Gabrielle's Bully (Young Adult Romance) by Doreen Owens Malek Page B

Gaby, don’t beat around the bush. Let him have it right between the eyes.
    A crease appeared between his fine, sandy brows. “Why not?”
    “What I said before,” I answered, too miserable to try to explain the unexplainable to him. “It’s too far to go alone with you and ... I don’t know, it’s just the way he is.”
    Heath shifted his books on his hip. “Would you like me to talk to him?”
    I stared at him. That had never occurred to me.
    “What would you say?” I asked suspiciously. We were entering alien territory here. And yet. . . it might work. Heath handled adults better than anyone else my age I had ever seen. The teachers all seemed to like his mature, straightforward manner. Why should my father be any different?
    “Oh, I’d tell him how careful I would be, and what a safe driver I am, that type of stuff.” He shrugged almost regretfully. “Parents always go for me, though I can’t say the same for their kids.”
    I go for you, I wanted to say. Instead I asked, “Can you come to my house tonight, after dinner, say around seven?”
    “Sure thing.” He touched the tip of my nose. “Stop frowning, Gaby, your face will freeze that way.”
    I grinned, and so did he.
    I wondered if we’d still be smiling after he met my father.
    * * *
    When I announced at dinner that Heath would be arriving shortly to talk to my father, he glanced at my mother, startled.
    “It’s not to ask for my hand in marriage, Daddy,” I said dryly. “He just wants to get your permission to take me to Middlebury this weekend.”
    Storm clouds gathered. “I wouldn’t expect too much in that direction, young lady,” he said crisply.
    The rest of the meal was conducted in strained silence. My father wore the expression of a determined man. My mother sent me a look which said, Be patient, I’ll talk to him later. And Craig seized the opportunity to toss his broccoli down the disposal before my mother could remind him to eat it. He sneaked out of the kitchen looking like a chicken thief emerging from the henhouse.
    I was mashing raspberry gelatin cubes when the doorbell rang. I ran to the hall to let Heath in, narrowly avoiding colliding with Craig, who was observing the scene with great interest. Life for him would be pretty dull without me around to provide entertainment.
    When I saw Heath standing on the steps I wanted to fling my arms around his neck. I was having that reaction a lot lately. I clasped my hands behind my back to avoid touching him, while he unbuttoned his navy pea coat. Underneath he was wearing a pearl gray sweater that made his eyes look gray, too, the color of rainwater on a windowpane. His eyes changed with what he wore, and had specks of gold in them around the pupil, like a dash of fairy dust. I blinked and looked down, taking his coat. I had to stop mooning over him. Why couldn’t I be cool, distant, learn to lighten up a little? I folded his jacket industriously and put it on the back of a chair.
    I glanced at the rest of his outfit. He had resurrected a pair of his original tailored pants, and the old oxfords. His hair, which was just long enough now to part, was slicked down with water.
    “You look like a recruiting poster,” I whispered.
    “That’s the idea,” he said. “The All-American boy has come to pay a call.”
    I pointed to the manila folder he was carrying under his arm. “What’s that?”
    “Ammunition,” he said mysteriously. He jerked his head in the direction of the den. “You coming with me?”
    “I think I’d better help my mother with the dishes,” I said nervously. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear this.
    “Coward,” Heath said. He put his hand over his heart. “Well, buckeroo, if I don’t make it back to the bunkhouse, tell the guys I died with my boots on.”
    I made a face and shoved him toward the back of the house. “Good luck.”
    I went into the kitchen and moped around, biting my nails. My mother went through her usual routine, putting things in the