“Whoa, honey, slow down!” She’s still in her pajamas, a silk robe she picked up on a trip to Japan, with bright butterflies and flowers etched around the collar. She holds out an arm to stop me.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, trying to get past. She reaches up to smooth my hair back from my face and looks at me for a moment, her hand on my cheek.
“You would tell me if you weren’t okay. Right?”
“Yes,” I pull away. “I’m late for breakfast.”
She hands me the mug. It feels warm and comforting in my hands.
“Here, take this with you.”
I take a sip, expecting coffee, and choke when a hot leafy sludge hits my lips.
“Mom! What is this?”
“It’s coca-kale-a,” she says. “It’s a wonderful, cleansing drink. Apparently Beyoncé drinks one before every show.”
* * *
• • • • • •
I grab my backpack at the door, mug still in my hands, and run down the front steps to Andrew’s truck. The morning is cold and foggy, typical for April. Warm, muggy mornings won’t start for another few weeks, when one day, without warning, summer will arrive in a sweltering haze.
Climbing into the truck, I grunt hello, handing him the mug and watching as he takes a sip, waiting for the inevitable expression of disgust. Instead, he raises his eyebrows.
“This is interesting. What is this?” And then he throws back the mug, slurping down the rest in a few gulps. “Very salad-y. Not sure I would recommend it for breakfast, but thanks.” I should have learned by now that Andrew’s like a human garbage disposal. He hands me back the empty mug, and I take it, careful not to let our fingers touch. I slump down on the seat, reaching to fiddle with the radio, anything to distract myself from the mess I’ve gotten into. I’m mad at myself for being aware of his fingers at all.
He’s rumpled, his hair sticking up in a way that makes it clear he only recently lifted his head from his pillow. His glasses are on, and they’re bent slightly, like he probably just sat on them for the hundredth time. I feel hollow in my stomach as I look at him, and before I can help it, a brief flash pops into my head of what it would be like to kiss him. I begin giggling uncomfortably, feeling my face grow clammy and hot.
Hannah has ruined me.
“So what’s up?” he asks, and then stops when he sees my expression. I haven’t thought of a cover-up lie, a simple innocuous question to ask him instead, and now it’s too late. He fiddles with his glasses, taking them off and then putting them right back on. “Do you want to talk about it now or wait for bacon?”
“Bacon,” I say, still caught in a wave of giggles. He turns the keys in the ignition and the truck rumbles as the engine starts.
“Should I be worried?” he asks, checking behind him before pulling out of the driveway. “You said it was important.”
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself, letting the giggles subside. “It was nothing.” I clear my throat, trying to remain serious. “Just pretend I never texted you.” And then, before I can help it, I burst out into another fit of giggles, this time worse than before.
Andrew drives us to Jan’s, mercifully letting my odd behavior slide. He pulls into a spot out front and we climb out of the truck.
The diner is empty except for another group of Prescott students huddled together in a corner booth. It’s not uncommon for kids to smoke weed before school and come to Jan’s for their early-morning munchies. I’ve never been an early riser and have always marveled that anyone could love smoking enough to set their alarm for it. These guys are a group of sophomores whose names I don’t know, and they’re sitting silently, shoveling pancakes into their mouths with glassy eyes.
I steer Andrew toward the booth in the opposite corner, wanting to sit as far away as possible, for privacy. It’s unlikely they’d be able to listen to our conversation at all in their state, but I’m feeling paranoid and jumpy.
The waitress comes over to take our order: two small stacks of pancakes with strawberries, two coffees, and two sides of bacon. When she walks away, things fall quiet and I remember why we’re here.
“So I’m guessing you have something embarrassing to ask me,” he says, “because you sent me that cryptic text and now you’re acting like a weirdo.” He takes a sip of his water. “Thank God we’re already friends, because I probably would have dropped you by now if I didn’t know you so well. You’ve been a complete disaster all morning.” He smiles to show me he isn’t serious.
“I told you to forget that text.”
The waitress comes back with our coffees and sets them down on the table in front of us. Andrew pulls his coffee toward him and grabs three packets of sugar, tearing them open and pouring them in one by one.
I wrinkle my nose at him, taking a sip of my own coffee. “I didn’t mean to send it.”
He frowns. “You can trust me, Collins. Remember what you told me before? You’re here for my weird shit? Well, I’m here for your weird shit too. You’re my little weirdo.”
“I know.” I pick up one of the empty sugar packets in front of him and begin tearing the paper into little pieces—something to keep me distracted.
“We all need someone to talk to about embarrassing things.” He takes the sugar packet out of my hands and pushes the little pile of paper away from me. “Remember that time you slept over in first grade and when we woke up in the morning, you had wet the bed?” He grins.
“That was you,” I say, laughing despite myself. “You were the one who wet the bed.”
“But we can’t prove that, can we?” He raises his eyebrows. “Anyway, this can’t be worse than that.”
“It’s worse,” I say glumly.
He takes a sip of his coffee, and then his eyes light up. “Okay, what about the time in seventh grade when you got your”—he pauses, tripping over the word—“um, period at school and you had to borrow my sweatshirt for the rest of the day?”
I remember the horror of that day clearly. I stood up at the end of math class and noticed a small red stain on the chair. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. I wasn’t friends with the girls yet and didn’t have anyone to ask but Andrew. I held my backpack awkwardly over my butt and pulled him to the side of the room, my face burning as I coughed out the words. He let me tie his sweatshirt around my waist for the rest of the day, and we never once brought it up again. It was one of the first times I felt a strange kind of distance from him—when I began to realize I was a girl and he was a boy, and our experiences were going to branch off into different directions.