Words and Their Meanings by Kate Bassett Page B

O’Mally, whose old jersey number, four, would be retired from the summer league forever.
    My parents were on the field. Dad accepted a frame with his brother’s jersey, or a replica of it anyway. He shook hands with the coach. Walking back to the stands, Mom stayed a step or two behind.
    Nat didn’t see any of this because she squeezed her eyes shut tight. It’s what I wanted to do, and she knew so without me saying it. I did coffin yoga sitting up that day. It was the only time I made it to three minutes without breathing. I passed out against Nat just as my parents were walking off the field.
    â€œTake me to this divine popcorn you keep speaking of,” Mateo says, offering his hand. He pulls me up and bumping his hip against mine, we walk toward the concession stand.
    â€œBut I’m paying,” he adds.
    Damn that dimple.

Daily Verse:
    I think now it’s time to get serious about my work.

20
    T here has to be an explanation,” Nat says. She’s sitting on my unmade bed with a bag full of chocolate chips in her lap. Between bites, she continues pursuing all possibilities for why Mateo didn’t try to kiss me (again) yesterday. I continue proving her logic is flawed.
    â€œHe’s nervous because you’re wild-child hot.”
    â€œNot possible: (a) I’m not, and (b) have you looked at him? Clearly he hasn’t had a shortage of pretty girls batting their eyes in his direction.”
    â€œWhatever. Maybe he’s suffering from severe halitosis.”
    â€œNope. Breath smells like cinnamon. He leaned over to tell me what position he used to play in soccer, and I got a good whiff.”
    â€œOkay, he mentioned he knew the goalie on the other team from church. And then when you asked where he went, he said St. Mary’s. So he’s clearly Catholic. Maybe he’s like, saving himself until marriage.”
    â€œSaving himself to the point of no kissing?”
    â€œIt happens.”
    â€œDoubtful.”
    â€œGirlfriend?”
    â€œI don’t think so.” I get the feeling Mateo is about as honest as they get. He wouldn’t omit information like that, not when he keeps saying things like “Thanks for the date.” Of course, I believed in Joe’s unwavering honesty. And that made me blind to his truths.
    â€œMaybe he’s getting over a cold and—” Nat stops dead. “Sorry,” she says, tripping over every letter. “I didn’t mean—”
    â€œIt’s fine. And maybe. Doesn’t matter. Should we get started?”
    The real reason Nat is here has little to do with dissecting my non-existent love life. We’re going to sneak into Joe’s room while Mom is running errands and Bea’s in summer school. (Bea’s teachers let her hide a lot last year—under her desk, in the supply closet, coat room, etc.—but her vanishing acts left some serious holes in her necessary-for-third-grade skill sets.)
    â€œRight. Yeah, okay. But I had this epiphany last night and I’ll totally forget if I don’t say it.”
    I roll out my hand for Nat to take the stage. She pops up and starts pacing the room, ignoring the cascade of tiny chocolate chips falling from her lap to the floor.
    â€œSo.” She rubs her hands together. “Remember how we used to talk about the future? How we railed against the traditional zombie student apocalypse of stacking résumé s to get into the good colleges to get the good jobs to make money and have babies and repeat the whole cycle as parents? We knew our passions. We knew ourselves. I think it might help now. To try and have a real conversation aga in.”
    Partly because she sounds like she’s performing an impassioned monologue, I don’t interrupt. I do, however, click on the small TV slumped against the bottom of my bookshelf. It’s a Gramps special, with an old-school antenna and rounded screen. He rescued it from a dumpster