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And… I kind of do. It hasn’t felt irritating in a while. It’s a language only we have, even if it’s a reference I don’t understand.
“It’s original. And it’s better than Ro-Ro, which is what my dad calls me.”
The smile deepens. “Okay, Artoo. Yoda,” he continues, as though informing me how a peanut butter and jelly sandwich is made, “is a Jedi master of an unknown species who trains Luke to use the Force.”
“The little green guy?”
He groans, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses. “The little green guy,” he confirms, resigned.
The street we’re on is mostly residential, pastel-painted houses with progressive political signs in their front yards. The drizzle turns into a steady rain, making me miss my cardigan.
“So… if we’re going to keep going, there’s something I need to tell you,” Neil says.
“Okay,” I say, hesitant.
“Do you remember when we compared college acceptances?” I nod, and he continues. “I applied early decision to NYU’s linguistics program. I was going to have to scrape for the application fees if I didn’t get in, and then I held my breath, knowing I’d be relying on loans or financial aid or both. I sort of let you believe that I got lucky, and I did, but…” He turns sheepish. “I don’t really talk about it with my friends, but I get… embarrassed sometimes. About money. And not having very much.” He steals a glance at my face. “And this is exactly why I don’t. Because it always gets this reaction, this sympathy. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, Artoo.”
“I—I don’t,” I say quickly, though he’s 100 percent right. I try to make my face look less sympathetic. “I just didn’t know.”
“I do a good job disguising it. The suits help. I scoured Goodwill until I found what I wanted. I learned to tailor them myself with my mom’s old sewing machine, though I never did a perfect job. I worked overtime to save up for regional quiz bowl competitions. It’s all about projecting an image. I feel like I’ve spent all of high school maintaining this image because I don’t want people’s pity. And when I get out of here, I just want to start fresh. I don’t want to be Neil McNair, valedictorian, or Neil McNair, whose dad is in prison, or Neil McNair, the guy who never has enough money. I want to see who I am without all of that attached to me.”
I sink my foot into a puddle that splashes muddy water up my knee socks. “I want you to have all of that,” I say, meaning it. “Though if you don’t want my sympathy, I’m not quite sure what else to say.” Now it’s my turn to be sheepish.
“Just… be normal. Don’t change how you act because you know this about me. Don’t let up on me.” Rain soaks his hair, drips down his glasses. “I’d hope that you of all people wouldn’t treat me differently.”
“Okay. I won’t. I still find you quite insufferable.” Though I’m stuck on something else he said: Don’t let up on me. After today, when will I have a chance not to?
However fun this is, however much I’ve enjoyed our conversations, I can’t let myself forget that this—our rivalry, our partnership, even potentially our budding friendship—ends after tonight. Is there a word for what happens after your sworn nemesis lets you into their room and tells you their secrets?
“Good. I’d hate to disrupt the balance of the universe.”
I want to roll my eyes at this, but despite the frustrations of the past hour, my face decides to pull my mouth into a smile.
And—I let it.
By the time we reach the car, we’re soaked and shivering. I hurl myself inside. Neil is much more meticulous than I am, drying his glasses and the face of his watch with a few delicate swipes against the seat cushion.
When he sits down next to me, his hair is slicked with water, his T-shirt pasted to his skin. If I thought his T-shirt was revealing, his wet T-shirt is downright indecent.
I grope under the seat for my cardigan before remembering where it is. “I left my sweater at the record store.” My teeth are chattering.
He removes a dry gray hoodie from his backpack. “Here,” he says, holding it out to me. “Take this.”
“Are you sure? We’re both pretty soaked.”
“Yeah, but you’re wearing less.” His face twists, brows coming together to form a pained expression. “I hope that didn’t sound gross. I meant, you’re not wearing anything underneath the dress except, uh, you know. Like, you don’t have pants or tights or leggings under it. To be honest, I’ve never understood the difference between tights and leggings. I’m making it worse, aren’t I? You’re wearing a completely normal amount of clothing. Are you seriously going to let me keep talking?”
“Yes.” Flustered Neil is never not funny. “I knew what you meant. Thanks.” I zip the hoodie over my rain- and coffee-splattered dress. Then I blast the heat and retie the armband to his hoodie sleeve. “Leggings are footless and usually much thicker than tights.”
It’s not until I lean back in the seat, waiting for my car to warm up, that the scent of his hoodie hits me. It smells good, and I wonder if it’s detergent or just the natural scent of Neil, one I’ve never really paid attention to before. I guess I’ve never been close enough to notice. I’m stunned by how much I don’t hate it, so much so that it makes me light-headed for a split second.
It might also be the weed cookie warping my brain again.
He shoves his hands toward the vents.
“It’ll heat up soon,” I say. I’m afraid of the mythological beast I’ll see in the mirror, but I sneak a glance anyway. My eyeliner has mostly faded, and mascara has migrated down my cheeks. I swipe it away, then tug the elastic out of my hair and open the car door so I can wring out the water as best I can. With the extra bobby pins in my cup holders, I pin it back up. My bangs, though…
“You’re always messing with your hair.”
