Even with as limited car knowledge as I have, I know Wesley’s car is nice. I don’t know what Mr. and Mrs. Cho do for work, but Wesley’s cashmere sweaters and polished loafers don’t exactly hide their salaries. All things considered—rich parents, muscular body, handsome face—he should’ve turned out to be a massive tool. I suppose I should be more grateful for his silent demeanor, given the potential alternative.
“You’re drooling again,” Sammie snaps as he stalks toward his car and opens the passenger door for me, tugging on it since it sticks no matter how many times he oils the hinges. He worked two summers at the vegan burger joint down the street from us to save up for his car, but his parents chipped in as long as he promised to help drive his sisters around. Instead of investing the additional money in, I don’t know, a car with better doors, he bought an entire set of encyclopedias that he keeps in the back seat. He’s a massive history nerd and uses them to pick his next personal research project.
“Am not.” I wipe my face with the back of my hand while he isn’t looking. Wesley is cute, sure, but definitely off-limits.
“Do her sisters even have soccer practice today?” he asks.
“How am I supposed to know?” I get in and toss my bag onto the O–P volume.
“You spent half of last year at the soccer fields watching Lucas’s games,” he says before starting the car. The engine sputters but eventually roars to life. “Didn’t you run into Linds all the time?”
“His games were on Saturday mornings, not Friday afternoons. I have no idea when the twins have practice.”
Sammie must notice my irritation, because he takes a deep breath and says, “Hey, I’m sorry about my Snooze-cus comment earlier.”
“I don’t care that you think he’s boring.”
“You mean your love life doesn’t hinge on my opinions? Color me shocked.” I make a face. “Seriously though, sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I shrug, deciding it is. “I just wish Lindsay wouldn’t have brought him up like that. She acts like it’s some tragedy Agatha and I are ending high school single.”
“You know I’m contractually obligated to point out the Shakespearean tragedy reference you just made, right?” he jokes. “But come on, you know she’s just trying to help.”
“I get that. But she’s forcing it. I want someone to want to take me to prom.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d ask if there’s a guy you’d want to want to take you.”
“And why do you know better?”
“Because there’s no way you’d have gone this long without yapping about him if there were,” he says, laughing. “Is it mean to point out that this is probably your record for the longest you’ve gone without liking a new boy? I mean, ignoring the usual daily drooling. Are you holding out for the influx of crush-worthy boys you’ll meet in the fall?”
“It wouldn’t be mean, but it would be incorrect.”
He laughs and rapidly drums his hands against the steering wheel. “Do you need me to pull out receipts?”
“I really wish you wouldn’t,” I moan, but his shit-eating grin tells me he’s beyond stopping.
“Let’s start with the infamous Ezekiel incident from second grade, shall we?”
“We shan’t.”
“I, personally, will never forget the look on Ms. Leigh’s face when she knocked over your pencil box and found literally dozens of doodles you’d made of you and Ezekiel as adults surrounded by your adorable children.”
“I was seven! And he shared his big pack of crayons with me…”
“I’m letting that euphemism slide because I love you,” he says. “Okay, let’s see, how about in eighth grade? Nathan from PE? Remember how he offered to tie your shoes before the mile run that you ended up failing because you were too busy mentally picking out what roses you’d use as centerpieces at your wedding?”
“I’ll have you know I picked out my bouquet flowers, thank you very much,” I correct, wringing my seat belt in my hands.
“Forgive me,” he chuckles. “You could always see if Marty still needs kissing practice.” He waggles his thick black eyebrows.
“That’s not fair! That was freshman year, and everyone was having their first kisses. Can you really blame me for thinking his offer meant something?”
He slaps the steering wheel. “Yes! Yes, I can!” He’s laughing so hard I’m scared he’ll veer off the road and we’ll crash into a tree. Though given the topic of conversation, I’m not sure that’d be such a bad thing. “O, he literally asked Lindsay to practice kissing a week before he asked you. You were there!”
“Okay, okay, I get it. At least I didn’t actually say yes.”
“Yeah, because he moved on to Velly Jackson before you got the chance.”
“I seem to remember this starting off as an apology.”
“You’re right,” Sammie says, but he’s fighting back a smile. “I am very sorry you depleted your adolescent dating pool options this quickly while I sat by, unknowingly complicit.”
“You’re genuinely the worst best friend ever.”
“At least you still got Ags,” he says. And it’s true. When Sammie temporarily ditched me in middle school because the pressure of Why Would A Boy And A Girl Even Speak At This Age If They’re Not Dating got to him, I stumbled upon a friendship with Ags and, by extension, Linds.
“Good, because at this rate, it looks like she’s going to be my prom date.”
“As her date, at least try to talk her down from sneaking in Parisian decor to replace the inevitable fish cutouts.”
“I kind of hope she enlists me to hide berets to replace the scuba masks they’ll probably have for the photo booth,” I say. “Oo! We can speak in French accents too!”
“Oui, oui, mon petit croissant,” he adds, and I about lose it.
As he parks along the strip of sidewalk between our houses, I’m grateful, not for the first time, that Sammie and I haven’t grown tired of each other after this many years of friendship. Middle school weirdness aside, we’ve been glued at the hip for as long as I can remember.
Dad’s parents passed away when I was a baby, and Mom’s parents live on the East Coast. We visit them every couple of years, but some of her family never exactly warmed to her marrying the son of two Cuban immigrants. I didn’t pick up on it as a kid, but recent political elections finally cued me in. I’ve had little interest in seeing anyone but Grammy and Pops Kennedy since.
The point is, with no real extended family around, my childhood got lonely at times. Inversely, Sammie has three younger sisters and one older one, let alone dozens of cousins and aunts and uncles. So my big, empty house became his refuge, and his big, full family became my extended one by proxy.
“Want to come over? Mom’s making her chicken biryani.” Sammie’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. He grabs our bags from the back seats, knocking over the T volume.
“Tempting,” I admit as I take my bag and get out of the car. His mom’s Pakistani cooking is to die for. “But my parents are making ropa vieja, so I’ve got Cuban obligations. Save me some for when we work on those sample DBQs tomorrow?” We’ve got the same teachers but different periods for most of our classes.