Zach makes a face. “Post office? I thought we were going for mundane, not painful.”
I laugh. “Gardening? Grocery shopping?”
“Shopping!” Zach says, pointing at me like I’ve hit on something ingenious. “That is perfect.”
As soon as we drive off, I text my mom:Sorry. Ride got here while you were on phone! Love you!
We’re near the mall, but we decide to drive a little bit farther to the discount store because it won’t be as crowded and, it turns out, we’re both cheap. The conversation is steady and normal for the whole drive (we talk about the DVDs he has in his car, which ones are good and worth seeing), but there’s this current running through my body the whole time we’re talking. It makes me hyper-aware of everything, of the number of times Zach glances over at me as he drives (five), the number of times he laughs at something I say (three), the number of times he touches his hair (seven). I fiddle with my seat belt and fold my hands in my lap, but then that feels matronly and weird, so I unfold them and leave them flat on my shorts, wondering what, in general, people tend to do with their hands.
When we get into the store, Zach pulls out a cart and says, “Have you ever played Bigger and Better?”
“No. How does it work?” It’s around noon now and a weekday, so there are only a couple other customers apart from us.
“It’s easy. You start out with the smallest thing possible, like, say…” He glances around and we’re right by the stationery aisle, so he throws an eraser into the cart. “Thenyoupick something else out—something bigger and better—and we keep trading until we wind up with the biggest and best thing there is in here. Then we pay for it and feel awesome.”
“Oh, but that sounds like too muchfunto qualify as mundane,” I say sarcastically, and Zach laughs.
“I think we can make it work. Your turn.”
I inspect the items closest to us, take out Zach’s eraser, and replace it with a pack of yellow Post-its.
He gives me a skeptical look. “It’s definitely bigger, but is it better?”
“Of course,” I say. “Everybody loves Post-its.”
“Idon’t love Post-its,” Zach says. “This No Boys Aloud notebook does not love Post-its.” He takes out the pack of Post-its and picks up this bright orange book with the four faces of the latest pop girl group to hit the music scene. He shakes his head as he leafs through it. “I’m sorry. The Spice Girls were better.”
I snort. “Oh yeah? And who was your favorite, Zach?”
He frowns as if trying hard to recall something. “Thyme?” he asks innocently. His gray eyes twinkle as he tries not to laugh, and something flutters in my chest. “Oregano?”
“Oh my God,” I say. “I hope for your sake that you’re actually kidding.”
Before middle school, one of my many loves was musical groups. I loved the harmonies and the different, complicated histories you could create for each member. Whether they were random bubblegum groups with a five-second life expectancy or Queen, who my dad and I would sing along with in the car. You could never convince us that we didn’t have enough voices for the opening multipart harmony of “I Want It All.” I haven’t thought about that in forever, and it hurts trying to remember the last time I had that much fun with my dad. Thoughts of the terrible family dinner swirl in my mind, and I suddenly want to go home and blast Queen songs, use them to lure my parents, my brother, myself out of ourselves. I’d wake us all up with Freddie Mercury.
Instead, I pick up a book of crossword puzzles and hold my hand out for the notebook, but Zach refuses to hand it over.
“You can’t. A puzzle book? This notebook is clearly superior.”
I make a grab for it when Zach isn’t expecting it, and our fingers brush, and that electriczapsurges through my body again. Blood rushes to my ears as I take the notebook from him and drop the crossword book in. I can’t tell if he felt it, too, or what exactly thatwas,so I pretend to be thoroughly inspecting the aisles and don’t meet his eyes.
We move into the home décor aisle, and Zach takes this couch cushion with French words stenciled in loopy black cursive:L’amour fait les plus grandes douceurs et les plus sensible infortunes de la vie.
My attempt at translating goes like this: “Love fate—feet?—big…two?”
I glance at Zach and he’s repressing laughter, a fist placed over his mouth. “Go on. It sounds like you’re on the right track.”
“Sensible unfortunate life,” I finish.
“So obviously”—Zach pauses, seeking out the right words—“love is for everyone, even Bigfoot.”
“Two big feet or two Bigfootsmight not be a sensible pairing,” I offer.
“Right, because they’d be way more conspicuous that way,” he says.
“But a lone Bigfoot is in for an unfortunate life.”
“Yes,”Zach says emphatically. “We’ve mastered the French language in, what, five minutes?” He holds up his hand for a high five and I raise mine to meet it, my palm all nerve endings where it touches his.
