Free The Inside of Out by Jenn Marie Thorne Page B

blasting death metal rounded the corner, inches from my face. QB caught up beside me.
    He up-nodded lasciviously. “You look really—”
    â€œNope.” I put my hand up as I faced him. “What is this? What are you doing?”
    His smile flickered. “Um . . .”
    â€œYou’ve done nothing for the past decade but make fun of me. Why are you suddenly friendly?”
    QB’s brow furrowed with the massive effort of coming up with a reply. The street cleared. I growled a sigh and crossed.
    It wasn’t until we’d gotten to Mario’s, ordered slices and sodas, and sat at a picnic table in the dingy back garden with everyone in the world staring at us that he answered my question.
    â€œI wasn’t trying to be a dick. When I teased you, I mean.”
    I rolled my eyes.
    â€œSeriously!” His face went soft, all innocence. “It was
nice
teasing. Like friends do.” At my raised eyebrow, he fell somber. “You’re not the easiest person to start a conversation with, you know.”
    Dozens of overlapping responses sprung to mind, from “That’s ridiculous, I am a Class One Loudmouth,” to “Tell me something
interesting
and I’ll respond,” but then I realized I’d just sat there staring at QB for close to a minute without physically saying anything, so he might have had a point.
    What I came out with was “Fine.”
    QB looked encouraged. And then, abruptly, heartbroken. “You heard about Natalie?”
    I nodded and took an enormous bite of pizza, determined to eat and get out of here as quickly as possible. The cheese singed the roof of my mouth.
    He leaned over the table, his voice low. “Did you know . . . before?”
    I shrugged. “Like a couple of days.”
    â€œThat’s it?” QB looked confused. It was a familiar expression. “I thought maybe you could tell by looking at her. Like . . . radar.”
    It took a sugary gulp of soda for my brain to kick into gear.
    I stared at him. “You mean . . .
gaydar
?”
    â€œYeah!” He perked up. “Like that.”
    â€œOh my God.” A laugh got stuck in my throat. “You think I’m gay!”
    â€œWhat? Well, yeah. Aren’t you? You and Hannah von Lincoln or whatever. Everyone knows she’s your ex.”
    â€œShe’s my best friend.
Not
ex, current. But that’s it. We’re platonic soul mates.”
    â€œOh.” QB slumped, his expression shuffling between confusion and disappointment. He took a bite of his pizza, but stopped mid-chew like he’d lost the energy to digest it. I pushed his soda toward him. He sipped and swallowed.
    When he glanced back up, he didn’t look any happier. “So I guess she’s with Natalie now.”
    â€œI guess. No accounting for taste.”
    He squinted. “You don’t like this either.”
    â€œI’m not the world’s biggest Natalie Beck fan.”
    QB recoiled, apparently shocked. “But Natalie’s an amazing person! She’s seriously the most awesome—”
    I motioned for him to lower his voice. A squirrely kid from my homeroom passed with a tray, one ear cocked toward our conversation, and at last QB seemed to realize he was not inthe middle of a therapy session. He rocked back in his chair and his face relaxed. Smarmy. Arrogant. The face I was used to.
    â€œI bet you’re an amazing girl too, Daisy.”
    The junior did a double take as he walked past. I didn’t blame him. At this point, I questioned whether I was, in fact, dreaming this entire day. “Are you
hitting
on me?”
    QB slid his hand closer to mine. “Do you
want
me to be hitting on you?”
    â€œQB.” I peered into his eyes. He squirmed. “If you thought I was gay . . . why would you be interested in me?”
    He frowned, considering. “I thought maybe . . . I