Twice Shy by Sarah Hogle (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📗

forehead crease with worry. He was in such a great mood last night, or at least I thought so. Now I’m second-guessing. It’s possible that I was so preoccupied with how fantastic I felt that I projected my good mood onto him and didn’t notice he didn’t feel the same . . . except, that can’t be right. He was happy. He expressly told me so.

After spending the night with someone, you don’t see them exactly the same way come morning. Sleepovers are a level unlocked in intimacy. I’ve been thinking we’re closer now, but what if he’s reconsidering me? Us? Going on a trip with someone you’re reconsidering being in a relationship with would certainly render a person pale and quiet.

I overcompensate for his quietness by being extra chatty. “Little disappointed that the connecting flight in Chicago only leaves us an hour of wiggle room. We could’ve gone sightseeing. What are some good sights in Chicago? I think they’ve got an important baseball field there, if you like baseball. Probably some museums. Deep-dish pizza. Maybe we’ll find somewhere in the airport that serves deep-dish.” We wend our way through clusters of people in the busy airport.

“This place is packed,” he grates, pressing himself into the side of the escalator we’re ascending as far as he can manage. A man bumps him with his bag anyway.

“Sorry,” the man says.

Wesley grants him a wincing smile and then faces straight ahead like he’s on his way to a guillotine.

“Do you want to get some snacks for the plane? I think there’s a Cinnabon past the gates.”

He responds with a curt shake of the head. A string of people pass us on the other side of the escalator and he guards me with his arm.

“What about reading material?”

He shakes his head again.

“Wesley.” We step off the escalator, heading for security. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I think the pancakes are giving me an upset stomach.”

“Oh, no.” I smooth a hand down his back. “I can go buy you some Rolaids.”

“No, I’ll be all right.”

“You sure?”

He nods jerkily.

“But are you totally sure? You look a little green.”

He pats me on the top of the head, a little messily. “Shhh. Don’t worry yourself.”

I am an idiot. I smack my forehead. “It’s the people, not the pancakes. You’re bothered by all the people!”

If Wesley slopes his shoulders any farther inward, he’ll topple over. “Shhh!” he repeats, glancing erratically around. “The people will hear you.” We’re at the security checkpoint now, tugging off our shoes.

“I won’t let anyone talk to you,” I vow. “Not that anybody would. I think most people just want to go about their business.”

A woman in line smiles at us. “Good morning. Or afternoon, I guess. Just about!” She checks her watch. “I’m on my way to Miami. What about you folks? You flying together?”

Wesley’s face becomes a mask. I’ve forgotten this Wesley: the one who clams up around strangers, whose default setting in these situations is to glare. I see this behavior now for the defense mechanism that it is, wanting others to perceive him as rude so that they won’t come any closer. He shows everybody else a lie, which is a real shame. They don’t know what they’re missing out on.

“We’re flying to Scotland!” I exclaim.

“Oh, that’s fun! What’s the occasion?”

Wesley bristles. Don’t worry, I’m not giving away anything private of yours, I think, willing him to hear it. “Just want to see if it’s really as green as it looks in the pictures,” I reply breezily. He relaxes somewhat, but not all the way.

The woman and I go back and forth a few times until it’s her turn to deal with TSA.

“Okay, well, I’m sure the people in Chicago won’t be as friendly as the people in Knoxville,” I mutter in Wesley’s ear.

He forgets to remove his belt when passing through the metal detector and fumbles nervously with the buckle while trying to get it off.

“You all right, buddy?” a TSA agent jokes. The comment is lighthearted, but I notice the shell of Wesley’s ear turning pink and it makes my heart hurt.

“Soon enough, we’ll be in Loch Ness and we can avoid everybody,” I promise him once we’re both in the clear. “Just you and me and the monsters.”

We make our way to the plane, only one bag for carry-on. We’ve got his sketch pad inside, and for me, a ton of Mad Libs. I hate to keep asking if he’s okay, since I think it just makes things worse, but I can’t help saying, “You still want to do this?”

“I’m fine.” He laces his hand in mine.

Once we’re inside the plane, however, he freezes up. Right there in the middle of the aisle.

“What’s wrong?” I peer around his shoulder from behind.

He doesn’t respond, staring at the tiny seats. “There’s not enough room.”

Right. He’s not a small person, and legroom is going to be a distant memory soon enough. “You can use up my space for legroom,” I assure him. “I don’t mind. Take my armrest, too.”

We sit down. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply in and out.

I don’t know what to do, how to make him feel better. All I can think is to hug his arm and rest my head on his shoulder. Other people are packing in, fitting their bags into the luggage compartment. Elbows and jackets brushing. Loud voices of parents instructing their kids. I dig in my bag for chewing gum.

“Atmospheric pressure,” I say, offering Wesley a stick. I think he’ll smile, like we did yesterday when he offered me gum for our pretend trip into the clouds. But he looks miserable.

“I’m going to throw up.”

I stare, fighting panic. Wesley is miserable and I need to make him feel better but I don’t know how. “I think they have bags for that.” I rummage around for one, but he rises unsteadily to his feet.

“Bathroom.”

“Okay.”

I watch him go, then turn back around in my seat. I’ll have to distract him during takeoff. Tic-tac-toe, maybe. I page through