Page 8 of The Publicity Stunt
“You’re probably right,” I say. “So, Iron Man or Cap?”
Her answer is instantaneous and equally perfect. “Mutants.”
“Okay, Professor X or Magneto?”
“Rogue.”
“Rogue?” I frown. “Why, you like her hair?”
April shakes her head. “Just when I thought you were done judging me.”
“What can I say? Pretty girls make me presumptuous.” As soon as those words make their way out of my mouth I regret it with every bone in my body.“Pretty girls make me presumptuous?” You should’ve just put your actual foot in your mouth; it would’ve been less embarrassing.
“You think I’m pretty?” April asks and I fight the urge to crawl under this table and spend the rest of my life there.
“You’re notnotpretty.”
Smiling, she goes back to finishing the rest of the wings and I try changing the topic. “So what else should I know about you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You like Marvel, you occasionally puke in bathrooms, and you probably fantasize about beating up every guy in our class just for the kick of it. What else?”
April shakes her head and rolls the tip of her tongue against her cheek. She tries to fight back a smile and that’s when I see them. Dimples. April Moore has dimples.
“Not every guy. Just brunettes who think I’m pretty.”
My lips purse into a thin line. Touché.
“Okay, I’ll bite.” She takes out the silverware from the paper napkin on her plate and cuts into the stack of chocolate-chip pancakes. “But you first. What are your weird quirks?”
“Weird quirks?”
“Yeah, weird things about yourself.”
“You want me to list weird things about myself?”
She barely looks up in my direction. “Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”
“What if I have none?”
Another laugh, though I’m pretty sure I wasn’t joking. “Dude, I can name three weird things about you off the top of my head.” She glances up. “You thinking you’re not a little weirdo is one of them.”
It’s baffling to me how I’m not even a little offended. Almost as if my brain has decided to turn a blind eye to everything that comes out of her mouth, just because we’re part of the same fandom. It’s not much, but it makes me happy.
“Fine,” I say. “I don’t dream.”
April brings the back of her hand over her mouth, trying not to spit out her pancake. “What do you mean, you don’t dream?”
“I just don’t dream.”
“So what, you just close your eyes and lie in bed Count Dracula style?”
“More or less.”
“You haven’t had a single dream? Ever?”
“You’re making me feel like a therapy patient, April.”
