Page 23 of Fighting

“How do you plan to do that, exactly, Matty?” I ask, desperate to focus on anything to slow the flutters.

He holds up a finger. “You are going to date me.” A second finger. “We are going to wow the town with the best Sunflower Fest ever.” A third. “The Morgans will accept my offer.” His lips curl in a wicked smile. “I am going to be a hometown hero, and you’ll be swept off your feet. And you better believe nothing willstop me from succeeding. It’s only a matter of time before you see it, brainiac.”

“So we’re just like Pinky and the Brain,” I chuckle.

He squeezes my hand, which is still draped over the gearshift. “Well, Brain, what do you say? What do you want to do tonight?”

This is not supposed to be so endearing. With a roll of my eyes, I give in and finish the cartoon catchphrase, my voice squeaking as I say, “Try to take over the world?”

“Atta girl. Now let me get you home.” He signals and pulls onto the quiet street, and two minutes later, he’s pulling into my driveway.

When I grasp the door handle, he clutches my wrist and yanks my hand away. Then he climbs out and jogs around the front of the SUV. On my side now, he opens the door with an over-the-top bow.

Tipping an invisible cap, he says, “Milady.”

And I can’t help the tiny laugh that escapes from my lips.

Oh fuck, my head and hormones just declared war.

nine

Mateo

“Fine, I’ll read the assignment,”I say while flipping open the textbook-thick binder on the coffee table.

As I skim the contents, one thing is immediately clear: I was correct—nearly nothing has changed. The vendor list for the Sunflower Fest could have been written in 1985. And when I turn another yellowed page and read the date, a chuckle escapes my lips. September 23,1985.

Prudence Cleary still owns the tea and tarot shop.

Meanwhile, the Salvatores, rumored mafia family, own the salon, Curl Up & Dye, as well as the butcher shop and mechanic garage.

Landan Sherman’s mom, Amelia, still runs the Honeybee Inn with her best friend.

River Hendrix is the latest to run The Featherweight. His girlfriend Lily Long took over the dance studio.

Pippa Whitter, who is my age, and her younger brother Seth—Stef’s age—are listed as the bookstore co-owners. Grabbing my phone, I tap out a text.

Mateo:

Hey, lil broski, I need the dirt on Pages. Who is in charge?

Lee:

Both, but Seth is attached. Pip does a bunch of traveling. But I’d include her in emails if I were you.

Mateo:

Sweet. Anything else I should know about?

Lee:

Aren’t you getting the Peacock Springer text chain of town gossip?

It has been quiet. Did they take me off because we moved?

Mateo:

Did they take you off? How will you survive without your gossip texts?

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