Free Antsy Floats by Neal Shusterman Page B

Then I added, “Better not let him catch you. Believe me, he will find a way to make your life a living hell.” Then I felt bad, because maybe her life already was a living hell. And then I said the stupid thing that I had thought about but promised I wouldn’t say. “Listen, you can hide out on my balcony. I won’t tell anyone.”
    She just laughed at that. “Why would I want your balcony when I have this luxury yacht?”
    At the time I thought she was talking about the lifeboat, but later I came to realize she meant the entire Plethora of the Deep , which she saw as her own personal playground.
    She kept on smiling. “I appreciate your offer, though.” Then she moved closer and said, “We can kiss if you like.”
    This I was not expecting.
    â€œThat’s why you’re helping me, isn’t it? So go ahead. We can kiss, but that is all. Nothing more.” And she puckered her lips in anticipation.
    Okay, I have to admit, I was feeling stirrings. Let’s just say that the ship wasn’t the only thing that hit a swell. And she was right—I wanted to. She was beautiful; she was mysterious; she was so unlike anyone I knew in the real world. But she was wrong about one thing: I didn’t help her because I wanted to make out with her, and if I did that now, it would make me feel like a creep—because what if, in that secret place where my subconscious makes its sneaky little plans, what if that really was the reason why I helped her after all?
    I could hear all my friend’s voices in my head screaming, “Do it! Do it! Do it now, before she changes her mind!” I could even hear Ira saying , “Get it on video!”
    â€œNo,” I told her, even though I knew I’d regret saying it in ten minutes. “I’m not gonna kiss you.”
    She looked at me like I had slapped her in the face.
    â€œWhy not? I know it’s what you want.”
    â€œFirst of all, you just ate a pound of garlic shrimp,” I told her. “And second, you’re not my type.”
    â€œOh . . . so then you like boys?”
    â€œWhat? You think any boy who won’t kiss you must be gay?”
    â€œPretty much, yeah.”
    I was about to deny it, and then I realized something. She had been in control of everything from the moment we met. This was my chance to be in charge of the situation. To control the controller.
    So I looked her square in the eye and said absolutely nothing, neither confirming nor denying the suggestion.
    Her eyes went wide at my silence. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking away. “I didn’t realize . . . Forgive me, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
    And so by not saying a thing, I suddenly had the upper hand.
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    I have no experience playing for the other team—and wearing a dress on Halloween doesn’t count. There are some guys you kinda know what their deal is and others who you’d never know unless they told you, like my cousin Benny, who evades gaydar like a stealth bomber.
    Guys at school use the “G” word as an insult. I don’t know why that is, but it just is. I admit that I’ve been guilty of that—but I also know I’d never treat a guy bad if he really was. Only the real lowlifes pick on guys or girls for being gay.
    As for me, I got no problem with all the variations of humanity. As long as no one’s making me do something I don’t want to—like the one time we played spin the bottle at a party. Spin the bottle is not a smart game unless you bend the rules, because the bottle don’t know the concept between male and female, and my bottle landed on Vinnie Bamboni. Have you ever seen Vinnie Bamboni? Calling him ugly is an insult to ugliness, and to top it, he’s got breath like used dental floss.
    Neena Wexler, class president and an iron-fisted enforcer of rules, was running the