Again, But Better(9)

“Can I call you Pies?” I blurt into the night. “Sorry. I wouldn’t ask, but I really want to call you Pies,” I finish hesitantly.

When I look over, he’s smiling. My shoulders relax a smidge.

“Sure, you can, Sauce Killer.”

I beam. “Oh, but I’d prefer if you didn’t call me Sauce Killer,” I respond politely.

He snorts.

“Do a lot of people already call you Pies?”

“Nope, that’s a new one.”

My heart sings a tiny bit at the idea of having created a new nickname that no one else uses for him.

“What do people call you?” I ask, curious now.

“Pilot … or Pi.”

“Pi? Like in math? You’re not Pi like in math, though. That feels kind of cold. You’re more of a pie-pie. Pies are warm and wonderful and delicious—” I cut myself off. Okay, there’s outgoing and then there’s this.

He looks at me funny. My eyes fall to the ground as a new wave of embarrassment courses through my system. We walk in silence for a few moments.

“So, are you going to write about this grocery store adventure in your blog?” Pilot asks.

“Oh, yeah,” I answer, grasping at the subject change. “I’m planning a whole exposé about this pasta in bags versus boxes phenomenon.”

“I can’t miss that,” he says seriously. I laugh. “What’s your blog called?” he continues.

My eyelids snap up. I didn’t think about the part where I’d actually have to tell him what my blog is called. He’s smiling at me again. My heart hops around idiotically. I can’t handle all this.

I focus on the ground again. “Um … you know what? It’s nothing. You don’t really want to know.” I pick up the pace a little. I think we’re only a block away from the Karlston now. Maybe I can deflect this question.

“Hey, you said I could read your stuff,” he protests quietly.

“It’s a weird name,” I confess.

“What is it?” he asks again.

I stay quiet, power walking.

“Shane!” He speeds up to match my pace, laughing as he catches my eyes. “You have to tell me.”

He’s full-on beaming now, and it makes me feel all floaty. Fluttery and floaty. He stops walking and I stop walking, and we smile at each other.

“It’s FrenchWatermelonNineteen,” I mumble, the words running together.

Pilot laughs. “I’m sorry, what was that? French. Watermelon. Nineteen?” he clarifies slowly.

“FrenchWatermelonNineteen.” I smoosh my lips together so my smile isn’t as toothy. His smile is toothy.

He shrugs, nonchalant. “Okay. French Watermelon Nineteen. What’s so weird about that? It’s so normal. Practically boring. I know, like, five other people who go by French Watermelon Nineteen on the internet. Are you French?”

“Nope.” I feel sheepish. I try to make my face look sheepish.

He raises his eyebrows.

I drop my gaze to his shoes. “I’m … a big fan of French toast.”

He answers immediately. “Oh, me too. Who isn’t?”

I look up again, and he’s closer. How did he get closer? I think I’m shaking. Anxiety springs up through my legs. I’m all unsteady, like I could be blown over by the next gust of wind. I’m not sure what happens now. Eye contact game is strong. My words come out quiet. “Also I love watermelons and the number nineteen, and so, I did what any rational human would have done—smashed them together into a weird blob of a word that would follow me around for the rest of my life.”

He nods. “So, French Watermelon.”

Is he closer?

“Nineteen,” I finish.

What’s happening? Is the sidewalk moving?

“I think it’s a fantastic name.”

We’re standing so close. His eyes are inches away. I’m holding on to the grocery bag for dear life. Freight train has replaced heart.

And then my eyes swing down to look at a crack in the super-clean London sidewalk. When I raise them a moment later, Pilot’s three feet away again. He’s turned towards the Karlston.

“Look at that. We made it back.” He looks back at me. “Ready to round up the flatmates and get the bonding rolling?”

I stare at him. “Um, yeah, of course. I’ve been awake for thirty-four hours now, what’s a few more … I have some icebreaker games loaded on my iPod that’ll be perfect.”

He grins and jogs up the front steps to the door. I expel the giant breath I’ve been very aware of holding for the past thirty seconds.



* * *



It’s so dark in our room. Sahra’s asleep, but I’ve caught a second wind. Up in the bunk, I turn on my laptop for light, grab a pen, and throw open a fresh page in the new Horcrux.


1/11/11 1:03 a.m.

I just added all my new flatmates as friends on Facebook (Babe Lozenge, Sahra Merhi, Atticus Kwon, Pilot Penn), and finished off a short email to the parents letting them know everything went well today. I haven’t figured out the best way to actually speak to them yet since I only have a certain amount of allotted minutes on my burner phone. The lights are off, so I’m scribbling via the light of Sawyer’s screen. It works.