Kissing Ted Callahan (and Other Guys)(39)

“Can we hear your song, Lucy?” I ask.

She smiles at me, the smile that’s reserved for Best Friend Riley. It’s nice that at least right this very second I can be her again.

We get through practice without any more drama, and afterward Lucy walks right out with the rest of us and tails me right to my car. “Hey, do you want to stay for a while? My mom’s bringing home Zankou Chicken later.”

“I totally would,” I say, “but I planned on doing something after this already.”

“Oh,” she says.

I can tell she doesn’t believe me BECAUSE IT SOUNDS TOTALLY VAGUE AND MADE UP.

“Sorry,” I say.

“No, I figured you wouldn’t want to,” she says. “I mean, couldn’t. Or, I guess I do mean wouldn’t.”

“I really can’t,” I say. “And I’d tell you more about what I’m doing, but it would just sound stupid.”

Lucy tucks her hair behind her ears and lowers her eyes to the ground. I realize the guys have already packed up and gone, and it’s just the two of us. This is how practice used to end all the time, and sometimes even specifically with Zankou Chicken on the way. I wonder if I didn’t already have my next hour all lined up if I’d be tempted to stay. And I wonder if I stayed what it would feel like, if we would sit on her bed juggling plastic containers and yelling at Foley the cat not to jump up to steal chicken. Maybe I’d tell her about Ted and Milo, and maybe even that part could seem a lot like before, when everything between us was easy.

“I never thought anything you said sounded stupid, Riley,” she says. “And you should know that.”

She heads back in, and even though I wasn’t lying, I feel like a jerk. When her garage door goes down I feel the metal descending to the ground is closing things off between us once and for all.

But I still get in my car and drive straight to the Glendale Galleria, where I don’t stop in any stores before making my way straight to the food court. Ted is standing behind the counter of Hot Dog on a Stick, true to his word wearing a baseball cap and not the multicolored fez of the girl deep-frying hot dogs and cheese while Ted mans the register. There are people buzzing around, clearly desperate for deep-fried food-court eats, so now that I’m here, I’m not sure what I should be doing.

But then he looks up and notices me. There is a flash over his face like the day was a zero and now it’s a ten or five stars or one hundred or whatever ratings system Ted’s brain uses.

“Hi, Riley.”

“Hi,” I say, all casual-like. “Can you fry me some hot dogs?”

“Well, Maribel’s working the fryer, but, yeah, I can get you whatever you want,” he says, and I have this truly awesome fantasy where I say something like “What I want is to make out with you RIGHT NOW, TED,” and then he’s across the counter and we have a Very Dramatic and Passionate make-out scene right here in the food court.

But I just tell him I would love a hot dog on a stick and the biggest Splenda lemonade they have. He walks over and tells the girl who must be Maribel, who nods and keeps on deep-frying.

“Here.” Ted hands me a large lemonade. Our hands touch for a moment, but it’s not that sexually charged or anything. There’s only so much that you can feel in a food court.

“So you’re working until close tonight?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “What about you?”

“I don’t have anything going on.” It’s superlame for a Saturday night, but I don’t really care. Who wants to scramble around making other plans when standing here at this corn dog and lemonade stand feels like a great time?

“I can take my break soon,” he says, “if you want. I mean, to hang out. We could hang out. If you want.”

“Yeah,” I say, instead of something sexy using the phrase “I want.” Man, I am no good at that stuff.

“Cool, give me a few minutes.”

Ted joins me almost as soon as I’ve polished off my food, and we walk out of the food court toward the main mall. I can’t believe he manages to be attractive in his uniform.

“Do you like working in the mall?” I ask, even though I think malls are where hideous people and soul-sucking mainstream crap converge.

“No, it sucks,” he says, though cheerfully. “But I had to get a job, so it’s fine.”


It’s the second time he’s said he had to get a job, and I don’t know what exactly it means—like, for money or responsibility or who knows—but what I’m sure of is it doesn’t seem like I should ask. Everything between us is so new, and the last thing I want to do is push him.

“What are you up to?”

“I just had practice,” I say. “It was fine. We…” I realize I get to share this big thing with him and it’s hopefully going to seem like a big thing to him, too. “We’re opening for Murphy-Gomez—they’re a pretty big local band—at the Smell on a Saturday next month.”

“That’s awesome, Riley,” he says. “Is the Smell a big venue?”

“It’s not superbig, but it’s really great. It’s like an all-ages club, so there isn’t any alcohol, and they’ve given stage time to all these experimental and punk rock bands. Andrew Mothereffing Jackson would play there a lot back when they started out.” I stop myself because I could continue for another hour or so with everything cool about the Smell. “It’s a really big deal to me.”