Page 41 of Betting on You

“Well,” I said, “how will I know what to wear if I don’t know any more details? Like is it a pj party? Costume party? Will there be a seven-course meal involved? Fancy silverware?”

“Stop overthinking it, Glasses.” I could practically hear Charlie’s eye roll through the phone. “You look cute in that black-and-white sweater that you always wear with jeans and the boots that squeeze your toes.”

That made me pause. I had never considered that Charlie ever—EVER—noticed how I looked or what I was wearing. I’d always felt—since way back at the airport in Fairbanks—that he just saw me as something like the annoying, uptight friend of his sister.

I said teasingly, just to make sure things didn’t get awkward, “Are you into me, Sampson? Are you secretly obsessed with me and have my entire wardrobe memorized?”

“Give me a break,” he said, still sounding like he was amused. “Just because I notice how you look doesn’t mean I’m into you, Glasses.”

“Whew.”

“Although Iwouldlike it if you pretend to be marginally potentially into me at the party.”

“You are really blowing my mind tonight.”

“Why? I just want to show up at the party with a cute girl that appears to be my date. It doesn’t mean I want to lick your neck or call you my girlfriend; it just means I’m an insecure little bitch about the party. Okay?”

I laughed—I couldn’t help it. He just sounded so unhappy to call me cute and also so disgusted with himself for caring about appearances.

It was ridiculous, but the fact that Charlie thought I was cutemeantsomething to me. He was an obnoxious butthead, but since he didn’t like a lot of people, it felt good that I registered.

“Yeah—keep laughing, it’s hilarious,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “You’re a real dick, kid.”

“Oh, come on, Charlie—I am not.” I laughed, and I realized that I actuallywantedto help him. “And fine—I’ll go with you.”

“Seriously?” he asked, sounding surprised even though I thought it’d been obvious the whole time.

“Sure,” I said, cracking my back and wishing I didn’t have more studying to do. “I don’t know any of your friends, so I don’t have to act cool.”

“Can you please act alittlecool?”

“What are we talking here?”

“Okay.” His voice was deeper now and he sounded comfortable, like he was lying on a couch, watching TV. “I would prefer no bathroom accidents and no public vomitings.”

“I think I can accommodate you on that. How do you feel about spontaneous show-tune outbursts?”

“As long as it isn’t Gershwin,” he said, sounding disgusted. “Can’t stomach Gershwin.”

“Are you a communist?” I asked.

“Communists hate Gershwin?”

“No one hates Gershwin,” I said, wondering how it could be fun to talk to Charlie on the phone when he was such a royal pain in the ass most of the time. “Hence the communist assumption.”

“You should be careful with assumptions, Glasses.”

“I know. Forgive me.”

“I will,” he said, “but only because you’re pretending to dig me Friday night.”

I closed my book, got up from my desk, and proceeded to flop down onto my bed. “That is going to be the hardest challengeof my life. I should be immediately nominated for an Oscar on Saturday morning if I pull it off.”

“Oh, you’ll pull it off,” he said, sounding almost flirty as he teased. “I’ll make it so easy that you’ll forget you don’t actually dig me in real life.”

“Impossible,” I said, snuggling into my blanket.

“Wait and see, Glasses,” he said. “Just you wait and see.”

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