Page 8 of Miss Behaved
Monica
Sixteen Years Earlier
Nofreakingway,CarsonCalloway did not just move in next door to me. I peek over my notebook again, and sure enough he’s standing on the porch next door, pushing that straw-blonde hair out of his eyes.
So what if he makes me literally swoon? Heart palpitations. Fidgeting. I mean, it’s Carson freaking Calloway! Is there a girl in school who isn’t obsessed with his sky-blue eyes?
Crud, did he just look my way?
I hide behind my notebook and scribble in it to look busy, grabbing another stick of cinnamon gum out of the pack and shoving it into my mouth. I go back to outlining another story I probably won’t write, but I’m putting the pieces together like a puzzle anyway. Anything to take my mind off the boy moving in next door. That dreamy smile, his cute—
“Hey.” A voice startles me, and I jump.
I’m graceful as ever. My notebook goes flying through the air, and I nearly choke on my gum.
“Woah there.” Carson pats me on the back, and it dislodges the sticky cinnamon mass, the wet chunk flying from my mouth and landing on the deck at his feet. “You okay?”
“Yes.” I push my curls off my face and try to gather my pride. I wish I could be one of those flawless girls with stick-straight blonde hair. Neatly put together, always saying and doing things that make boys get hearts in their eyes.
Leave it to me to be a total mess, spitting gum at the cutest boy in school.
“You surprised me,” I tell him.
“Sorry about that. My parents are moving in, and I thought if I hid over here for a minute I could get out of carrying things,” he says with a smile.
Moving in, officially. Words from the horse’s mouth himself. I’m not sure if I should jump for joy or run and hide before I embarrass myself further.
“What are you doing?” He looks down at my notebook, and I thank my lucky stars it didn’t fall open to the page with hearts around his name.
“Writing,” I tell him, pulling out another stick of gum. I rip the stick in half and hand a piece to him. I’ve always been a nervous chewer, thinker—basically can’t sit still ever.
“Thanks.” He pops his half into his mouth. “Cinnamon?”
“What’d you expect, bubble gum?” I laugh. “Gross.”
He shrugs and sits down beside me on the porch swing. The swoosh in my head kicks up a little more when his weight sends us into motion.
“What do you write?” he asks, trying to get a peek of my notebook, but I tuck it away.
Is Carson actually talking to me?
Sure, we’ve known each other since kindergarten, but only because it’s a small town and we’re always in the same class. He hangs out with the adventurous boys and the pretty girls, so we aren’t friends. I can name on one hand the number of times he’s talked to me, with his longest sentence being: “I think that’s puke on your shoe.”
But for some reason, he’s here on my porch swing, acting like this doesn’t make a giant mass of butterflies go crazy in my chest.Likeit’s just a normal day, Monica.Hanging out withtheCarson flipping Calloway.
“A little bit of everything,” I tell him. “Short stories, poetry.”
“Cheesy stuff?” He chuckles, and it stings a little.
Is he making fun of me?
“If you mean girly things, then sure, I like my stories with a happily ever after.” I tuck my knees up toward my chest and bury my notebook between them, hoping he doesn’t notice the heat I feel in my cheeks.
Carson looks at me with curious eyes. His smile makes me wonder if he’s actually interested in what I’m doing or teasing. He doesn’t say anything. Just stares.
If it’s possible, his eyes are even bluer than I thought they were. A clear kind of blue that, if I wasn’t paying attention, I might think was gray.
“I write,” he says finally, catching me off guard.
