Love, Hate and Other Filters(9)

He shrugs. “I actually tried playing basketball in middle school. Loved it. Still do.”

“Why’d you give it up?”

“I got no vertical. Like literally, the coach told me I’d be warming the bench a lot, but I had a good arm and was kinda fast, so he suggested football.”

“And the rest is Batavia High School history.”

Phil looks down at his shoes. “Something like that.”

Crap. Did I say something wrong? I reach out to touch Phil’s elbow, but a terse voice makes me drop my hand.

“Hey, man, what are you doing here?”

It’s Brian, a football player in my French class.

I tense slightly as he comes toward us down the narrow aisle. He’s not as tall as Phil, but he’s more broad-shouldered. His eyes are sunken and hollow, fixed on Phil as if I’m not there. He sits behind me, so I never really get a good look at him during class. But right now, he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. He clearly hasn’t shaved the last few days, either.

“Hey, man,” Phil echoes. “Maya’s helping me with the independent study project.”

Phil and Brian bump forearms. All the athletes do this. It’s like they have swine flu and are trying to avoid germs.

“That’s why I’m here, too.” Brian holds up a book. “I’m reading American Sniper.” He jerks his head toward me. “What’s with the help?”

Phil’s face darkens for an instant, and he takes a step closer to me. He laughs, sort of awkwardly—a boy who’s never awkward—and I sense an attempt to diffuse some sort of sudden moment I have yet to read. “She has a name, dude. It’s Maya. She goes to our school. She works here. But you know that.”

“Whatever.” Brian turns and walks away in the direction of the register. One hand clutches his book against his chest; the other is clenched in a fist at his side. “Say hi to Lisa!” he calls.

It’s a dig. At me. And it stings. I ignore it, because I’m not eager to talk about the possibility of a still-existent girlfriend whom Phil has most likely recently kissed. But I can’t ignore how, despite my standing in front of him, despite us being in class together, Brian totally erased me. Also, he completely creeps me out—his face, his eyes, the simmering anger in his voice.

“Sorry about that,” Phil says. “He’s been weird this whole semester. Really since before the season ended …”

“Weird how?”

Phil stops himself. His unfinished thought lingers in the air for a moment. Then he shakes his head, smiles, and points to the café at the front of the store. “Shall we?”

I search for something to say, but I come up blank. We walk together silently to find a table.

Phil probably has a good ten inches on me, but unlike the other tall kids I know, he isn’t gangly or clumsy. He carries himself with a certainty and ease that make him appear older. He’s always had that air about him, even before his growth spurt. I envy how comfortable he is with himself.

As I settle into my seat, Phil walks to the coffee counter.

A minute later he returns, balancing two coffees and a piece of chocolate cake. “I thought we could share,” he says.

“Thanks. I love cake.” I want to slap the palm of my hand against my forehead. I sound like a sugar-obsessed three-year-old. I wonder if I’ll ever not be bumbling and weird around Phil. Probably best to just concentrate on the reason I agreed to meet him, instead of on his twinkly green eyes. “Do you have your essay?”

“Cake, then homework,” he protests. “Unless … you’re in a rush?”

“Not at all. Dessert definitely takes precedent over homework.”

I want to high-five myself for managing to sound breezy and casual. Then I realize I’m smiling like an idiot, and my face warms with embarrassment.

Phil smiles back. Oh, God. My cheeks all-out burn. “You blush a lot,” he says.

“It’s a weird genetic anomaly. I call it the Maya Paradox. I’m a world-class visible blusher despite loads of melanin. I’m pretty much a scientific wonder.” I have to eat. Now. That way words will stop falling out of my mouth.

We sit there, devouring cake, occasionally locking eyes until I look down at the disappearing slice between us. Phil and I reach for the last piece at the same time. He battles me for it before cutting it in half and nudging the bigger piece section toward me.

I finally relax a little. “So you picked The Namesake?”

He nods, his dimple vanishing, his brow furrowing. “I missed a day of class, and so I got stuck with this book and the topic of ‘forging identity.’”

“Then you got lucky. That’s pretty much the theme of the whole book. What ideas do you have so far?”

“I have zero ideas.” He pauses and meets my gaze. “Well, okay, there’s that weird thing with Gogol’s name. Like, why does he need two names? It’s actually kind of confusing.”

“It’s confusing to him, too. Plus Gogol is not an Indian name, so he’s like a total outsider, even in his own culture.”

Phil pauses and leans back into his chair. “So that’s why he introduces himself as Nikhil to the girl in the bar, even though she already knows him as Gogol?”

I nod. “Moushumi. That whole relationship was so sad.”