What If It's Us(32)
God, imagine us holding hands on a Ferris wheel.
“What about Coney Island?” I blurt.
“What about it?”
“Like as our first . . . destination. For hanging out.”
For a moment, we’re both silent.
“Coney Island?” he asks finally.
“It’s an old-timey amusement park.”
“Yeah, I know what Coney Island is,” he says. “That’s where you want to go?”
“No—I mean, not necessarily. Not unless you want to.” I drum on my bed frame.
“I mean, we can . . .”
“No, it’s fine!” I take a breath. “Why don’t you pick?”
“You want me to plan our . . . date?”
Date! He said it. Holy shit. It’s a date. This is legit. He’s romantically interested, and I’m romantically interested, which means this is actually, finally happening. An actual date with an actual boy. This is possibly, definitely the number one best thing that’s ever happened to me. And I have no chill about it. None whatsoever.
But okay.
I should breathe.
“That’s fine,” I say calmly. SUPER COOL. MEGA CHILL. I shrug. “If you want.”
“Yeah, that works. So. Okay. Are you free tomorrow at, like, eight?”
“Eight p.m. Yup!”
I can’t stop smiling. I’m just. God. I have a date.
“Okay, I think I have an idea,” he says slowly. “But I’ll surprise you. Want to meet outside the subway at Times Square? Main entrance.”
“That sounds good.”
And by good, I mean great. I mean exquisitely perfect. I mean I’m living in a Broadway musical. THIS IS AN ACTUAL BROADWAY MUSICAL.
“Okay. See you then.”
We hang up. And for a full minute, I sit frozen, staring at the screen of my phone.
I have a date. A date. With Ben. I’m dating Ben. And dear God. Dear universe. Holy fucking shit.
I cannot mess this up.
Part Two
It’s Us
Chapter Twelve
Ben
Saturday, July 14
It’s almost time for my first date. Well, first date with Arthur.
It’s 7:27 and I should start getting out the door. I throw on the black T-shirt Ma insisted on ironing. My parents are standing by the door as Dylan follows me out of my bedroom, where he’s been hitting me with decent pep talk the past half hour. He only told me to think with my dick once. Improvement.
Dylan circles me while scratching his chin. “I sign off on this look.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Let’s go.”
“Wait, I want a photo of you two,” Ma says as she runs into the kitchen.
“Why both of them?” Pa asks. “Dylan isn’t his date.”
Ma returns with her phone. “His best friend came all the way from home.”
“Five blocks,” Pa says.
“It’s Ben’s first date. This is an Instagram moment.” Ma’s Instagram profile is classic Ma. She heavily filters photos of meals and selfies. She’s a total abuser of hashtags. #It #Is #Really #Hard #To #Read #Entire #Captions #Like #This. She noticed when I stopped following her.
“It’s not my first date,” I say. If you scroll back six months, Ma still has the photo of my first date with Hudson. We had gone to a comedy show that was uncomfortably homophobic. Hudson pulling me into our first kiss was the perfect middle finger to that comedian. And just perfect.
Ma stares me down. “You can keep correcting me or you can take the photo and leave.”
“Fine.”
Dylan stands in front of me, wrapping my arms around him prom-style. I smile and roll with it.
“Perfect.” Ma takes her photo. “Thank you!” She kisses both of us on the cheek, sits down on the kitchen stool, and gets to work on her magical caption.
“Have fun, weirdos.” Pa sneaks me some extra cash the way a drug dealer hands off a dime bag. He kisses me on the forehead and hugs Dylan. “Ben, home by ten thirty. Dylan, home whenever the hell you want, you don’t live here.”
“Yet.” Dylan winks on his way out.
I close the door behind us.
I’m speed-strolling to the subway instead of speed-walking because sweating through my shirt will not be a good look. We get to the station, swipe our way through, and I stand at the yellow edge of the platform to see if the L train is approaching. It’s not. I’ll be ten minutes late, that’s fine. Fifteen tops. Still not bad for me—there were times when I was thirty minutes late with Hudson. Puerto Rican time is a joke, but it’s also a real thing with Team Alejo. I wouldn’t have racked up as many detention slips for lateness if it wasn’t. For Thanksgiving, Títi Magda always tells the family to show up at two knowing we won’t get there until four, which is the actual time the kitchen will be ready. It’ll be fine.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to hang around and observe the date?” Dylan asks. “Good ol’ Digby Whitaker has no problem skipping his movie.”
“I will strangle Digby with arcade tickets if he shows his face.”
“Hot.”
We’re going uptown to Times Square. Dylan is going to see some horror movie while I hit up Dave & Buster’s with Arthur. The L train arrives and we ride it to Union Square. We switch to the N train, which is waiting on the platform for passengers transferring.