The Boy Most Likely To. Huntley Fitzpatrick

blushing?” Dominic asks, amused.

      “No. So . . . tell me more about this truck thing – how does it, uh, handle?”

      Dominic looks down, lips compressing to hide his smile. “Yeah, like that’s what you care about handling.” He sips his coffee. “Speaking of, what happened with the GED thing?”

      Turns out that in Connecticut, you can’t apply for a GED unless you’re at least nineteen, or if you get a letter from your school saying you “withdrew.” Not precisely how it went down at Ellery.

      I rub my thumb into a glob of cherry pie, lick it off. “Um, yeah. I took care of it. Not exactly sure it was . . . kosher, twelve-step-wise.”

      “You didn’t forge anything, did you, Tim? Because –”

      “No! I, um, relied on something I sort of maybe shouldn’t have. With the school secretary.”

      Dominic cocks an eyebrow. “And that would be?”

      “My charm.”

      Dom snorts. “Had that one fooled too, huh? She should have talked to Smiley over there.”

      Christ. Brad’s still glaring at me like I stole his favorite pacifier.

      “Ms. Iszkiewicz – she always” – I hunch a little lower in my seat – “thought I was cute or something. She said she’d type up a letter and get the headmaster to sign off on it. Dobson never paid attention to shit he was signing unless it was a donation check.”

      “Tim,” Dominic says. “C’mon.”

      “Did I cross the line?”

      Dom takes another sip of coffee. “What do you think?”

      “But if I don’t lie, how can I get what I need?”

      “Did you just hear yourself ?” He relaxes back in his chair, watching my face.

      I curse.

      “I know,” Dom says. “But part of this whole thing is not being a manipulative bastard anymore, remember?”

      Brad’s leaving. As he walks by our table, he accidentally on purpose bangs into the back of my chair with his giant thigh.

      What, no wedgie? What the hell does Alice get from this douchewit?

Chapter Twelve

      Alice’s hands are behind her back, her beat-up purse hanging off her elbow. Green scrubs, circles under her eyes, smells like anti-bacterial gel . . . and she still kicks my pulse into high gear.

      “I’ve got something for you,” she says, brushing past me.

      “Is it kinky? Does it involve you, me, some body oil?”

      She snorts. “In your dreams, junior.”

      “Just the really good ones. But we could totally make those a reality.”

      “Here.” She holds out what she’s had hidden behind her. A package wrapped in bright blue tissue. She shoves the box at me so fast, I have to snatch at it before it drops to the ground.

      “You got me a housewarming present, Alice?”

      “Unwrap it already.” She walks over to the sink, full of two days’ worth of dishes. Most with Grape-Nuts laminated to the sides.

      I open it to find a box with the Nike swoosh on it.

      “If I wear these, does it mean we’re going steady?”

      “If you wear these while you’re running, it means you won’t wind up in a cast.”

      I examine the sneakers. They’ll fit. Perfectly.

      “You know my size?” I check the tiny tag. Yup, thirteens.

      “You’ve left your disgusting Sasquatch shoes by our pool often enough. Your feet are like, freaks of nature.”

      “You know what they say about large feet.”

      “Uh-huh. Big smelly socks. Stop it, Tim. I just thought if you were even remotely interested in being healthy, you should have the right equipment.”

      “Trust me, Alice. I have the right equipment.”

      She starts to laugh. “Please. You’re like one of those overgrown puppies who can’t stop humping everything.”

      My smile fades. But Alice has turned away, hands on hips, to survey the room. “You’re a bigger slob than Brad,” she says. “Impressive.”

      This means that she’s been in lame-ass Brad’s room – quick one-two punch to the gut, even though, Christ, of course. I mean, she’s nineteen.

      She squints at the apartment some more, walks around. Which is, ya know, embarrassing in the daylight. It was pretty dim when she was last here. In addition to the sink pileup, I have a small mountain of used boxers and shorts in one corner and the sweatpants I slept in last night draped over the couch.

      “Hey. Uh . . .” I indicate the box of Grape-Nuts before she can notice the raised toilet seat and wad of wet towels on the floor of the bathroom. “I’d offer you cereal, but I only have one spoon. I know how anal you are about germs.”

      “I’m educated about germ transfer. You drink out of the orange juice carton. I’ve seen you. Why do guys do that? Foul.”

      “Because when we want things, we want them now. We’re thirsty, we need a drink – we take a drink. Finding a clean glass, washing out a dirty one and all that crap – nah. We’re just basic. We want what we want right this minute . . . or maybe that’s just me.”

      “Tim, cut it out. Now. Please.” Her face is as expressionless as her voice. But of course, I keep going.

      “Like that old song: Antici-pay-ay-shun is making me way-yay – yait. That could only be written by a chick. Guys hate anticipation. That’s why we all write about satisfaction. Why we never wrap presents. I notice you wrapped mine.”

      “I thought it was because you’re all too cheap to buy wrapping paper. Or too clueless to find it in the store.”

      “There’s that. But honestly, you go to the trouble of getting someone a present, something you think they’d like – why hide it and make them work for it? It’s coy.”

      Alice laughs, shifting aside my sweatpants and dropping down on the couch. “It’s not coy. It . . . it shows you care.” She gathers her hair up in a knot, showing off her long neck.

      “The present shows you care. The wrapping paper shows you aren’t as concerned about the environment as you should be. Like showering alone. A needless waste of resources.”

      “Are we ever going to have a conversation without you coming onto me, Tim Mason?”

      “I doubt it. We want what we want, right? Basic, babe.”

      “Please. No ‘babe.’ No ‘chick.’”

      “You prefer Allykins? Ally-o? Ally-ums? Noted.”

      “Tim. Don’t.” Her voice sounds a little funny. Damn. Is she that sold on Brad?

      She roots through her purse, pulls something out. “I have another present for you, actually. I didn’t wrap this one.” Holding up a small clinical-looking square box, she wags it at me without looking at my face.

      “Nicotine patches, Alice – seriously?”

      “I told you you can’t smoke here.”

      “And I told you I’m trying to kick it.”

      “I know.” She waves me over, clasping the box between her knees, and flips it open with her other hand. When I plunk down next to her, she slides