Foster says.
“Oh yeah,” I say, nudging again, “act out ‘banana’ then, Mr. Sean Penn.”
“I can act out ‘underwear,’” Foster says, and pulls his jeans down just a little, revealing an inch of navy-blue elastic.
“That’s vulgar,” I tell him.
“You want to see vulgar?”
“I do not.”
“Eat lunch with nine boys and a horny eighth grader.”
“Maybe I will,” I say.
“Tomorrow?” Foster asks, but I don’t answer, just nudge. “Look at all those promising female writers,” he says, looking out across the field at my clump of doodling girls. “Intimidating, if they can write like you.”
“Foster,” I say, “if they can write like me, I want you to drown me in that sludge Steven calls a lake. Just lay my dead body in a canoe and let it drift away.”
“Are nine-year-old girls the competition now?” Foster asks. “Because that means I’m out of a job. I was planning on putting ‘Eva’s Competitor’ on my résumé and using you as a reference.”
“We’re friends now,” I say.
“ Now ?” Foster says.
“Yeah, now .”
Foster smiles his smile that I guess I’ve seen a ton of times before, but this time it makes me feel extra crazy good. I know Michelle and Steph think Foster’s cute, but they also think we’re destined to fall into some predictable summer romance, which is exactly the type of peer pressure that I can’t help resisting, like with the chow mein and so many other things. But I’m not trying to taste Foster Hoyt just to prove a point and then spit him out, because we’re friends now , and besides, there’s Elliot in the picture, even though he’s a smoker.
“Charades,” I say. “Ugh.”
“Not an Eva Thing?”
“I’ve never liked it. I hate that you can only communicate with body language, because you can’t learn that. It’s like, I’ve done all this work to be better at talking and writing, and here’s this game that forces you to unlearn all that and express yourself through mime gestures and monkey faces and just being a good sport .”
“You’re a good sport,” Foster says.
“No one has ever called me that,” I say. Then I point to the boy whose turn it is, who’s still nowhere close to impersonating Banana Underwear. “For instance, this might be a lame point to make, it may seem straightforward, but when you’re playing charades, you have to remember that no one knows what the clue is, so getting frustrated at your team doesn’t help anything. But look at this kid—”
“Oliver.”
“Look at Oliver. He’s getting pissed the other boys can’t tell he’s acting out Banana Underwear, but instead of trying a new tactic, some other way of getting Banana Underwear across, he’s just getting madder and, like, more emphatic . I hate being misunderstood like that over and over.”
“Okay,” Foster says, “that’s fair, but it goes both ways. The guessers have to shout out a lot of guesses, because if they just sit there waiting to guess until they’re a hundred percent sure, then they’re not really playing.”
“Foster, that’s like a life lesson, I think.”
Then, at the exact same time, I reach for my notebook and Foster reaches for his recorder. We laugh.
“You can have it,” I say. “You said it.”
“We can share it,” Foster says, and then whispers into his tape recorder. I write down CHARADES , and that’s it, and Foster nudges me. “Do you ever go to readings?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say, trying to sound like a Good Sport.
“There’s this reading at Book Soup on Sunday that I really want to go to.”
This is Foster asking me on a date, and I know it . This is so distinctly an Open Door that there’s no question I’m going to walk through it, but just as I’m about to say the perfect response, a boy comes crashing into Foster’s legs. He wants a new clue because the last one was too hard, so Foster asks me to fish around in the hat and find something more guessable. But each clue I
“Oh yeah,” I say, nudging again, “act out ‘banana’ then, Mr. Sean Penn.”
“I can act out ‘underwear,’” Foster says, and pulls his jeans down just a little, revealing an inch of navy-blue elastic.
“That’s vulgar,” I tell him.
“You want to see vulgar?”
“I do not.”
“Eat lunch with nine boys and a horny eighth grader.”
“Maybe I will,” I say.
“Tomorrow?” Foster asks, but I don’t answer, just nudge. “Look at all those promising female writers,” he says, looking out across the field at my clump of doodling girls. “Intimidating, if they can write like you.”
“Foster,” I say, “if they can write like me, I want you to drown me in that sludge Steven calls a lake. Just lay my dead body in a canoe and let it drift away.”
“Are nine-year-old girls the competition now?” Foster asks. “Because that means I’m out of a job. I was planning on putting ‘Eva’s Competitor’ on my résumé and using you as a reference.”
“We’re friends now,” I say.
“ Now ?” Foster says.
“Yeah, now .”
Foster smiles his smile that I guess I’ve seen a ton of times before, but this time it makes me feel extra crazy good. I know Michelle and Steph think Foster’s cute, but they also think we’re destined to fall into some predictable summer romance, which is exactly the type of peer pressure that I can’t help resisting, like with the chow mein and so many other things. But I’m not trying to taste Foster Hoyt just to prove a point and then spit him out, because we’re friends now , and besides, there’s Elliot in the picture, even though he’s a smoker.
“Charades,” I say. “Ugh.”
“Not an Eva Thing?”
“I’ve never liked it. I hate that you can only communicate with body language, because you can’t learn that. It’s like, I’ve done all this work to be better at talking and writing, and here’s this game that forces you to unlearn all that and express yourself through mime gestures and monkey faces and just being a good sport .”
“You’re a good sport,” Foster says.
“No one has ever called me that,” I say. Then I point to the boy whose turn it is, who’s still nowhere close to impersonating Banana Underwear. “For instance, this might be a lame point to make, it may seem straightforward, but when you’re playing charades, you have to remember that no one knows what the clue is, so getting frustrated at your team doesn’t help anything. But look at this kid—”
“Oliver.”
“Look at Oliver. He’s getting pissed the other boys can’t tell he’s acting out Banana Underwear, but instead of trying a new tactic, some other way of getting Banana Underwear across, he’s just getting madder and, like, more emphatic . I hate being misunderstood like that over and over.”
“Okay,” Foster says, “that’s fair, but it goes both ways. The guessers have to shout out a lot of guesses, because if they just sit there waiting to guess until they’re a hundred percent sure, then they’re not really playing.”
“Foster, that’s like a life lesson, I think.”
Then, at the exact same time, I reach for my notebook and Foster reaches for his recorder. We laugh.
“You can have it,” I say. “You said it.”
“We can share it,” Foster says, and then whispers into his tape recorder. I write down CHARADES , and that’s it, and Foster nudges me. “Do you ever go to readings?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say, trying to sound like a Good Sport.
“There’s this reading at Book Soup on Sunday that I really want to go to.”
This is Foster asking me on a date, and I know it . This is so distinctly an Open Door that there’s no question I’m going to walk through it, but just as I’m about to say the perfect response, a boy comes crashing into Foster’s legs. He wants a new clue because the last one was too hard, so Foster asks me to fish around in the hat and find something more guessable. But each clue I
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