sweet,” says Evon. “Although isn’t she a little young?”
“She’s literally three months younger than me.”
“Anyway, it’s cute.”
“Wait,” I say. “You know I’m like a month older than you, right?”
“And I’m three seconds older, because—” says Q.
“Stop,” says Q’s mom.
We forget to clear our dishes, are reminded to, go back to clear our dishes, and run upstairs to Q’s room to start cramming for the SAT. I can tell Q is dying to ask me questions about Joy, and I too am dying to tell Q everything, but we get the work out of the way first because we are those kids and the test is only a couple days away.
The SAT is a ridiculous exam, written as if it were geared toward aliens visiting Earth for the first time.
Valentine’s Day is an important celebration of love and deep friendship where people send each other traditional “valentines.” If there are 110 valentines to be sent within a group, and each member of that group must send one valentine to everyone else in that group, how many people are in the group?
“It’s eleven,” I say. “Each person sends ten valentines, because you don’t send a valentine to yourself, and eleven times ten is 110.”
“Yay, your logic is mind-altering,” says Q. We close our books. “Now: about your special relationship with Joy. Are you or are you not playing two girls at once?”
“That’s awful, no!”
“Are you one of these so-called players, plotting to use Brit to make Joy jealous enough to leave Wu and get together with you?”
“No, but that is impressively complicated.”
“Give me the straight dope. Don’t make me wrassle you.”
“Listen.”
“I’ll take you down.”
“We’re dating, but it’s all fake.”
Q stops. He makes a stank-face. “Hah?”
I take a breath and continue. “We made our parents think we’re dating, so that way I can go out as much as I want with Brit, and Joy with Wu.”
“Because Brit is—”
“Mmm.”
“And Wu is—”
“Right.”
“And your parents don’t—”
“Exactly.”
“Ahhhh.” Q nods and nods, appreciating the cleverness of the setup. But his face contracts. “You’re swapping gems.”
I think about Paul Olmo, waiting to unload his sachet of glass baubles while the rest of the party was asleep.
“I am not swapping gems.”
“A gem swap this is.”
“Did you steal my charger?” says a voice. It’s Evon, dressed in a shiny outfit that could be meant for either sleep, exercise, or a night out.
“You’re rudely interrupting a prolonged dialogue of great intensity,” shouts Q.
I toss her a Loco-Lime™ green charger from my bag. “Use mine.”
Evon snatches the charger out of the air without looking—impressive—and points it at me. “At least some boys are gentlemen.” She shuts the door behind her.
“Shut the door,” says Q, too late.
“Anyway,” I say, returning to Q. “It’s a win-win setup.”
I can see Q consider me and Joy’s scheme as if considering the integrity of an algorithm, and his eyes dart brightly back and forth until he hits a snag.
“But for how long?” he says finally.
“As long as we can,” I say with a shrug. “Summer? Graduation?”
“And then what?” says Q.
“Then we’re in college, and we can really do what we want.”
Q levels his brow at me. “And then?”
“No and then ,” I say, quoting a favorite movie of ours.
“I just think you’d be better off coming clean to your parents, even if you take months to do it.”
“I’m not pulling a Hanna.”
“Hanna did it too abrupt and without warning,” says Q. “You should ease them into it. Ease.” He carves a gentle path with both hands.
I don’t want to go down this path of his. “Do I seriously have to formulate a long-term parental diplomatic strategy just to date a girl? I mean, you wouldn’t have to.”
Q concedes this point. “In theory. In reality the whole thing is moot, unless—”
Q cuts himself off. Is he thinking
“She’s literally three months younger than me.”
“Anyway, it’s cute.”
“Wait,” I say. “You know I’m like a month older than you, right?”
“And I’m three seconds older, because—” says Q.
“Stop,” says Q’s mom.
We forget to clear our dishes, are reminded to, go back to clear our dishes, and run upstairs to Q’s room to start cramming for the SAT. I can tell Q is dying to ask me questions about Joy, and I too am dying to tell Q everything, but we get the work out of the way first because we are those kids and the test is only a couple days away.
The SAT is a ridiculous exam, written as if it were geared toward aliens visiting Earth for the first time.
Valentine’s Day is an important celebration of love and deep friendship where people send each other traditional “valentines.” If there are 110 valentines to be sent within a group, and each member of that group must send one valentine to everyone else in that group, how many people are in the group?
“It’s eleven,” I say. “Each person sends ten valentines, because you don’t send a valentine to yourself, and eleven times ten is 110.”
“Yay, your logic is mind-altering,” says Q. We close our books. “Now: about your special relationship with Joy. Are you or are you not playing two girls at once?”
“That’s awful, no!”
“Are you one of these so-called players, plotting to use Brit to make Joy jealous enough to leave Wu and get together with you?”
“No, but that is impressively complicated.”
“Give me the straight dope. Don’t make me wrassle you.”
“Listen.”
“I’ll take you down.”
“We’re dating, but it’s all fake.”
Q stops. He makes a stank-face. “Hah?”
I take a breath and continue. “We made our parents think we’re dating, so that way I can go out as much as I want with Brit, and Joy with Wu.”
“Because Brit is—”
“Mmm.”
“And Wu is—”
“Right.”
“And your parents don’t—”
“Exactly.”
“Ahhhh.” Q nods and nods, appreciating the cleverness of the setup. But his face contracts. “You’re swapping gems.”
I think about Paul Olmo, waiting to unload his sachet of glass baubles while the rest of the party was asleep.
“I am not swapping gems.”
“A gem swap this is.”
“Did you steal my charger?” says a voice. It’s Evon, dressed in a shiny outfit that could be meant for either sleep, exercise, or a night out.
“You’re rudely interrupting a prolonged dialogue of great intensity,” shouts Q.
I toss her a Loco-Lime™ green charger from my bag. “Use mine.”
Evon snatches the charger out of the air without looking—impressive—and points it at me. “At least some boys are gentlemen.” She shuts the door behind her.
“Shut the door,” says Q, too late.
“Anyway,” I say, returning to Q. “It’s a win-win setup.”
I can see Q consider me and Joy’s scheme as if considering the integrity of an algorithm, and his eyes dart brightly back and forth until he hits a snag.
“But for how long?” he says finally.
“As long as we can,” I say with a shrug. “Summer? Graduation?”
“And then what?” says Q.
“Then we’re in college, and we can really do what we want.”
Q levels his brow at me. “And then?”
“No and then ,” I say, quoting a favorite movie of ours.
“I just think you’d be better off coming clean to your parents, even if you take months to do it.”
“I’m not pulling a Hanna.”
“Hanna did it too abrupt and without warning,” says Q. “You should ease them into it. Ease.” He carves a gentle path with both hands.
I don’t want to go down this path of his. “Do I seriously have to formulate a long-term parental diplomatic strategy just to date a girl? I mean, you wouldn’t have to.”
Q concedes this point. “In theory. In reality the whole thing is moot, unless—”
Q cuts himself off. Is he thinking
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