Kissing Ted Callahan (and Other Guys)(2)

“That isn’t mine.” I chuck it into the backseat. “I wouldn’t read that. It’s awful, right? Oh my god, it’s so awful.”

Ted smiles, but it’s like when you’re in a terrible situation, such as getting your legs blown off in the war, and you have to pretend for the sake of the children or the elderly that things are actually totally fine, except your crappy fake smile is fooling no one, Ted. Ted! Don’t think I’m a weirdo who reads books about teenage mermaids making out with each other.

“I didn’t even notice,” he says.

“It’s so embarrassing.” My mouth now works independently of my brain. Or I have some new, secondary brain whose only function is to make boys think I’m stupid. Apparently, this new brain was raised on a diet of bad teen movies and CW dramas. Brain Number Two, I hate you. “One time my sister left that book in this deli, and she didn’t realize until later, so I had to go back and ask this old man who runs it if I could have it back. And he doesn’t know it’s my sister’s! So now he thinks I read books that have sparkly people with fins for feet making out on the cover.”

Ted fidgets with the zipper on his bag. “Probably he didn’t notice.”

Then he changes the subject. “What kind of car is this?”

I’m not sure what to make of the question. I do not drive a cool car, and I do not drive a crappy car. I drive Mom’s hand-me-down, very normal and nondescript. It’s a little dark outside, but he could have figured it out just by walking up to it and getting inside.

Oh! Maybe he’s trying to make conversation with me?

“A white 2009 Toyota Corolla.” Years pass before the way-too-many words leave my mouth. And why did I say that it was white? The one thing about the car that doesn’t need any clarifying is its color.

Ted nods, and I am sure this thing where we exchange words that I can’t quite—even being generous—call a conversation is ending. I’m also already turning into the parking lot next to his mom’s office building. After Yearbook, when I made this magic happen by offering him a ride, I’d asked him where he was heading. But supertruthfully? I already knew. I spotted him walking here last week.

“Thanks for the ride.” He gets out of the car. Swiftly. Too swiftly? Is he afraid I’ll lob more word fits at him? Ted, come back! Ted, I’ll learn to be normal! Ted, it isn’t fair we sat two feet apart and I didn’t get to touch your hair!

“Anytime,” I say. “Seriously, I don’t mind.”

“Cool.” He picks up his messenger bag and slides it over his shoulder. I admire boys who basically carry purses. They aren’t afraid of what the world thinks. “See you, Riley.”

“See you.”

He walks off toward the building. I wait for it, a glance back. A glance back would hold so much meaning and potential and material for analysis. But Ted walks toward the big glass doors, tries one, and when it’s clearly the wrong side, opens the other and disappears inside.

I plug in my earphones and reach for my phone. I saw Reid when school let out at three, but so much has changed since then.

“The plan is doomed.” I know it sounds overdramatic, but I also know it isn’t. Not at all. “Ted was in my car.”

“Ted? Ted Callahan?” His voice washes over with realization. “Ted Callahan is the Crush?”

“TED CALLAHAN IS THE CRUSH.” I sound insane. Brain Number Two seems to be planning an overthrow.

“We’ll meet up.” Reid is all business. Often, it’s what I like most about him. “The usual? Now?”

“Now.”





CHAPTER THREE



Reid’s Goals (in Order):


Flirting

Chemistry

Hanging out

Dates

Making out

Love

Commitment

Sex





Riley’s Goals (in Order):


Witty/sexy banter

Listening to music/going to shows together

Doing it!!





CHAPTER FOUR


There used to be four. Lucy and Reid and Nathan and me. Against the world. Well, not the world. Not really against anything.

Lucy and I have been best friends since we were five and stood next to each other in Beginners Tap. Reid went to our school and had since kindergarten. He’d seemed like kind of a dork for a long time, but he sat behind us in freshman English, and he made great jokes about the ancient stuff we were forced to read. More importantly, his taste in music was excellent, though sometimes he could make even that dorky, like by geeking out over original vinyl pressings. Still, once we found out the battered Moleskine notebooks he was never seen without were filled with lyrics—and really smart and funny and heartbreaky lyrics at that—I knew for sure I wanted him around.

Back then Nathan rolled with a preppier and more athletically inclined crowd, but some mutual acquaintance told him we should talk about music, since we often ended up at school wearing the same band T-shirts. And then everything started happening.

The four of us listened to music, and then played music, and then wrote music. About a year and a half ago, we started calling ourselves a band—the Gold Diggers—and then Nathan’s cousin booked us to be the opener at his wedding. (Yes, apparently some weddings have multiple bands play—especially if one of those bands is made up of a cousin you feel bad for and his friends.)