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“Merriam-Webster fanboy?” I ask.
“I’m more of an OED guy.” When I give him a blank look, he continues: “Oxford English Dictionary? It’s only the definitive record of the English language.”
“I know what the Oxford English Dictionary is,” I snap. “I just wasn’t familiar with the acronym. How often does that come up in daily life, anyway? When you need to whip out a dictionary… or five?”
He shrugs. “Somewhat often, if you want to become a lexicographer.”
“Oh,” I say, nodding like I know exactly what that is.
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “You don’t know what that is either, do you?”
“I’m trying really hard to not find you infuriating right now.”
“It’s someone who compiles dictionaries,” he says, and it kind of suits him. “I love words, and that’s what I want to do. There’s no better satisfaction than using precisely the right word in a conversation. I love the challenge of learning a new language, and I love discovering patterns. And I find it fascinating that words in other languages have crept into our vocabulary. ‘Cul-de-sac,’ ‘aficionado,’ ‘tattoo…’?”
As he’s explaining this, his eyes light up, and he gestures with his hands. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him this animated, this clearly enamored with something.
“That’s kind of cool,” I finally concede. Because honestly, it is. “How many languages do you know?”
“Let’s see…” He ticks them off his fingers. “Fives on AP Spanish, French, and Latin. Would have taken Japanese, but they didn’t offer it, so that’ll have to wait until college. The romance languages, those are easy enough to learn once you have a foundation in one of them, so I’ve been teaching myself Italian in my spare time.” His lips curve into a smile. “You can say you’re impressed. It’s okay.”
I refuse to, but it’s hard not to be impressed when my knowledge of my mother’s first language ends at Spanish III.
Since the record store isn’t far, we decide to walk instead of hoping we’ll get lucky twice with Capitol Hill parking. We fall in step, passing a dry cleaner and a shoe store and a sushi place. Because we’re exactly the same height, our shoes smack the pavement in tandem. I bet we’d easily win a three-legged race.
Broadway is Capitol Hill’s main drag, a street where hole-in-the-wall restaurants and boutiques have slowly been replaced by Paneras and cat cafés. A few pieces of Seattle history remain, like the bronze Jimi Hendrix statue on Broadway and Pine, frozen mid–guitar solo, and Dick’s Drive-In. I don’t eat the burgers, but their chocolate milkshakes are perfection in a compostable cup. It’s also the center of queer culture in Seattle, hence the rainbow crosswalks, which we snap photos of and receive our green check marks.
“Can I ask you something?” he suddenly says. He looks uncomfortable, and I panic, worried he’s going to bring up his yearbook again. I’ll sign it right now if he does. I won’t make any sarcastic comments. “Why do you hate me so much?” It comes out so easily, no buildup. He doesn’t stumble over it, but it catches me off guard, makes me pause in the middle of the sidewalk.
“I—” I was ready to fire back a response, but now I’m not sure what it was. “I don’t hate you.”
“I find that hard to believe. You’ve been scoffing nonstop for the past half hour.”
“?‘Hate’ is a really strong word. I don’t hate you. You”—I wave my hand in the air as though the right word is something I can wrap a fist around—“frustrate me.”
“Because you want to be the best.”
I grimace. The way he says it makes me feel immature about this whole thing. “Well—okay, yes… but it’s more than that. Most of what we talk about is completely harmless, but you’ve never been able to stop with the snide remarks about romance novels, and that’s not teasing to me. It just… hurts.”
His grip on his backpack straps loosens, and he ducks his head as though in shame. “Artoo,” he says softly. “I’m so sorry. I really thought… I really thought we were just teasing each other.” He genuinely sounds sorry.
“It doesn’t feel like teasing when you go out of your way to make me feel like garbage for liking what I like. I already have to defend it enough with my parents, and with my friends. Like, I get it, ha ha, sometimes there are shirtless men on the covers. But what I’ll never understand is why people are so quick to trash this one thing that’s always been for women first. They won’t let us have this one thing that isn’t hurting anyone and makes us happy. Nope, if you like romance novels, you have zero taste or you’re a lonely spinster.”
When I finally stop talking (thank God I stop talking), I’m breathing hard, and I’m a little warm. I hadn’t expected to get so worked up about it, not on the day I’m meeting literary goddess Delilah Park, and not in front of Neil McNair.
He’s staring at me, eyes wide and unblinking behind his glasses. He’s going to laugh at me in three, two one.…
But he doesn’t.
“Artoo…,” he says again, even quieter this time. “Rowan. I really am sorry. I—I guess I don’t know much about them.” He changes course, using my real name. Then he lifts a hand until it’s hovering above my shoulder. I wonder what it would take for him to lower it. I remember the Most Likely to Succeed photo shoot, how he was so opposed to touching me. As though it would convey some kind of fondness we have never had for each other. Mutual respect, sure. But fondness? Never.
He drops his hand before I can contemplate it anymore.
“Apology… accepted, I guess.” I was all ready to fight back. I’m not used to peace talks. “Can I ask you something?”
“No. You can’t.” Maybe this is meant to lighten the mood, by the way his mouth quirks up as he sa
ys it.
