Kissing Ted Callahan (and Other Guys)(3)

It was actually as easy and awesome as it sounds.

Last summer, Lucy’s dad let us convert their garage into rehearsal space, I saved enough Christmas and birthday money to upgrade my drum kit, Reid let Lucy and me take him shopping so he’d stop dressing like his mom picked out his clothes (she did), and Nathan designed a band logo and found us two more gigs. Things were Happening. I walked around in the kind of mood where I wanted to high-five people and shout about how great life was.

But then the Incident happened.

Reid and I have talked about it a lot since. Not, like, in graphic detail. But things have shifted. We don’t know what our group is anymore, even though Nathan and Lucy say “It’s just the same!” while holding hands and whispering into each other’s ears and sliding into the booth side of our usual table at Palermo Pizza while Reid and I get stuck in the rickety chairs facing them.

And permanent relocation to rickety chairs is definitely not just the same.

*

“Yo.” Reid slides in across from me in our new usual spot at Fred 62, which has become our place. It’s a diner with old-fashioned orange-and-brown booths and a menu that stretches on for years. It’s open twenty-four hours, so it’s just as good after concerts as it is after school or band practice.

Maybe I’m just suspicious, but Reid looks smirky. Self-satisfied. Knowledgeable of Things.

His silence is too much. I must make him talk. “Just say it, Reid.”

“Ted Callahan?” Reid asks.

I leap forward and shove my hands over his mouth, which is dumb considering he’s already said it, and what I’m doing is way more attention-drawing.

“Ow!”

“You’re a wimp.”

“I know I’m a wimp.” He leans forward to grab my bag. I don’t argue because we’ve determined it’s the safest place for the Passenger Manifest. One of Reid’s notebooks seemed like the perfect place to start logging our plans and thoughts on helping each other in our quest to find love. Well, Reid wants to find love, and I want to do more than awkwardly kiss a boy outside a ninth-grade dance I didn’t even technically go to. Reid named it the Passenger Manifest because it’s some reference from that old TV show Lost, and that guy loves hanging on to random factoids.

Anyway, if I trust Reid with all of my boy thoughts, what do I care if he sees my lip gloss or tampons?

“Don’t put his name in that,” I say. “Or his initials. Everyone will know who I mean by his initials.”

“I’m putting his initials,” Reid says. “I wrote down names. No one but us will see this. And if they do, by his initials people could think it’s Tyler Cole or Titus Culliver—”

“Gross,” I say. “Who would have a crush on Titus Culliver? Sometimes he leaves his prescription goggles on after gym class—”

“Or Tito Cortez,” Reid says.

“I had no idea you had some kind of superpower with initials,” I say.

“Yeah, it’s amazing I don’t have a girlfriend, right?” He isn’t joking. I have no idea what will happen if everything we’ve planned works. Reid’s identity seems forged around his lack of a lady friend. It’s stupid because Reid is good at lots of things that matter: music, school, crossword puzzles. And, apparently, initials. “Oh, this was the thing in your list in the Passenger Manifest: ‘Join a club he’s in. Give him a ride,’” he says, pointing to the notebook.

“Yearbook,” I say. “Last week I noticed he always walks down Sunset to some office building after our meeting, so I offered to drive him.”

Reid props his elbows on the table and puts his hands together like he’s an evil dictator taking stock of his newly invaded countries. “Not a bad plan.”

“I know it’s dumb I like him.” I lace my fingers and hold my hands over my face like a mask. “You can say it.”

Reid laughs. “Well.”

I wait for the list of reasons why it’s dumb. I’m not breathtakingly pretty, Ted barely knows who I am, I have no boyfriend experience, and I’m aiming too high right out of the gate.

“He’s kind of short,” Reid says. “And he makes me look cool. You know I’m not cool, Ri, no matter what you and Luce say.” Reid makes a couple of strange arm movements, and I realize he’s imitating the way Ted moves his hands when he’s talking.

I feel like yelling at him, but the resemblance is more than uncanny. I am speechless at how it is the exact opposite of canny.

“He’s so awkward.”

“What?” A protective sensation rises up within me. I had no idea I’d have to defend Ted, ever. “But he’s gorgeous. And a genius! He runs the freaking Fencing Club, you know.” The Fencing Club is not, as it sounds, a club for fencing, but an underground blog that used to be an underground newspaper that dates back to 1964, the year our school was founded.

“I know he does,” Reid says slowly. “Do you think that makes him cool?”

“Yes?” I stare at Reid. “Do you mean Ted isn’t cool?”

“Ted Callahan—”

“STOP USING HIS FULL NAME!” I kick Reid in the knee. My legs aren’t freakishly strong, like my arms are from drumming, but it’s easy to hurt someone’s kneecaps. “He could have some relative here. Or a friend we don’t know. BE CAREFUL.”