Such a Pretty Face by Annabelle Costa

Chapter 8

I’m relieved to find when I get to the classroom for the next lecture, the chair I brought in from the other room is still there. I won’t have to lug it over every single time.

I sit down in the back and leave a space for Brody’s wheelchair. I’m hoping maybe he’ll forget about our conversation from last time. Or at least, not be angry at me anymore. He’s clearly a nice guy and it would be good to have a friend in class for a change.

When there’s only a minute left until the lecture, Brody still hasn’t arrived. And that’s when I wonder about the impact of my thoughtless comment. What if he dropped the class? What if my mean comment humiliated him so much he decided he didn’t even want to be in the same room with me?

I breathe a sigh of relief when I see him enter the room. He’s wearing a black Mets T-shirt under a long-sleeved flannel shirt, and the dark color of his shirt makes the belt across his chest less visible. I look in his direction and try to smile. He won’t even look at me though. He backs his chair up and parks it near the front of the room.

Fine. Whatever. It’s a relief. I didn’t want to have to copy the notes for him every damn day. I’m glad he’s letting me off the hook.

My notes end up being awful. Every two minutes, I find myself staring in Brody’s direction. It’s not like everybody has to like me, but I hate the idea of somebody being angry at me, especially a nice guy like Brody. I should never have snapped at him. I need to apologize.

As soon as the lecture is over, I heave out of my seat and walk up to where Brody has parked his wheelchair. He’s fiddling with the joystick control on his chair and doesn’t acknowledge my existence. Even when I clear my throat loudly.

“Hey,” I finally say to him.

He glances up at me briefly, then nods, expressionless. “Hey.”

I squeeze my fists together. “Um,” I say. “Do you want to copy my notes?”

Now I have his attention. Brody raises his eyebrows at me. “I wouldn’t want you to have to go to the trouble. I’m just going to ask Dr. Nichols.”

“I really don’t mind,” I say. He frowns and I add, “Really.”

“No, I don’t want to bother you,” he insists. “I’ll ask Dr. Nichols.”

“It’s not a bother,” I say. “I promise.”

“Look, it’s not a big deal,” Brody says. “I’ve asked professors for their notes before.”

“And I said it’s not a big deal for me to copy my notes for you.”

“You don’t have to though,” he says.

I narrow my eyes at him. Honestly, now he’s just being annoying. “Listen, how many times am I going to have to tell you I’m okay with it before you’re willing to use my notes?”

The corners of his lips twitch. “One more time, I think.”

I sigh and roll my eyes. “Fine. Can you please copy my notes, Brody?”

And then he rewards me with that great, infectious smile. It makes me feel strangely tingly. Sheesh, he’s cute. “Okay, since you asked so nicely,” Brody says with a wink. “Let’s go.”

I have to wait for Brody to turn his chair one-hundred-eighty degrees so that he’s facing the door again, which isn’t easy in this tiny classroom. After a minute, he gets into position. By now, everyone in the class has already left, and the last person closed the door behind them. We stand in front of the closed door for a minute, and I finally notice Brody is looking at me expectantly.

“I’m not so great at doorknobs,” he says “Can you open it, please?”

I’m such an idiot. How did I not recognize he couldn’t open the door? If you don’t have much strength in your arms, doorknobs have got to be a challenge. It seems like such a simple thing—being able to open a door. And he can’t do it.

This time, Brody seems to know where the copy machine is. As we make our way there, he says to me, “I like your shirt.”

I’m wearing a black dress shirt that minimizes my girth and follows the curve of my boobs. It’s nothing spectacular. He’s just being nice.

“Thank you,” I say. And I feel compelled to add, “I like yours too. Let’s go Mets!”

He winks at me. “Not a Yankees fan then?”

I shake my head. “Never. I went to Wellesley for college. And over in Massachusetts, you can be a Mets fan, but if you’re a Yankees fan, they skin you alive.”

“I don’t like them either,” Brody says. “I used to. Like, years ago. But… I don’t know. It’s like there’s this giant robot going around clobbering everything in sight, and at first, it’s pretty fun to watch the robot, and maybe you even cheer for the robot. But eventually, you wish someone would defeat that goddamn robot. You know?”

I laugh. “No, that makes sense.”

We arrive at the copy machine after only a minute. This time, I’m not winded and my thighs feel okay. I take my time copying the two pages of notes from the class. I press the two warm sheets of copy paper into Brody’s backpack. “Thanks,” he says.

“You don’t have to thank me,” I say.

“Sure I do,” he says.

As we face each other, he smiles at me. I find myself smiling back. Then out of nowhere, Brody blurts out, “Do you want to have dinner with me?”

What? I stare at him, my heart slamming in my chest. That was absolutely the last thing I expected him to say. “You mean like a date?”

That didn’t come out right. I watch his cheeks turn red. “Well, no, it doesn’t have to be. We could just go as friends if you’d like. Either way, I’d still like to have dinner with you.”

It doesn’t have to be. Does that mean he wants it to be a date? Does he actually want to go out with me?

So this is what it feels like. This is the first time I’ve ever been asked out—or whatever this is. He seems so embarrassed about the whole thing, it’s adorable. And flattering. I try to imagine him looking at me, and thinking I’m the sort of person he’d like to go out with or maybe even kiss. I can’t.

Maybe I misunderstood.

“So what do you say?” Brody asks me, his smile faltering.

“Okay,” I say.

His eyes light up. “Yeah?”

“Sure,” I say.

“That is awesome.” He nods happily. “Are you free tomorrow? I know it’s Friday, but…”

“Yes,” I agree. Maybe a little too quickly. I don’t want to seem overeager. Oh well.

What I want to say to him is I do want this to be a date, but I can’t quite get the words out. The thought of admitting to a guy that I’d like to go out with him is enough to make me blush.