I settle in at Java Dock on my favorite couch. The place is empty tonight. Every teenager in town (except the very coolest, like me) is either at the homecoming dance, or at some very anti-homecoming homecoming party. I’ve decided that tonight will be the night I tackle my MIT and Northwestern applications. I’ve borrowed my dad’s church laptop and have hunkered down with a pumpkin spice latte, a sugar cookie the size of a dinner plate and as much enthusiasm as I can muster.
Before I start the applications I make the mistake of going on Instagram. I usually check it from my phone, but the computer is handy and I am rewarded by nearly life-size pictures from various pre-dance get-togethers. Some are just a couple of friends hanging out while others are groups of thirty or forty popular kids meeting at the park or someone’s house for a professional-grade photo shoot. Charlotte and I used to make fun of these parties. All the kids lined up, looking eerily the same, like some kind of cloning experiment gone wrong. Tonight the girls stand slightly angled toward one another with a hand on a hip, their dresses all equally short and sparkly, their hair curled in stiff ringlets. (Last year everyone’s hair was flat-ironed.) The boys have dark shirts and colorful ties. Whatever one does, they all do, like overly coiffed meerkats. I see a picture of Josh and Charlotte, their arms around each other, looking about as model-like as you can get. Between the tasteful dress that I helped her pick out, the hair and the makeup, Charlotte is almost unrecognizable. But rather than looking like she doesn’t belong, or like she’s one of the clones, Charlotte stands out in an amazing way. She literally and figuratively towers over all the girls and some of the boys, stunning.
And her smile is glorious. She seems to be having the time of her life.
Maybe those parties only seem lame when you’re not invited.
I close the Instagram window with a forceful click and sign in to the MIT application site. Time to get down to business. I hear the door of the shop open and close, but I don’t look up. Won’t let myself get distracted every time someone walks in. Must focus.
“Tall black drip,” is the guy’s coffee order, and for some reason I find this funny. Drip is an insult I’ve heard my non-swearing, too-polite dad use. I’m not even sure what it means, but I assume it’s a nerd? Or maybe a jerk? Who knows. It’s kind of like when my mom used to tell me I was being a pill when I was little. What is that supposed to even mean? I lose my focus and let my gaze drift up to the counter.
Aaaand of course it’s Zenn. Why wouldn’t it be? He has a talent for catching me at my worst moments.
While he waits for his coffee, I snuggle deeper into the couch, hoping he won’t notice me. The only thing worse than filling out college applications the night of the homecoming dance is your crush seeing you fill out college applications the night of the homecoming dance. I guess it should make me feel better that he’s not at the dance either, but it doesn’t. When guys don’t go to homecoming it seems like a conscious choice. When girls don’t go, it just seems like they didn’t get asked.
I study him from behind the screen of my laptop. I haven’t seen him since our tutoring session on Tuesday, when I gave him the go-ahead to paint the van. He’s in his usual army jacket but tonight he has on a knit hat that would look intentionally trendy if Josh were wearing it. On Zenn it just looks functional, like he’s using the hat for its intended purpose: to keep warm. He stands with his hands in his pockets, looking at the bulletin board covered with business cards and flyers advertising band gigs, dog-walking services, tutoring. My own ad was up there until my schedule got so filled up.
“Tall black drip!” the barista calls out, like she’s calling out his name and not the drink. Zenn is tall and dark, but there is nothing drippy about him. He is most definitely nondrippy, whatever that means. He takes his coffee and I think I am home free until he steps away from the counter.
Crap. He sees me. I am equal parts mortified and thrilled.
He raises his cup in a silent greeting and comes a few steps closer. He opens the lid and I try not to stare at his mouth as he blows on his coffee to cool it.
“Hey, Zenn.” My voice sounds goofy in my own ears. Too loud in this small, cozy space.
He takes a tentative sip from his cup. Straight black coffee, no cream, no sugar, no chocolate syrup. What a badass.
“No homecoming for you either?” he asks.
I close my laptop and press my hands against the warm surface. I shrug. “I’m not much of a dancer.”
Zenn nods in agreement. “Yeah. Me neither.”
He comes even closer and sits down on the arm of the sofa across from me. His knees are spread wide, his forearms resting on his inner thighs, his hypnotizing hands holding his coffee in the triangle between his legs. He looks so comfortable, so at ease in his own skin. How does one get that way? You wouldn’t think it would be hard — I mean, we’re born in our skin. It should be pretty comfortable by the time you hit seventeen, eighteen. But for me … not so much.
“Homework?” he asks, nodding at my laptop.
“Hmmm?” I drum my fingers against the cover. “Oh. Not really. Just … surfing the web.”
Surfing the web? Do people even say that anymore?
He nods and takes another small sip of his coffee. Swallows.
“Lots of people posting pictures?” he asks.
I shrug and feel my throat tighten. Oh, my God. What is wrong with me? I don’t even care about homecoming! At least I never did before. Pull it together, Eva! I look down at the closed laptop until I feel more in control of my emotions, leaving a long, dead moment of silence.
“So … I’m on my way to work on your van.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Do you … want to come with? See how it’s going?”
I look up. This must be a trick question. Hang out alone at the coffee shop filling out college applications on homecoming night or accompany a hot guy … anywhere? No-brainer.
“Um. Sure?”
He nods and gives me a small, satisfied smile. “Cool.”
I pack up the laptop, shoving my cookie into the case. When I stand up, juggling my coffee and trying to hoist the bag onto my shoulder, Zenn reaches for the strap. “Here. I’ll take it.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
I never offer to help people with their things and I envy the way he can just take my bag from me like that. I envy how touch is, for most people, as easy as breathing.
He lifts his arm in a ladies-first kind of move, and I lead the way out of the coffee shop.
“Did you drive here?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I walked.”
“Okay. I’m just across the street.”