Lying Out Loud(6)

But I still had my dignity — dented though it may have been — and I refused to give in to my wrathful adolescent urges.

“You okay?” Amy asked when I climbed into the Lexus a few minutes later.

It was a testament to how much she loved me that she let me get into her fancy car — twice now — while I was sopping wet. She hadn’t even cringed.

“Swell,” I said. “Just swell. Let’s get out of here. Please.”

*

“Good night, girls,” Mrs. Rush said, poking her head into Amy’s bedroom later that night. “We’re headed to bed.”

“Night, Mom,” Amy said.

“Good night, Mrs. Rush.”

She smiled at us, then slipped back out of the room.

It was just past eleven, and despite being dry once again, snug in some frog-patterned pajamas Amy had lent me, I was still in an awful mood. Amy was doing her best to comfort me, seemingly unaware that I was a lost cause.

“What about Giovanni’s? That Italian restaurant in Oak Hill? You could get a job there,” she suggested once her mother had gone.

“Brenna Steward works there. She says the owner makes passes at all the young waitresses.”

“Ew. Do you think that’s true?”

“I don’t know, but I’d rather not find out.” I flopped backward onto her bed. “Besides, my dry wit — charming as I know you find it — isn’t always appreciated by the general public. Which does not bode well for me when it comes to tips.”

“That’s true.”

I glared at her. “You were supposed to disagree with me.”

“Oh, I mean … people love you, Sonny. I’m sure your sense of humor —”

“Too late now,” I said. “Jump ship while you can.”

“You’ll find another job,” she assured me. “My mom will go help you with your car in the morning, and you can use my phone until yours is fixed. No one but Wesley ever calls me anyway. Besides you, but you’re always here, so …”

“Thanks,” I said. “You’re being very sweet, and it’s appreciated. But right now, I think I’d rather just wallow.”

Amy sighed. “All right.”

I buried my face in her pillow and listened as she stood up and walked across the room. I heard her laptop booting up at her desk. I figured she was doing homework until …

“Um, Sonny? I know you’re busy wallowing, but you’re not going to believe this.”

I kept my face in the pillow. “I’ve told you before — if it’s a Nigerian prince offering to wire you millions of dollars, don’t send him your bank account information.”

“It’s not that. Ryder Cross e-mailed me.”

Now I sat up. “What did he say?”

I was across the room, peering over her shoulder, before she could answer.

Hey, Amy —

It was really nice talking to you this afternoon in the parking lot. I’m just sorry the awful weather and your friend’s schedule cut our conversation short.



I snorted. “‘Your friend’? Like he doesn’t know my name. And what conversation? You were barely talking to him.”

“Keep reading,” she said.

But I’d really like to keep talking to you. Maybe we could get dinner sometime? I know there aren’t any nice places to eat in Hamilton, but Oak Hill has a few decent restaurants. I was thinking maybe next Friday night?



“Oh my God,” I said, unable to even read the last little bit of the e-mail. “He asked you out.”

“I know. I don’t even know why he would.”

“Because you’re gorgeous? That part is obvious.”

She blushed.

“Less obvious,” I said, “is why he thinks he has a chance. Amy, you have to reply to him. You have to say you’ll do it.”

“What? I don’t want to go out with Ryder.”


“You won’t. You’ll just say you will. Just to tease him a bit.”

“I can’t do that,” Amy said. “It’s too mean.”

“Then I’ll do it. Move over.”

“Sonny, you can’t.”

“Please,” I begged. “I’ve had an awful day and f*cking with Ryder’s head will make me feel so much better.”

“I thought you were wallowing?”

“Being mean is so much more fun than wallowing. And he’s such an *. You know it, too. He deserves some torture after the way he’s talked about Hamilton and everyone who lives here. Let me pick on him a little bit. Please?”

She chewed on her bottom lip. Amy was anything but mean. Even to people she hated, she was always incredibly polite and respectful. It was unnerving, really.

But if anyone could convince her, it was me. Sonny Ardmore — a bad influence for thirteen years and counting.

“Fine,” she said, scooting over so we could squeeze together on the chair. “But only because I know it will cheer you up … and because he really is awful. Maybe this will get him to leave me alone.”

“That’s my girl.”

I hit the REPLY button and started to compose my masterpiece, reading it aloud as I typed each sentence.