My First Love (Love Stories) by Callie West

Author:Callie West
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780307832108
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2013-05-28T21:00:00+00:00

chapter nine

“You’re, sure in a good mood,” Mom said suspiciously when I offered to wash the Honda before she left for work.

“It’s just that it’s so gorgeous outside,” I said, while his name—Chris, Chris, Chris—surged through my brain. After spending the last hour staring at my physics book and daydreaming about Chris, I’d thought of a great way to do something productive and daydream about Chris at the same time—wash the car. Besides, I wanted to be alone where I could think about him without worrying that my smile or my mood would betray me. “I can’t stand staying inside.”

Mom squirted some detergent into a bucket and handed me a sponge. “Can you finish in half an hour? I’m going to take a shower now and get ready for El Rancho.”

“No problem,” I said, tossing the sponge aside and running to my room to change.

Outside, it was what people call Indian summer. In Phoenix it lasts almost the whole autumn, a stretch of amazing bright-skied, eighty-five-degree days. On such a day, anything seemed possible—breaking a state swimming record, getting a college scholarship, even living happily ever after with a guy like Chris.

I used the garden hose to fill the bucket with sun-warmed water and started sudsing down the car. As I slopped the sponge around on the hood, I wondered where Chris was at that moment and whether or not he was thinking of me.

Our yard was haunted with reminders of the previous night: the rooftop we’d used as a diving board, the lawn where we’d huddled under the blanket and kissed, the bent branches of the oleanders where we’d stashed his bike. Everywhere I looked, I saw Chris’s face. For a minute, I thought I must be going crazy, because as I was hosing the suds off the car, I heard his voice too—calling my name.

“Amy!”

I whirled around, expecting a phantom. But instead there he was—riding his bike, dressed for some reason in a linen jacket and a tie. Chris Shepherd, in the flesh. I was so surprised, I nearly doused him with the garden hose.

“I was hoping you’d be here,” he said, dismounting from his bike as he coasted to a stop, his scuffed loafers slapping the puddle of water under his feet. “I don’t have your phone number. And I couldn’t find it in the book.”

“My mom goes by her maiden name,” I said. I looked down at my cutoffs and tank top and suddenly felt self-conscious. “It’s confusing. She’s a Turner. I’m a Wyse.”

He barely let me finish. “I had to see you,” he said, letting the bike fall, rattling, onto the soaking grass. He put his hand on my shoulder as though he would kiss me right there in broad daylight. I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end, both from pleasure and from a sense of danger.

That’s when Mom appeared in the back doorway, carrying a bag of trash and wearing her red-and-white checked El Rancho uniform. “Amy, I’m heading off—” she began, then stopped herself midword.

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