Playlist for the Dead(41)

The soda fountain was literally not much more than that—there was a counter lined with peeling linoleum, flanked by stools covered in cracked red leather with bits of foam poking through. I knew it wasn’t the most appetizing-looking joint, but I hoped Astrid would trust me, even as the thought crossed my mind that perhaps I couldn’t trust her. “Here okay?” I asked, pointing to two of the less destroyed-looking stools.

“Sure. Where are the menus?”

“No need. Allow me.”

“The gentleman is going to order for the lady?” she asked. And I had that thought again—she sounded like Athena. Which reminded me that Astrid had said she was into Greek mythology. She’d have known that Athena was the goddess of war, like I’d seen in the chat logs.

What if she didn’t just know about Athena? What if she was Athena?

She couldn’t be. It didn’t make sense; I couldn’t picture Astrid and Hayden together at all. Or was it just that I didn’t want it to be?

I was saved from saying anything by Mr. Peterson finally making his way to the counter. He had to be in his nineties, white haired, liver spotted, and worn out. I used to try to chat with him; I wanted him to remember me between visits, to be one of those people who could get anyone to open up. I wanted to learn more about the Petersons than just the basics listed on the paper placemats he laid out in front of us, which gave the history of the fountain. But either I wasn’t charming enough or Mr. Peterson just didn’t give a shit—he never talked to me other than to take my order, and he never remembered me when I came back. “Know what you want?” he croaked.

“Two chocolate egg creams and a large basket of crinkle fries,” I said.

“Egg cream?” Astrid asked as Mr. Peterson slowly walked away. “As in, raw egg? You sure about this one?”

“They haven’t put real eggs in these things since the 1800s,” I said. “It’s just milk and syrup and fizzy water. But it’s amazing.”

The Petersons may have moved slowly, but they were an efficient unit. Mrs. Peterson was already working on the drinks by the time Mr. Peterson had the fries bubbling away. Astrid tried to chat with them while they worked, only to be ignored just as I always had been.

“I used to try too,” I said, glad that she and I had the same instinct, but secretly relieved that she hadn’t done any better than I had.

Mrs. Peterson placed the drinks in front of us, bendy straws poking out of the foam that sat at the top of the old-school fountain glass. Astrid took a long sip, eyes widening as she swallowed.

“Right?” I said, and she nodded.

“How did you even know to order this?” she asked. “I’ve never even heard of it.”

“It’s an old Brooklyn thing,” I said. “I used to get them with my dad, when we lived back east.”

“I’m not sure I knew that you didn’t always live here,” she said.

“No reason you would,” I said. “I’ve been here since I was eight, but on the other side of town. And up until now I’ve never hung out with a cheerleader.”

“A cheerleader no more,” she said. “But I am a junior. Technically, I’m slumming, hanging out with a sophomore.”

“I’d say you shouldn’t let your friends see you, but Eric invited me to hang out with you guys tonight.” I figured this was my opening. “Speaking of which . . .”

“Actually, there was something I’d been meaning to ask you,” Astrid said, pulling on one of her hair extensions. “It’s potentially embarrassing so I kind of want to get it out of the way.”

Uh-oh. This couldn’t be good.

“Embarrassing for me, I mean,” she said, and I exhaled. “The thing is, we’ve hung out a few times now, and it’s been really fun—I don’t think I get along with anyone as well as I get along with you.”

“Me too,” I said, waiting for the “but.”

“But”—To hear it out loud made my stomach drop—“you’ve had tons of opportunities to make a move, and yet nothing. Am I totally reading this situation wrong? See what I mean about embarrassing myself?” It was true; she was blushing furiously. Except that was not at all what I’d expected.

“You wanted me to make a move on you?” I finally managed to say, after metaphorically falling off my stool and picking myself up off the filthy linoleum floor.

Of course Mr. Peterson chose that moment to plunk a giant basket of fries right in between us. “Ketchup?”

“And pepper,” Astrid said.

“You put pepper on your fries?”

“On the ketchup.”

“You’re a strange girl,” I said. “But, you know. My question. You haven’t answered it yet.”

“The answer was implied,” she said. “You haven’t answered mine.”

Good point. “But I’m confused,” I said. “What about Eric?”

“Eric?” She looked confused. That was a good sign.

“I thought he was your boyfriend.”

Apparently my timing was bad; Astrid had just put a heavily peppered french fry in her mouth, and she started laughing so hard she choked. Not quite Heimlich-level choking, but definitely potato-flying-everywhere, tears-pouring-from-eyes choking. I picked a chunk of potato off my shirt and waited for her to settle down.