“Rowan’s on pie,” I write on the board.
“I’m not on the board, Stan—”
“And the tie,” Benson says, like he’s been holding it. “You’re wearing a tie, and you’re going to keep your mouth in check for one dinner, and you are not going as yourself to Coach Linwood’s table.”
I gasp. Genuinely. From the soul. “Reeve. Who am I if I’m not myself? You’re asking me to walk into the lion’s den naked.”
“You are going to get yourself killed,” Benson says.
“It’s going to save me,” I say, and I write BE YOURSELF on the board, and then, because Benson is looking at me, I write a small (carefully) next to it.
Blue’s grinning now. “I can’t believe you’re actually gonna pull this off.”
“I’m going to do more than pull it off, Baby Blue. By Sunday, Coach Linwood is going to think I hung the moon, my father is going to weep openly into a turkey, and that whole table is going to believe Aspen Linwood and I are the greatest love story of our generation.” I cap the marker and step back and admire the board, which now has a stick figure, two nets, an eyeball, and the word PIE on it, and which I consider a masterpiece. “Because here’s the thing none of you appreciate about me, I’m a closer.”
That’s when my phone buzzes on the table.
I flip it over. The whole room watches me.
Linwood: My mother wants to know if you have any food allergies for Thursday.
And something stupid happens in my chest. Some warm, dumb, traitor thing, completely out of proportion to a logistics question about a fake dinner.
I’m aware I’m grinning at the phone. I’m aware the grin is the wrong size. I clear it off my face fast, but not fast enough, because when I look up, Benson is looking at me, and Percy is looking at me, and neither of them says one single word.
Me:No allergies. I’m extremely low-maintenance and a joy to host.
The dots come up right away.
Linwood: I’m telling her the first part.
I grin at the phone again before I can stop it.
Across the table, very quietly, Percy says, “Mm.”
And nobody denies it.
Rowan’s the one who checks his phone. “It’s quarter to seven.”
The table reacts the way only five college students can react to the discovery that time kept moving during a crisis. Chairs scrape. Blue can’t find a shoe. Somebody’s keys are on the counter and not in their pocket. Rowan rinses his cereal bowl.
“Practice is at seven.”
“I’m walking,” I call out.
We all look at each other.
Percy says, “I’m driving.”
“I have class at nine,” Blue says.
“Everyone’s class is at nine,” Percy says.
Two minutes later, the five of us are out the front door and onto Hawthorne Street in the cold, bags over our shoulders, falling into the loose pack we’ve walked this exact stretch a thousand times.
Blue drops in beside me. “So does this mean we can go on a triple date?”
“I’d have to ask her.”
