’t diss Duran Duran, Megan, or else I’ll call Kevin and tell him that I can go biking.’’

     ‘‘You’re extremely sensitive about this,’’ I said. 

     ‘‘It’s my passion. It’s my inspiration. Do you want to take a walk?’’