“You were right about what you said in the library about me. About testing people. That’s why I was so mad. But I was kind of right about you too . . . even though I didn’t mean to yell. I was just sad about Ruth.”
“You totally were. We were both partly right, I think. I was a colossal dick to you. And to Ashley. I apologized to her too.”
Part of me wants to ask if she’s okay, but that feels condescending. And besides, Gideon can’t speak for Ashley. Instead I decide to stop by the Parkers’ tomorrow and say sorry, sans Converse and sans attitude, to see if she wants to hang with me and Ave sometime.
Gideon clears his throat. “I was just wondering how long we’re gonna be partly right and entirely mad at each other, because there’s an open mic at the Uk Machine tonight, and I’m not gonna go unless you come with me.”
I beam stupidly at the door. But I need to give him my bottom line.
“Gideon, the thing is, I . . . really like you.” My voice cracks a little. “I really, really like you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“I really, really”—he laughs the small laugh of an embarrassed boy discussing strong feelings—“really like you.”
The audible certainty, as clear as a bell, as final as the post-quiz “Pencils down,” gives me chills. I turn back around, sheep be damned.
“Can I also apologize? Or do I need to present a farm animal to you?”
“Go ahead.”
“I’m sorry I wrote that stuff,” I say.
“I know. It’s okay.”
BAA, the sheep says and then poops on Gideon’s shoes.
“Goddamn it!” he yelps, sidestepping. I double over laughing.
“Fuck!” He shakes most of it off his foot.
“Can you take it . . . back to where it came from?” I wheeze, still cracking up.
“I have it for another half an hour.”
“When does the open mic start?”
“Seven.”
“So . . . what do we do?”
And I don’t mean it like I’ve meant it, an encoded way of asking: “Are we both weird?” or “Are we both popular?” or “Are we together?” I just mean literally: What are we doing today? Workshopping his new material? Seeing what beachgoers would think of bringing a sheep onto the Jersey Shore? Sneaking into a bad movie so we can make out in the back?
His eyes meet mine.
“I guess whatever we want,” he says.
We smile at each other.
BAAAAAAAA.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Grateful to Tina Wexler at ICM, best agent ever, and my editors Jessica Almon and Marissa Grossman for their constant support and excellent instincts. Thanks also to Casey McIntyre, Ben Schrank (whose kind handwritten note still occupies valuable real estate on my fridge), and everyone else at Razorbill/Penguin, plus the trio responsible for the adorable cover: Lindsey Andrews, Michelle Russ, and Chrissy Lau. And to everybody at Cosmo, especially Michelle Ruiz, Marina Khidekel, and Joanna Coles.
Thanks to Julie Buntin, Julia Pierpont, Samy Burch, Anna Schumacher, Emily Henry, Elizabeth Minkel and her excellent column on fandom, Hightstown High School for being such an epic piece of shit, Jillian Michaels DVDs, Buffy, my dermatologist, Taylor Swift, that shoe over there, laptops, water, doorknobs, and East Village Wines between 9th and St. Marks.
Huge thanks to Greg, my super-supportive and disconcert-ingly attractive boyfriend, and to my scary-smart little sisters and first readers, Beth and Rebecca. And obviously none of this would have been possible otherwise, so a hundred million thank-yous, Mom and Dad! I’d use your first names, but I don’t know them.