Page 70 of Eye of the Beholder
“Fine.” I uncover the phone and say, sounding more irritated than the situation probably warrants, “She’s smart and funny and nice. You’ll like her. I’ll text you her number. Hey, man, I have to go. Sorry. I’ll talk to you later.”
I hang up before he can respond.
The silence filling my room is deafening. I pick up my pencil and start working on the test again. That’s how much I don’t want to look at Mina right now—I jump willingly into the ACT.
Until I hear a sniffle from my bed.
I look at her just in time to see her wipe a tear from her cheek, and I put down my pencil with a sigh. I stand up and then sit next to her on the bed. “I thought you would be excited about this,” I say, my voice quiet. “Isn’t this what you want? You flirted today. What’s wrong?”
Seeing her cry is doing something uncomfortable to my insides. I move instinctively, and before I know it my arm is around her and I’m pulling her close into a hug. I stroke her hair absentmindedly. Why is she upset? Did I say something wrong?
“I don’t want to just be ‘hot,’” she says into my shirt. “I don’t want that to be the reason Jack likes me. I don’t want to be hot at all. That word is just a way to sexualize people.”
“Jack just doesn’t know you very well,” I say. I hesitate. “And I’m sorry I said you were hot.”
She pulls away. “Is that why you’re hanging out with me?” she says. She actually looks heartbroken.
“No,” I say quickly, and it’s true. I take her hands in mine. “No. Not at all. I mean, yeah—I like to look at you. Which I say as your mentor,” I add hastily as my cheeks heat. “But I like you as a person. I like hanging out with you, tutoring aside. It has nothing to do with how you look. It really doesn’t.”
She looks down at our hands. “You promise?” she says finally.
“Yes,” I say, tugging her close again. “I promise.” And I wish I could make her believe me, because the idea of Mina walking around thinking people only like her for her looks is just so sad. She’s funny. She’s blunt—I never have to wonder where I stand with her. She doesn’t play games. She’s smart.
What’s not to like?
Crap.
I’m in trouble.
22
Mina
It’s nice of Jack to talk to Cohen before asking me out, actually. Am I little offended that he thinks I would just “mess around” with someone? Sort of. But it’s like Cohen said—Jack doesn’t know me yet.
But hewillget to know me. Because this is what I’ve been training for. I can vaguely talk about football. I can put on makeup. I’m wearing clothes that fit. And tonight I will fully practice flirting in the mirror. Flirting with myself can’t possibly be worse than trying to flirt with Cohen on command. And it clearly went okay today, even though it was a bizarre feeling—like trying to dance to a fast-paced song where I don’t know all the steps. But I’m sure it will get better.
My phone rings while Cohen still has me pulled to his side. I’ve stopped crying—thankgoodness—but neither Cohen nor I have moved.
Cohen scoots away from me quickly as I pull my phone out. Praying that I don’t sound like I’ve been crying, I say, “Hello?”
“Hey, Mina. It’s Jack Freeman.”
My eyes widen, although I’m not really sure why I’m surprised. I glance at Cohen. He’s now settling into his chair and staring at the practice test on his desk, although his pencil isn’t moving.
“Oh, hi, Jack,” I say, my voice remarkably calm for someone about to be asked out by her long-time crush.
Cohen’s head whips up at the mention of Jack. His eyes narrow slightly. I wonder if he knows he’s doing that. He’s being very weird about the Jack thing today.
And Cohen thinks I’m hot. I’ve stored that away for further analysis later, because I can’t even think about it right now when I’m already so confused about my other feelings for him. Usually the word “hot” rankles me. And I still don’t love it. But from Cohen…it’s almost flattering. As is the fact that he’s never said it because he knew I wouldn’t like it.
“I was wondering if you wanted to go out with me tomorrow night,” Jack says, and my thoughts are pulled away from Cohen—who’s still staring at me with eyes narrowed, by the way. Jack’s voice is smooth and confident.
I swallow. “Yeah,” I say. Then, realizing I don’t sound as excited as I am, I try again. “Yeah! That would be great. What did you have in mind?”
“I wanted to take you to dinner. Do you like Italian?” he says.
Um, who doesn’t like Italian? Carbs for days. I am all about that.
