The Great American Whatever by Tim Federle Page B

should probably get inside.”
    â€œYou’re pretty smart.”
    I roll my eyes.
    â€œYou are,” he goes. “I can’t believe somebody so not ugly is allowed to be so smart. Frankly, I can’t believe you’re in high school.”
    â€œNeither can I,” I say. “I can’t believe high school is even legal, as a concept.”
    Yes, good line. Good line, Quinn. He’s laughing.
    â€œHow do you know about movies shot in Pittsburgh, anyway?” I say. It’s just unusual that anyone else who’s even remotely cute and under the age of sixty would know this stuff.
    â€œI took a horror film elective at Pitt this year,” Amir goes, rolling his eyes just like I did. Nice to know that even college students are filling time with a good eye roll.
    â€œWhy the eye roll?” I go. “I’d kill to take a film course instead of, like, calculus. That sounds so fun.”
    â€œYeah, well, that’s it for electives for a while. My parents want me to buckle down next year. That’s their term. ‘Buckle down.’ And ‘pick a major.’ ”
    Amir’s face lights up bright and slick. It’s my porch light, flashing on-off-on-off-on. I feel my ribs contract. I’m on the verge of being turned into a pumpkin.
    â€œI have to get inside,” I say.
    â€œOkay,” he says. “Oh—I wanted to send you that photo from Noah’s Ark. You look uh -dorable in it.”
    Nice. I’ve advanced from “not ugly.”
    We took this selfie outside one of Kennywood’s oldest attractions. Geoff insisted we all pose like animals. Geoff picked a flamingo (and he’s the straight one), Carly picked a peacock, Amir was a wolf, and I picked a sloth.
    â€œSounds good,” I say, wondering if Mom is watching us from the front window. Knowing she is, actually. In retaliation, I dig my foot into the dirt, like I’m playing shortstop. Like I’m a regular local guy.
    â€œWhat I meant,” Amir says, “is do you have a phone number where I could text you the photo? I’ll do it right now.”
    He reaches for his pocket, but: “ Oh ,” I say, “I have to get a new phone. My old one is, like, busted.” Pause. Like, you can hear actual crickets chirping out of tempo from the trees. “I dropped it in the toilet, I mean.”
    â€œAwkward,” Amir says, and Mom flashes the lights again, and I say, “I’m gonna go. Thanks for the ride today.”
    â€œHey, cutie,” he goes, when I’m halfway up our crumbly cement stairs. I’m seeing them like I’ve never seen them before and I hate them. I bet stairs don’t crumble in Dallas. I bet they’re made of, like, granite. “Do you have any plans this weekend, other than for your birthday?”
    I don’t have plans for my birthday.
    It would probably seem cool to say, Yeah, that I’ve got lots of plans —lots of plans, lots of dates, lots of demand. But “no” is all I can say, “I don’t have any plans,” because apparently saying I dropped my phone in the toilet used up all my lies for the night.
    â€œMaybe we could, like, hang out tomorrow night or something?” Amir says. “I leave town next week.”
    My face does this extremely complicated thing from the old days known as smiling, and I go, “Okay.” Okay.
    Amir leaves my mailbox and opens the driver’s side door and says, “There’s a foreign film festival in Shadyside. I’ll find you online and send you the info and you can see what you think.”
    I catch Geoff looking up from his phone, and I can tell he wants to laugh so hard about two gay dudes who are indeed going to go see a foreign film, and even though I hate reading at movies, I think maybe this isn’t an awful idea.
    â€œOkay,” I say again, but actually: Amir isn’t going to find me online. I deactivated all my