Page 36 of Eye of the Beholder
I smile again, and it’s less faked this time.
Cohen says, “Here’s your game.” He hands a game to Jack—something about sports, which sounds terrible—and says, “Thanks, man.”
“No problem, dude.”
I try to ignore the man language.
To my surprise, Jack’s eyes swing back to me. “So Mina, you live next to Cohen, right? And you go to our school?”
I nod.
“How haven’t I seen you around?” he says, leaning casually against the door frame.
Ah. This question. I send a mental glare at Cohen. He said he would do all the talking. He should have warned me I’d have to fend off questions.
“I’m pretty quiet,” I say finally, because Jack is just staring at me, waiting for an answer.
“And you guys are…” he says, looking between Cohen and I, his eyebrows slightly raised.
Is he asking if Cohen and I are dating? I have no idea how to answer that. Can I nudge Cohen at all discreetly? I can’t, right? Jack would see.
“Just neighbors,” Cohen says. “She needs a ride somewhere, so I brought her along.”
I notice he doesn’t call us friends. “Yep,” I say, smiling again.
Jack nods, still looking back and forth between us. “Cool. Well, I have to run, but…I’ll see you around?” he says to me, grinning. “And maybe I can get you to talk a little more?”
My heart lurches. Is he flirting with me? He’s not even looking at Cohen.
“Yep,” I say again, my voice squeaking. That squeaky word is all I can get out. I feel my face burning, and I’m beyond relieved when Cohen says,
“See you later.” He turns and waves over his shoulder at Jack as he walks away, and I follow him quickly. I look back to see Jack watching us, and he grins at me again before he closes the front door.
I’m dying. I’m dead. I might be dead.
And yes, I’m being silly—he’s just a guy. But…he’sJack.
When we get back in the car, the first thing Cohen says is, “You need to learn how to flirt. He was flirting with you. You know that, don’t you?”
I look at him, still sort of in awe. “I think you’re right. I think he was actually flirting with me.”
“We’ll work on that next time,” he says. “Let’s go home. Nice job with the smiling, though.”
A sort of giddiness is rising in my chest, but it’s dampened slightly when I remember what Cohen said. “So, we’re just neighbors?” I say, and I hesitate. “Not friends?”
Cohen’s silent for a second, and I glance at him, but his face is unreadable. “We’re friends,” he says.
“Good,” I say as he pulls into our neighborhood. I’m surprised at the fluttering of relief I feel.
The sun is almost completely down by the time I get back to my house. It’s been a long evening. “I’m home,” I call, and I hear my parents’ responses from the kitchen. My mom rounds the corner. She smiles when she sees me.
“Wow,” she says. “You’re beautiful! Was this Lydia’s doing?”
“Yeah,” I say. “She’s really sweet.”
“You got my hair,” my mom says, smoothing her hands over the top of my head. “You and your sisters all look just alike.” She nods to the photos lining the wall—Violet’s senior picture, then Leah’s, then Bella’s, then Ruby’s. And she’s right; there’s a definite family resemblance. Looking at their pictures makes me a little sad; I miss them.
My mom hesitates, folding her arms. Then she says, “Is all this about a boy?”
