Last Train to Babylon by Charlee Fam Page B

jars.”
    â€œMason jars,” he repeated. “What is with you and mason jars? God, you’re weird.”
    I shrugged. I’d been begging Karen to switch out our drinking glasses for mason jars, but she refused. She said it was trashy.
    â€œEverything is better in a mason jar,” I said. “Seriously, think about it. You go to a restaurant, and you order a lemonade or an iced tea, and it comes in a mason jar. How excited are you?”
    He half laughed and shook his head. “I don’t know, Glass. I still think it’s weird. Maybe you should consider changing your last name to Mason—you know instead of Glass.” He shifted his gaze toward his pink-stained jeans.
    â€œYou know, I wasn’t really expecting you to be like this,” I said. The September air was still around us. Everything was still but the soft ripples in the canal.
    â€œBe like what? Charming? Dapper?” He ran his finger over the chain and looked the swing up and down, assessing his next move.
    â€œSo talkative,” I said. “You’re usually so quiet.”
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    â€œI’m not a morning person.” His voice seemed to trail off as he looked up toward the metal pole, and then he looked at me, his gray eyes flickered with a cold, hard stare, and then just as quickly, the intensity dissipated and he was staring back up at the pole. I felt a chill, and not the romantic, gushy kind when a boy looks at a girl for the first time.
    â€œFavorite show?” he asked. I was beginning to think he’d memorized a list of first-date questions before he’d left his house that night.
    â€œCurrent or of all time?”
    â€œOf all time.”
    â€œFriends ,” I said. “Obviously.”
    â€œObviously,” he said. “But Seinfeld is better.” He hopped up onto the swing. “Obviously,” he said again. His sneakers pressed against the seat, and his arms stretched up toward the chains. “Sorry,” he said, “but Friends isn’t funny.”
    â€œI don’t really think Seinfeld is funny.”
    â€œYou just don’t get the humor,” he said, buckling his knees and picking up speed.
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œYou see,” he said. “You have to be intelligent to appreciate the humor in Seinfeld. Friends? That’s mindless humor for dumb people. Like yourself. It’s not realistic. Those apartments? Please. Don’t they have jobs?” Before I could protest, or even register the fact that he just called me dumb, he swung through the air, let go of the chains, and landed hard on his feet, right in front of me.
    â€œOkay,” I said, pushing my hands into his chest. “Now who’s being pretentious?”
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    â€œOne more question,” he said. “How do you take your coffee?”
    â€œGuess,” I said. He stood close. Too close. His shaggy black hair fell over his cold, gray eyes. He smelled like fruit punch and laundry detergent, and he rested his hand under my chin, and the first thing I noticed were his clean and perfectly clipped fingernails. I could hear my mother’s voice pounding in my head as the seconds ticked away between us. Clean fingernails and clean ears. Those are the first things to always look for.
    His hand stayed under my chin, and he brushed his thumb over my bottom lip, back and forth. He leaned in. I closed my eyes and braced myself for the kiss, my second kiss. I could feel his face close to mine, and then he leaned in once more and blew an icy breath into my ear. I could still feel his cool breath on my face when Rachel came barreling around the corner.
    â€œI’ve been looking everywhere for you, slut,” she slurred, and swung her hips from side to side as she walked toward us. She’s been rehearsing that line in her head since the moment she realized I’d snuck off. I could just tell. She still held an overflowing Solo cup, and the neon-red