How They Met Read Online Free
Justin Timberlake’s initials with mine in a heart on my sneakers, only to throw them out the next day when Laura Duke teased me for it, or if on page 98 I set up base camp outside Roger Lin’s locker just to see if he’d notice me there, or if on page 154 I entered a milkshake-drinking contest to be able to stand next to Mark Tamlin for fifteen minutes, only to have him puke vanilla chum onto my Skechers…well, somehow I felt these pages didn’t bear consideration as I headed to page 239 and bought a ten-dollar H&M wallet for a boy because it was the only thing in the world I knew for sure he liked, including me. I didn’t buy him the same exact wallet—I made his green to my blue—and I didn’t actually believe I’d ever give it to him. But at least it provided me with the illusion of doing something proactive.
That night, Aunt Celia asked me how it was going with Arabella. We were at a trattoria down the street from her apartment, her concession for never cooking me dinner.
“Fine,” I said.
Aunt Celia swirled the wine in her glass for a second before drinking it. “She’s a very talented girl…or so Elise tells me.”
“She’s very smart,” I agreed.
Aunt Celia nodded. “Good.” Then she speared an asparagus and we remained in silence until she released her next fleeting criticism.
Pretty much the whole time, I was thinking of Starbucks Boy.
The next morning, I couldn’t stop myself from being impatient. Arabella also seemed to be pushing the clock to go faster. Instead of spending time on each book, she sped through them, scowling at the illustrated kittens and puppies as if it were their fault that time couldn’t move as fast as she turned the pages.
Finally, a little before ten o’clock, she looked at me thoughtfully and said, “Let’s go now.”
I had spent about a half hour deciding which T-shirt to wear, which was a sure sign of a crush if ever there was one. I was also carrying two wallets—an empty one in my left pocket, an only-marginally-more-full one in my right.
I didn’t even accept the possibility that he might not be there when we arrived. I knew that if I entered the Starbucks and didn’t see him, I would impale myself on the nearest coffee stirrer.
My heart missed about a thousand beats when we walked in and discovered the surly girly behind the counter. But then Starbucks Boy emerged from the back room, a stack of cups piled high in his hands. Gently he settled them down next to the mocha machines. I felt all the nervous static in my heart empty into my bloodstream.
As he straightened the cups into neat rows, he looked up and saw me. There was instant recognition, and another one of those smiles. As Arabella and I moved to the front of the line, he relieved his co-worker at the cash register.
“The usual?” he asked.
“Thanks,” I said, handing over Arabella’s purple cup.
Then he went back and
made them himself.
The glum girl returned to the cash register as if it had all been planned.
I thought about leaving the H&M wallet in the tip jar. Then I thought about striking up a conversation and handing it to him. Then I thought about how ridiculous everything was, and all my resolve dissolved. When I picked up Arabella’s milk and my chai, my fingers again briefly touched his. But it was just a hand-off, not a hands-on.
“Thanks,” I said again.
“My pleasure,” he replied. And then we stood there for a second, before I felt goofy and turned away to get a table.
Arabella didn’t seem happy with me.
“He’s really nice,” she said once more, this time between sips.
“He sure is,” I agreed, perhaps too enthusiastically.
After about four more sips, Arabella announced she had to go to the girls’ room.
I looked at the restroom door and saw I’d need to get the key.
“Are you sure you can’t wait until we get home?” I asked.
“I need to go
now.
”
“Okay, okay,” I mumbled. Then I went back up
That night, Aunt Celia asked me how it was going with Arabella. We were at a trattoria down the street from her apartment, her concession for never cooking me dinner.
“Fine,” I said.
Aunt Celia swirled the wine in her glass for a second before drinking it. “She’s a very talented girl…or so Elise tells me.”
“She’s very smart,” I agreed.
Aunt Celia nodded. “Good.” Then she speared an asparagus and we remained in silence until she released her next fleeting criticism.
Pretty much the whole time, I was thinking of Starbucks Boy.
The next morning, I couldn’t stop myself from being impatient. Arabella also seemed to be pushing the clock to go faster. Instead of spending time on each book, she sped through them, scowling at the illustrated kittens and puppies as if it were their fault that time couldn’t move as fast as she turned the pages.
Finally, a little before ten o’clock, she looked at me thoughtfully and said, “Let’s go now.”
I had spent about a half hour deciding which T-shirt to wear, which was a sure sign of a crush if ever there was one. I was also carrying two wallets—an empty one in my left pocket, an only-marginally-more-full one in my right.
I didn’t even accept the possibility that he might not be there when we arrived. I knew that if I entered the Starbucks and didn’t see him, I would impale myself on the nearest coffee stirrer.
My heart missed about a thousand beats when we walked in and discovered the surly girly behind the counter. But then Starbucks Boy emerged from the back room, a stack of cups piled high in his hands. Gently he settled them down next to the mocha machines. I felt all the nervous static in my heart empty into my bloodstream.
As he straightened the cups into neat rows, he looked up and saw me. There was instant recognition, and another one of those smiles. As Arabella and I moved to the front of the line, he relieved his co-worker at the cash register.
“The usual?” he asked.
“Thanks,” I said, handing over Arabella’s purple cup.
Then he went back and
made them himself.
The glum girl returned to the cash register as if it had all been planned.
I thought about leaving the H&M wallet in the tip jar. Then I thought about striking up a conversation and handing it to him. Then I thought about how ridiculous everything was, and all my resolve dissolved. When I picked up Arabella’s milk and my chai, my fingers again briefly touched his. But it was just a hand-off, not a hands-on.
“Thanks,” I said again.
“My pleasure,” he replied. And then we stood there for a second, before I felt goofy and turned away to get a table.
Arabella didn’t seem happy with me.
“He’s really nice,” she said once more, this time between sips.
“He sure is,” I agreed, perhaps too enthusiastically.
After about four more sips, Arabella announced she had to go to the girls’ room.
I looked at the restroom door and saw I’d need to get the key.
“Are you sure you can’t wait until we get home?” I asked.
“I need to go
now.
”
“Okay, okay,” I mumbled. Then I went back up
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