Opposite of Always(34)

“Okay, you’re scaring me now. You’re not going to ask me to kiss you or something, are you?”

“Not yet, but maybe we’ll get there, one day. I mean, if you play your cards right.”

She laughs, and I feel it, her laughter, travel through my bones. Like old times. “So, what is it then?”

“Remember, I warned you.”

“Okay, okay. Get to it already.”

“How do you feel about high school proms?”





Cereal Killers


Somehow we end up at the $ave-Mart.

In the cereal aisle.

And the aisle is daunting. There’s so much cereal to choose from. Like, even as we stand at the top of the aisle, the boxes are multiplying right before our eyes.

Kate and I stand shoulder to shoulder. “So, what’s your poison?”

She shrugs. “What’s your fave?”

I shrug. “I pretty much just like cereal.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got to have a favorite.”

“What’s yours?”

She laughs. “Froot Loops all the way.”

I look down at the handbasket I’m holding. “I think we’re gonna need a cart.”

She grins. “Race you?”

“On your mark, get set . . .”

But she’s already gone.

I chase after her, and then we’re running down the cereal aisle, swiping boxes into our cart. We show zero partiality. Fruity cereal, nutty cereal, thousand-grain cereal, it doesn’t matter. If it floats in milk, it’s in our cart.

And I can’t stop laughing.

And then Kate’s chasing me with the cart, nipping at my heels, threatening that annoying, semipainful collision when someone crashes the cart into the back of your ankle, and you swear and cry and one-foot hop. But fortunately for my ankles, I’m just quick enough to avert Kate’s cart-pushing danger. Up and down the multicultural foods aisle we sprint, and then down the fruits and veggies, and finally we halt our cereal caravan in the tundra.

Also known as the dairy section.

Kate giggles. “We’re gonna need a lot of milk.”

“You think they sell cows here?” I ask.

You should see the look on the cashier’s face when it’s our turn to check out. “Umm, so, did you find everything you were looking for?” she asks us, as we load box after box onto the conveyor belt.

I turn to Kate and nod. “I can’t think of anything else I need.”

Kate shakes her head, like this guy is so cheesy. But then she slips her fingers into mine and everything fades until it’s just me, Kate, and a never-ending conveyor belt of cereal. And the world makes sense.

We drag our bounty up Kate’s dorm stairs and proceed to gorge ourselves until we’re a few spoonfuls from frosted combustion.

Kate’s floor is covered in partially consumed cereal boxes and their cheesy-but-adorable cereal-box prizes. We’re both already sporting the temporary tats we found at the bottom of the Wheat-O’s; Kate, a flame-spewing dragon on her forearm, me with what we’ve decided is a friendly wombat applied to my shoulder.

Kate scratches her head. “People are going to think we’re high.”

“So,” I say. “What should we do with our remaining treasure trove of whole-grain wheat and artificial flavors?”

Kate holds up her finger. “I have an idea.” She gathers an armful of boxes.

I push aside my empty bowl. “Wait, what are you doing?”

“C’mon! Cereal for the people,” she declares. She walks to the door.

I pop up and open it for her.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re doing?”

“What are you waiting for? Get an armload, Jack Attack.”

And then we’re knocking on every dorm room, tossing random boxes of cereal into the hands of surprised—yet appreciative—dorm occupants. Because everyone needs a Silly Rabbit, or a Cap’n, or even a chocolate-loving Count in their lives.

Everyone deserves to taste magic.





Close Encounters of the Friend Kind


Before Jillian even says a word I know this isn’t going to be a pleasant conversation. She’s leaning against the car, her body language invoking rather lovely vocabulary, such as: Irked.

Exasperated.

Aggravated assault.

“Where have you been?” Jillian demands.

“I’m sorry,” I say, holding up my hands. “I’m really, really sorry.”

“You don’t know how to answer your phone? I was worried something happened to you.”

“I lost track of time and I didn’t realize . . . I’m sorry, J.”

She puts her hands on either hip. “This have anything to do with sweater-dress girl?”

I nod.

“I figured as much.” Her face relaxes the tiniest bit. “You have a good night?”

I slip my hands into my pockets, rock on my sneaker heels. “It was cool, yeah.”

“Well, lover boy, now we’ve gotta haul ass back home. Where’s your stuff?”

“Um, about that. The thing is, I was sorta hoping to, uhh . . . stick around until later tonight.”

“But you know I have to get home and study for my French test tomorrow. I’m sorry, Jack, but your girlfriend isn’t going anywhere.”