It’s not, but knowing any response I have will annoy her, I avoid commenting. Instead, I grab the paper she had been murdering with an eraser. She slams her hand on her notebook in an effort to capture it, but I’m too fast.
“I can do this,” she says. “If I get a new brain maybe, but I can do this.”
“Let me try.” I also steal the notebook and pencil.
“Fine,” Breanna huffs, then collapses back onto the tall grass. Beside us are the remains of our three rockets. Our job now is to mathematically prove why one went higher than the other.
“It really is pretty here,” she says, and I glance over at her. The early autumn day is warm and the brittle grass surrounding her is green and yellow. Above us are trees colored with orange and red leaves. I agree it’s a sight under the clear sky, but not for the reasons she believes. Breanna’s the one who’s pretty.
“I can’t believe I’ve never been here before,” she says.
“No one comes here.” It’s why I like it. This meadow is a quarter mile from my home. I stumbled across it the summer after Mom died. I couldn’t stomach being home, especially on those days Dad brought a girl to the house. Since that summer, this place has been my refuge.
It’s encircled by trees, and during the spring and summer, flowers of multiple types bloom. But what I found interesting as a kid was the abandoned railway trestle. I’ve walked over that bridge more times than I can count. I’ve even climbed to the top.
Breanna’s a vision with her black hair sprawled around her. There’s not a soul around for miles, which means this place is perfect for the two of us.
A distant rumble and the ground vibrates. Breanna rolls over to her stomach and I have to tear my gaze away from her tight ass to watch as a train flies around the bend and crosses the current railroad trestle farther down from where we’re settled. It’s because of the newer trestle that I was able to bring Breanna here. There’s an access path off the main highway. It’s dirt and it was bumpy, but Breanna rode the back of my bike like a pro—like she belonged there.
Like she belonged with me.
“It seems impossible, doesn’t it?” she asks.
My heart stops. Is she also thinking about us?
Breanna points at the paper in front of me. “The math. It’s impossible.”
The math. Get your shit together. “If acceleration is equal to gravity, then the number would be...”
“Negative 9.81 meters per second squared,” she rattles off. I’d give up my bike for a week to be inside her head for a minute.
She’s quiet while I focus on the problem, which I appreciate. When I solve the equation, her face brightens. “Wow.”
I prop my arms on my raised knees and pretend to admire the field. Yeah. Wow. If only everything in my life came as easily as it does with numbers. I wasn’t just admitted into AP in science, but in math, too. School told Dad my science score teetered on admission to the program, but it was my knowledge of numbers that pushed me over.
“You’re the anti-me, aren’t you?” she says.
I chuckle and it comes out bitter. I am. She’s beautiful and smart and all that’s good with the world. “Yeah.”
Her forehead furrows as she reads my expression. “I mean with math and the hacking stuff. Your brain is built for math whereas mine isn’t. Like how you knew how to apply the kinematic equation. I know the equation, but I have a hard time applying the knowledge. I’m saying you’re smart.”
“It’s a small town, Breanna. You’ve heard the rumors about me. Some of which are true.”
Breanna sits up, then regards the old abandoned trestle. It’s not the first time today she’s studied it with curiosity. “Do you ever go on the trestle?”
I nod.
“Is it safe?”
Evidently not for trains. I stand and extend my open palm to Breanna. She’s eager to explore and I like seeing her smile. Breanna slides her fingers into mine and our eyes meet. We stay that way, staring, our hands twined together. I’ve never held a girl’s hand before. Not in a way that means something.
Her skin is soft. Very soft, and I begin thinking thoughts that would cause Breanna to demand a restraining order—like how the skin of her stomach might also be this soft.
The pressure of her delicate fingers is heavier than most weights I’ve lifted. It’s like holding on to a promise and it causes me to be nervous. Me nervous. About what? About kissing her? About touching her? I’ve done things with girls a million times over, but not with Breanna.
I gently pull and she hops to her feet. Breanna didn’t need my help, and as I attempt to release her, she squeezes my hand and offers a shy smile. Something within me shifts.
No, I don’t get nervous, but Breanna transports me to all sorts of new places. It’s not her physical proximity getting to me, it’s the fact that she makes me feel.
We let go of one another, but we walk close through the tall grass. The sound of the rushing water grows as we approach the bridge. Her hand bumps into mine, and I consider reclaiming her fingers, but I have no clue if she sees me in the ways I’m beginning to see her.
Breanna inhales, then pushes out a question. “I heard you failed fifth grade. Is that true?”
“I was held back.” We reach the foot of the bridge and I shove my hands into my pockets.
She toes the wood of the track and assesses the rusting iron. “You’re smart. A hell of a lot smarter than most. Definitely smarter than what—”