81
" Bev made sure she served Wilson his standard tomato-and-grilled-cheese-with-french-fries personally, though Bev always called them chips, as if to make Wilson feel right at home. He thanked her and said everything looked absolutely “scrummy.” She giggled just like Chrissy used to do in history class. It was all I could do not to laugh right out loud.
“I think Bev has a crush on you, Wilson. I know you're probably used to that by now. Don't you have a fan club at school? The 'I Heart Wilson' club, or something?”
“Ha, ha, Blue. I have never been all that popular with the girls.”
“Wilson. Don't be an idiot. You were all Manny could talk about the whole first month of school.”
“Manny is not a girl,” Wilson remarked mildly.
I snickered. “True. But I think I was the only one who wasn't following you around with my tongue hanging out. It was disgusting. Now even Bev has joined the club. I saw a bumper sticker on her car that said British Butts Drive Me Nuts.”
Wilson choked on a mouthful of food, laughing, and grabbed at his lemonade to wash it down. I loved making him laugh, even if it was hazardous to his health. "
― Amy Harmon , A Different Blue
95
" How did you get in?” he asked and then immediately shook his head and waved the question away. “Never mind. I really don't want to know. However, if on Monday I find that the walls have been spray painted, I'll know who to point the finger at.”
“Paint is not my medium,” I sniffed, offended.
“Oh really? What exactly is your medium?” He locked the door behind us as we stepped out into the night.
“Wood,” I clipped, wondering why I was telling him. Let him think I was a graffitti artist. Who the hell cared. “You do,” a little voice taunted mildly. And I did.
“And what exactly do you do with wood?”
“I carve it.”
“People, bears, totem poles, what?”
“Totem poles?!” I was incredulous. “Is that supposed to be some kind of slam to my ethnicity?”
“Your ethnicity? I thought you told me you weren't Native American.”
“I don't know what the hell I am, but that still sounded like a slam, Sherlock!”
“Why don't you know what you are, Blue? Haven't you ever tried to find out? Maybe that would make you less hostile!” Wilson seemed frustrated. He stomped ahead of me, almost talking to himself. “Absolutely impossible! Having a conversation with you is like trying to converse with a snake! You are vulnerable and tearful one moment and hissing and striking the next. I frankly don't know how to reach you, or even if I want to! I only said totem poles because they are usually carved from wood, all right?” He turned and glared at me.
“Cranky when you stay up past your bedtime, aren't you?” I mumbled. "
― Amy Harmon , A Different Blue
96
" The battery in my truck is dead. I'm parked out in the parking lot. I saw your car here and wondered if you would be able to help me,” I said softly, still not making eye-contact. I kept my eyes fixed on the floor.
“Are you all right?” he asked gently.
“Yes,” I said. And I was. Miraculously, I was.
A small white square of fabric appeared under my nose.
“A handkerchief! What are you, eighty-five?”
“Humph! I'm twenty-two, as you well know. I just happened to be raised by a very proper, slightly old-fashioned, Englishwoman who taught me to carry a handkerchief. I'll bet you're glad she did.”
I was. But I didn't admit it. The cloth felt satiny against my swollen eyes and tear-stung cheeks. It smelled heavenly . . . like pine and lavender and soap, and, suddenly, using his handkerchief felt incredibly intimate. I searched for something to say. “Is this the same woman who named you Darcy?”
Wilson's laugh was a brief bark. “The very same.”
“Can I keep this? I'll wash it and give it back. I'll even iron it, like your mom does.” The devil in me had to have her say.
“Ah, Blue. There you are. I thought for a moment you'd been body snatched by an actual human girl – one who doesn't take great pleasure in taunting her history teacher. "
― Amy Harmon , A Different Blue
