ExtraOrdinary

Ch. 19 (Chance)

I glanced at her for only a moment. "Thank goodness you were here then, huh?"

She looked away, out the window. She feigned great interest in the farms and crops outside the window.

With a sigh, I tried to think of a way to lighten the mood again. Finally, a question came to mind. I asked, "So what were you doing at school so late?"

Her eyes left the glass and fell to her hands in her lap. "Meeting for the magazine, Deadly Sins of High School."

I smiled. "How'd that go?"

She scoffed. "Gina Shepherd held it just to accuse me of coming up with good, original questions for the advice column. And then she said I wrote them because I—" She stopped.

I glanced over at her, eyes willing her to continue. But I didn't want to force her into saying she didn't want to share, so I kept my mouth shut.

"Take a right up here," she instructed in a near-whisper. Once I turned, she suggested, "You should hook up with Gina."

I almost slammed on the brakes. I glared at her as I demanded, "What? Why should I?"

Bridget shrugged. In a tone that indicated she couldn't care less, she explained, "You're both popular and the most gorgeous people at school. You're meant to date, be Homecoming queen and king, and be the senior couple in the yearbook."

My memory returned to how Gina had treated me as simply arm-candy. Sure, that was all Gina would be to me, too, but something about being treated as property set my teeth on edge.

My jaw clenched. "Is that how it's supposed to go?" I asked dryly, trying to keep my annoyance from seeping into my voice.

She ignored my question. "Granted, blowing her off like you did this morning was a monumental event in her life. But seriously, hook up."

"I don't want to hook up with Gina though," I insisted, my anger growing.

She looked at me, surprise evident in her eyes. "Why not? She's, like, perfect for you."

My grip on the wheel tightened. I shrugged as I confessed, "I don't find her that attractive."

Bridget just stared at me, her eyes searching for a more plausible answer. It did not make sense to her that someone didn't find Gina attractive. Seemingly, no one had ever rejected her. No one ever thought that a male model especially would reject her.

According to Bridget's direction, I turned right and then a sharp left following. It surprised me that it had just been six minutes since Bridget first got into my car.

"So what do you find attractive?" she asked, watching the bat that hung around my mirror sway to and fro with the movement of the car.

I smiled to myself—she had no idea. "Not sure, but I'm a fan of blond hair and green eyes," I answered, giving her hair and eye color.

She snorted. "Well, no duh. That's your hair and eye color."

I was about to retort, but I realized I had just described myself. So I included personality traits. "I like girls who are strongly independent and fiery."

She shrugged and allowed, "Yeah, opposites attract. But you have your pick of any girl at school with those descriptions."

"Independent as in not dependent on makeup," I added with a smirk.

A small chuckle came from her. "Alright, that eliminates two-thirds of the school. And the last third is comprised of people you would never date: geeks, nerds, band freaks, and outcasts."

I glanced at her as we sat at a light. "Which category do you fit in?" I figured she considered herself as part of that third.

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm a part of the outcasts. Why do you ask that?"

With a shrug, I adjusted my hands on the wheel. "Just curious."

She regarded me with suspicion before facing the windshield. She pointed to the left so I complied, and we sat in silence yet again.

All I wanted was for things to be comfortable between us, but we'd always fall silent and it'd grow tense. I was hoping that, as we spent more time together, she'd become more relaxed around me. But she was stubborn, and I couldn't hold my breath.

After a while, I got tired of clutching the steering wheel, so I dropped my right hand. I rested it on the space between the stereo and the center consul. But her hand was there, too.

Bridget pulled her hand away faster than I could blink and tugged on her sleeve. She stared intently out the window and didn't move.

I clenched my hand in a fist and tapped it on my leg. More tense silence followed, so to get it back to a tolerable car ride, I informed her, "The radio works just fine. You can turn it on if you'd like."

She didn't even move. "I'm good," she clipped. Soon, she pointed to the left, to the left again, and had me pull in front of a small, paint-chipped, run-down home in desperate need of someone to mow the overgrown yard.

The house wasn't what I'd expected, because it meant the Young family was borderline lower class. But that didn't shock me as much as seeing Mikey, and what looked like his twin, did.

My mouth fell upon seeing the two burly men dressed in white tank tops and cargo shorts playing hacky-sac in front of a house that mirrored Bridget's, aside from the blue paint and the large truck that sat in the driveway.

Bridget muttered a "Thanks" and attempted to sound grateful, but failed. She left my car, grabbing her bag and raced around its front end. Before she disappeared, she handed me her keys through the window, saying stiffly, "Here. So you can get into my car. But don't get any ideas."

As she walked to her house, the two boys next door gave her a friendly hello. When she said a polite greeting back, my jealously flared, and I made my car's engine roar, causing all three to look back at my car. Bridget sighed and waved a lethargic goodbye to me.

My heart hammered from the memory of Bridget beside me and I laughed at the wind blowing through my open window as I raced down the road back to my place. I kept glancing at the home address written on a yellow sticky note on my dashboard.

After Bridget had waved to me, I had driven down the road a bit before pulling off to the side and jotting down the address to her place. I figured I'd show up next week in front of her house, leaned against my Lamborghini, and ready to drive her to school.

At home, I told my parents about the best car ride of my life and informed my dad about fixing her pathetic Pontiac. His eyes had twinkled at the news, and not five minutes later he was in his old tow-truck, ripping down the street towards my school.

My mom sat down next to me at the kitchen's center island during dinner, her hands clasped around a coffee mug. "Tell me, and be honest: are you happy at your new school? Did we make the right decision?"

I smiled at her. "Of course you did, mom. I've met someone special. What could there be to regret?"

She looked at me with a tender smile on her face. "I'm so glad to hear it."

That night, I had many dreams about driving Bridget to Arizona in a Convertible with the top down while she sat on top of the seat in a slimming tank top, singing loudly to the radio. I woke up smiling that Saturday.

My dad told me that morning he needed something from the store for Bridget's car, but he couldn't get it himself—too consumed in repairing the car.

I sat in my car at a red light, humming, when I looked at the passenger seat. There on the seat rested Bridget's crumpled jacket.