discussions that involve temperature, the relative moisture in the air, or the seven-day forecast have to
be early warning signs of a date about to go belly-up. My mouth suddenly feels dry. The silence goes on for an extra beat.
“I—”
“Where—”
We both speak at once.
I look down at my hands. Both of our laughs seem to balance on a nervous edge, like a gymnast fighting to stay on the balance beam.
“Go ahead,” I murmur.
He clears his throat. “How about you? Native or transplant?”
Transplant
. That word will only ever mean one thing to me. I swallow it down. Not tonight. Tonight I’m
normal.
I pick at a loose stitch on my jeans. “My family moved from Eugene, Oregon, when I was five,” I say. “I don’t remember much about it. Except this one time when my dad
took me riding around Hendricks Park in this little sidecar that he rented. He attached it to his bike.” More tight lips and I’m now thoroughly uncomfortable. “I don’t know
what made me think of that. I guess for a five-year-old it was pretty cool,” I say.
Levi navigates the twists and turns through my neighborhood. “And what about now? What’s your thing?”
“My thing?”
“Sure. Miniature Stella apparently most enjoyed being pedaled around in sidecars. The Current Stella’s thing…?” He glances at me sidelong. “Or is it still sidecars?
Because if it is, no judgment here.” The shadow of his sly grin plays at the corners of his mouth.
I frown. “I—”
Swimming
sits at the tip of my tongue, but it’s not true anymore. “I don’t really have a thing.”
“I reject that out of hand, Cross,” he says, thumping the steering wheel. “Everyone has a thing.”
I shrug. “Not everyone, apparently. I guess I’m in the market.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Is that a challenge?”
“Okay, fine, what
are
you into then?” I fold my arms across my chest.
“Music.” He turns serious, his eyes trained out the front windshield. “Music is my thing.” The roads are slick, reflecting the pale, yellow glow of the streetlamps. The
muscles on his forearm ripple as he twists his grip on the wheel.
“All right, what’s your favorite AHD song?” I ask, resting my elbow on the console. Music’s at least one thing we have in common.
“‘Made-Up Moniker,’” he responds without hesitating.
I nod slowly as if considering his choice on its merits. “Interesting. That’s…interesting.”
“What?” He chuckles. “What’s wrong with ‘Made-Up Moniker’?”
“Nothing.” I’m not impressed and I make no effort to hide it. “It’s just that, well, no one’s favorite song is ‘Made-Up Moniker,’ that’s
all.”
“Not true. Didn’t I just tell you that it’s mine?”
I watch my green eyes in the side-view mirror. “Sure. That’s what you told me.”
“Okay, then, smarty-pants, what’s yours?”
“Easy,” I say, folding my arms. “‘Pragmatic.’”
He guffaws. “What? No. That’s so cliché. That’s everyone’s favorite.”
“It’s everyone’s favorite because it’s the best,” I point out. “I’m not going to change what I like just because a lot of other people like it, too.
That’s way too arbitrary, and besides, if I picked something different, then what I’d really be telling you is my second favorite.” I pause. “So what’s your
real
favorite?”
I’m not just messing with him. Something I’ve never understood is why people stop liking something just because it gets popular. I mean, if everyone on the planet started liking
Action Hero Disco, would I stop liking them? No. Why? Because they’re good. It’s simple logic, really.
“Fine,” he grumbles. “‘Pragmatic.’ You’re right. But don’t count that against my otherwise mysterious and dangerously moody persona.”
He winks, clicking a button on his steering wheel twice, and ‘Pragmatic’ starts playing. He opens the window and I turn the volume up and we’re both singing out loud now, at
be early warning signs of a date about to go belly-up. My mouth suddenly feels dry. The silence goes on for an extra beat.
“I—”
“Where—”
We both speak at once.
I look down at my hands. Both of our laughs seem to balance on a nervous edge, like a gymnast fighting to stay on the balance beam.
“Go ahead,” I murmur.
He clears his throat. “How about you? Native or transplant?”
Transplant
. That word will only ever mean one thing to me. I swallow it down. Not tonight. Tonight I’m
normal.
I pick at a loose stitch on my jeans. “My family moved from Eugene, Oregon, when I was five,” I say. “I don’t remember much about it. Except this one time when my dad
took me riding around Hendricks Park in this little sidecar that he rented. He attached it to his bike.” More tight lips and I’m now thoroughly uncomfortable. “I don’t know
what made me think of that. I guess for a five-year-old it was pretty cool,” I say.
Levi navigates the twists and turns through my neighborhood. “And what about now? What’s your thing?”
“My thing?”
“Sure. Miniature Stella apparently most enjoyed being pedaled around in sidecars. The Current Stella’s thing…?” He glances at me sidelong. “Or is it still sidecars?
Because if it is, no judgment here.” The shadow of his sly grin plays at the corners of his mouth.
I frown. “I—”
Swimming
sits at the tip of my tongue, but it’s not true anymore. “I don’t really have a thing.”
“I reject that out of hand, Cross,” he says, thumping the steering wheel. “Everyone has a thing.”
I shrug. “Not everyone, apparently. I guess I’m in the market.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Is that a challenge?”
“Okay, fine, what
are
you into then?” I fold my arms across my chest.
“Music.” He turns serious, his eyes trained out the front windshield. “Music is my thing.” The roads are slick, reflecting the pale, yellow glow of the streetlamps. The
muscles on his forearm ripple as he twists his grip on the wheel.
“All right, what’s your favorite AHD song?” I ask, resting my elbow on the console. Music’s at least one thing we have in common.
“‘Made-Up Moniker,’” he responds without hesitating.
I nod slowly as if considering his choice on its merits. “Interesting. That’s…interesting.”
“What?” He chuckles. “What’s wrong with ‘Made-Up Moniker’?”
“Nothing.” I’m not impressed and I make no effort to hide it. “It’s just that, well, no one’s favorite song is ‘Made-Up Moniker,’ that’s
all.”
“Not true. Didn’t I just tell you that it’s mine?”
I watch my green eyes in the side-view mirror. “Sure. That’s what you told me.”
“Okay, then, smarty-pants, what’s yours?”
“Easy,” I say, folding my arms. “‘Pragmatic.’”
He guffaws. “What? No. That’s so cliché. That’s everyone’s favorite.”
“It’s everyone’s favorite because it’s the best,” I point out. “I’m not going to change what I like just because a lot of other people like it, too.
That’s way too arbitrary, and besides, if I picked something different, then what I’d really be telling you is my second favorite.” I pause. “So what’s your
real
favorite?”
I’m not just messing with him. Something I’ve never understood is why people stop liking something just because it gets popular. I mean, if everyone on the planet started liking
Action Hero Disco, would I stop liking them? No. Why? Because they’re good. It’s simple logic, really.
“Fine,” he grumbles. “‘Pragmatic.’ You’re right. But don’t count that against my otherwise mysterious and dangerously moody persona.”
He winks, clicking a button on his steering wheel twice, and ‘Pragmatic’ starts playing. He opens the window and I turn the volume up and we’re both singing out loud now, at
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