Red Velvet Crush by Christina Meredith

look around the room at the worn-out recliner, the Jack Daniel’s ashtray on the coffee table, and the latest issue of Motocross Magazine that Winston left behind. “Probably not.”
    â€œWhat about The Wall of Sound?” Ty asks. “Was that a date?”
    My toes rub together under the blanket. “I thought that was an audition.”
    Ty laughs. “What makes it a date then?”
    I give it some thought. “Kissing.”
    â€œBy that definition, does my basement count?”
    Does it ever.
    â€œLet’s listen to some records later,” Ty says.
    I let my head drop back against the couch. “Can you define ‘later’?”
    â€œAfter this meeting I have to go to, but way before it gets dark.”
    The sound of the road in the background slows and drops away. I hear the soft bing, bing, bing as his car door opens before he pulls the keys. “I promise,” he says, “there will be kissing.”
    I picture his bright smile in a foggy parking lot somewhere. His car door slams shut.
    â€œThen it’s a date,” I say, and hang up.
    I curl into the corner of the couch and set my phone on the cushion next to me. The kitchen floor creaks. I hear the poof of the gas burner, the click of the coffeepot. My dad peeks around the corner, looking embarrassed. Oh, God, he must have been there the whole time. He heard everything.
    â€œI never see you up this early,” he says.
    â€œI never see you up this early,” I say, pulling the blanket around my shoulders and slumping toward the kitchen.
    He’s usually up and out well before we wake up for school. He leaves money on the counter for lunches, sometimes a Post-it that says, “Buy milk.”
    I sit at the table and watch him making his sandwiches. Cheese. Meat. Cheese. Meat. Long pull of plastic wrap. The teakettle starts to steam. He reaches over and turns the burner off before it can whistle.
    â€œHow’s it going?” he asks, dumping a packet of hot chocolate into a mug and setting it in front of me. Then he pours in the hot water from the kettle, and the dusty chocolate floats and swirls. He leaves enough room at the top for stirring.
    â€œOkay,” I say.
    He hands me a spoon, waiting to see if there is more.
    â€œWho was that?” he asks.
    â€œTy.”
    He looks at me, wary. I’ve never had a boy call me at the crack of dawn before.
    He’s heard us practicing, seen us hanging together in the garage. But up until this morning I don’t think he knew about Ty and me. Now he wants to see the whole picture. He wants to know if we are serious.
    Steam curls up from my mug. I should probably spill and tell him everything, but keeping Ty to myself is sweeter than any mug of hot chocolate will ever be.
    I take the spoon, staying silent.
    â€œStir that,” Dad finally says, nodding toward my mug.
    Then he bends down and kisses me on top of my head before he walks away.
    I sit on my bed that afternoon, guitar in my lap and notebook by my side. I have the room to myself since Billie found a ten in the pocket of an old coat while digging around in the front closet and convinced Winston to take her to the mall.
    The clock ticks. It is shaped like a cat’s head, and its eyes flick back and forth on the table by Billie’s bed, clicking away the thousands of impatient seconds between Ty’s early phone call and when he is going to pick me up for our date.
    I strum and then scribble, lost in the flood of songs rushing through my mind. I make a quick note about starlight on the top of the page and another about magic.
    â€œThe door was open,” Ty says.
    He’s standing in the middle of my doorway in a halo of dust and sunshine. “It always is,” I say as the notes drop away and I return to the real world. “We don’t have anything to steal.”
    Ty quirks his mouth and pauses. The word ‘true’ is probably crossing his mind, but he