Part 9 (1/2)
”Please. You walked, like, three miles to get here.” And, I think, I'm not inviting you in. That would be extra weird. I go into the bathroom, switch clothes and then return to my room to put on my jacket and climb out the window.
He looks at me, then down at himself. ”So... what do people normally do when they sneak out?”
”Usually they wait until later.”
”Right.”
”And then we get deep fried burritos at The Shack.”
”Is that, like, a ritual? It has to be later?”
”Well, midnight is when Hernan takes over.”
”So? They run the deep fryer all day. That's how they do their chimichangas. Let's go.”
”I'm pretty sure Beatriz and Ernesto aren't gonna let us deep fry EVOL Burritos in their fryer,” I say as I tag along after him.
”You ever asked them?”
”Okay, you can ask them. I'm not gonna risk the wrath of Beatriz. She's got that powdered habanero or whatever it is that can sting your eyes across the room.”
He looks sidelong at me, not the least bit convinced. ”You want me to get the burritos from Jacksons or-”
”Yeah, that's where I go.”
”But, do you want to be seen there? If your mom finds out-”
”I do this all the time. My mom doesn't care. Your parents might, so you stay outside.” We're nearing the corner of Wilkstone Road now.
”No, I'll go.” He seems determined, which is odd to me. Not sure why he cares so much about burritos, but we make our way past the gas pumps and into Jacksons together. Carson knows which freezer case to go to and insists on paying.
Our next stop is The Shack, where I hang back because I really don't want Beatriz to throw habanero powder in my face. Much to my shock, Carson returns several minutes later with a greasy paper bag and a triumphant grin.
”How?”
”You just ask,” he says.
”Maybe you do.” I follow him across Wilkstone and out onto the Ridge Road. He makes straight for the bluffs and seems to know where he's going. We end up on a rocky outcropping that overlooks the sea, three lights along the horizon are a fis.h.i.+ng fleet coming straight towards sh.o.r.e. I sit down on a boulder beside him and he hands me my burrito. The air has a salty tang and the breeze is light.
”So, anyway,” he says, ”I just wanted to see how you are.”
With a gesture at my swollen nose, I say, ”And now you've seen.” I bite into my burrito and pain shoots across my face. I can't jar my nose at all without feeling it, and the tortilla is so crunchy that I feel jabs every time I chew. It's bearable, though.
”Totally none of my business, but you and Jean-Pierre? Is that real or was it just part of Kailie's prank?”
”What's wrong with Jean-Pierre?”
”I don't like him. He's arrogant.”
I remind myself that Carson is also in chess club and is not a nationally ranked superstar. It makes sense that he'd be jealous. ”He was always nice to me.”
Carson stares out at the pitch black sea. The breeze picks up a little, bringing with it the scent of salt, rotting seaweed, and wet stone. ”I've got this nightmare about you.”
”A nightmare?”
”Four years from now, I get home from my mission and you're living in a trailer park somewhere with a couple of kids.”
How to answer such a strange comment? I stall by taking another bite of burrito and chewing, slowly.
”I just imagine everyone in your life taking and taking because you've got it to give,” he adds.
”Jean-Pierre doesn't have a whole lot of trailer parks in his future. He'll probably be a junior at Harvard in four years.”
”Sure.”
”And as for me, I'm not sure I'll even get asked out on a date in the next four years.” I pause so he can laugh.
He doesn't. Instead he says, ”You have got the lowest self confidence, you know that? That's why I worry about you.”
That sounds an awful lot like condescension. ”You don't have to worry about me.”
”You're pretty. And you're nice. Lots of guys like you.”
Sitting on a boulder with no makeup on and wearing my most comfortable jeans, I feel pudgy and frumpy.
”But you have the worst taste in friends. Are you finally going to stop hanging around with Kailie?”
”No.”
”What's it gonna take, then?”
”You don't know her or her situation, and I really don't need your advice. I can take care of myself.”
”What could possibly justify you getting kicked in the face?”
The truth is, I know Kailie's felt this banged up and worse, emotionally, but she bottles it up inside. People only see the carefree front she puts up. They don't see how every chance she takes in her life backfires, whether it's her relations.h.i.+ps with guys or her attempts to win more freedom from her parents. They don't see the constant cloud of disappointment that hangs over her head. This isn't something I'm going to share with Carson, though. ”If I want to be nice to someone who's having a rough time, that's my prerogative. I don't need your permission.”
”Normally I'm all for turning the other cheek, but when it gives you two black eyes, maybe its time for a new strategy?”
”Did you really drag me out here to tell me what to do?”
He looks down at me. ”I don't get you. I'm trying to be nice. You let Kailie push you around without complaint, but when I just offer a little advice-”
”I barely know you.”
”Sorry you feel that way.” His tone is defensive. Wounded.
Which tells me I'm missing something.
He looks down at his hands, clasping his half eaten burrito. ”I really, really like you.”