| after the play when the cast was mingling with the audience in the theater lobby, knowing I couldn’t run away while we were surrounded, our roles as clearly cast as the actors’ had been only minutes ago. “Hello, Mr. Lund.” “Hattie.” I clung to the name, a little girl’s name, and tried to force myself to speak to that person alone. “That was a wonderful performance. I didn’t know you were in theater.” “This was my first production.” If she could tell how uncomfortable I was, she didn’t show it. If anything, her smile only grew wider. “You’re a natural. It’s like you’ve been acting your whole life.” She laughed at that and was twirled away by another student before she could torment me further. Before I deleted my account at Pulse that night, I reread every message we’d sent each other. I’d saved them all and it was mortifying to realize what should have been obvious from the beginning. She was leaving for New York in less than a year. Of course, because she had to graduate high school first. I’d been so impressed about the books she’d read, but that was because I was assigning them to her. It would have been funny if it weren’t happening to me. After debating half the night over it, I decided to send her one last message. It was better to be absolutely clear about what had to happen. I agonized over the diction, wanting to tell her how much she’d |
to a restaurant with blue lights that rose three stories high. “Hungry?” he asked, opening a door made out of bright mosaic tiles. Since it was early afternoon, there weren’t a lot of people eating and we got seated right away. It turned out to be a tapas restaurant, one of Peter’s favorites, and he told me to order anything I wanted. Soon our table was filled with tiny plates of exotic food and I tried everything. Although a few things tasted weird, most of it was delicious. My favorite was a beef tongue wrapped in cabbage with this amazing dipping sauce. When I offered some to Peter, he declined. “I’m a vegetarian.” “What?” I was thrown. I scanned the table, like I could find some evidence of him eating meat, and realized all the dishes on his side were cheeses, vegetables, and breads. It was such a mundane thing, but somehow it shook my confidence, took us another step apart. “What else don’t I know about you?” He smiled and thought for a second before answering. “I hate tofu.” His lip even curled as he said it. “It’s probably a vegan sin, but the stuff always reminds me of Soylent Green.” “I’ve never eaten tofu.” “Lucky.” I laughed. “Why’d you become a vegetarian?” “My mom was. She basically raised me as one.” “I love my mom’s chicken and biscuits.” “I love my mom’s roasted portobellos.” “Mushrooms are gross,” I declared. “Who decided it was okay to eat fungus?” “Fungi |
