It's Kind of a Cheesy Love Story

by Lauren Morrill

  By the end of my shift, I’m practically dead on my feet. I shoot Natalie a text to see where everyone is, then shove my phone back into my pocket. I wander outside with my keys in my hand only to realize my mistake. Because when I press the unlock button, there’s no beep. And there’s no beep because there’s no car. I didn’t drive myself to work tonight. Dad needed the car for some Quiz Bowl thing he had at school, so Mom dropped me off. I was supposed to text her just before my shift ended so she could be waiting to pick me up, but I forgot. Now I’m going to have to sit on this stupid curb and wait for her.

  I drop down onto the concrete and fish out my phone again, typing an SOS to Mom, when the door opens and Julianne comes outside, locking the door behind her. She catches sight of me on the curb and stares at me for longer than is comfortable.

  “Do you have a ride?” she finally asks. It’s the definition of begrudging.

  “I just have to text my mom. She’ll be here soon. We only live, like, five minutes away.”

  “Okay,” she says.

  The boys tumble out of the restaurant, laughing about the box of industrial-sized condoms and a stapled printout of how to use them that Greg found on a table (for which he won the right to assign Jason to haul out the mountain of Friday night trash).

  “Hey, Beck, you coming out with us?” Frank asks when he spots me.

  “Uh, I—”

  “Her mom is coming to get her,” Julianne says, too quickly. But for once, Frank isn’t tuned in to Julianne’s frequency.

  “You should come. We’re gonna get some food,” he says. “We can give you a ride there and then home.”

  At that moment, my phone lights up with a text message from my mom. Apparently she, too, forgot that she’d be my ride and just put something in the oven. She’ll be here in twenty.

  So my options are to sit in the empty Hot ’N Crusty parking lot for twenty minutes waiting for Mom, or hitch a ride. For food. And as my stomach lets out a prehistoric growl, I realize that I’m starving.

  “Yeah, okay, food sounds good,” I say as everyone starts piling into cars.

  “My car’s full, so you’re with Julianne,” Jason says as he twirls his keys on his key chain and moseys across the parking lot to a newish Honda. “There’s a giant box of robotics supplies riding shotgun until I drop them off with Mr. Grant.”

  I glance at Julianne. I’m tempted to let her off the hook, tell her I’ll ride shotgun with the box, or maybe even just skip altogether. But then I realize this is a prime opportunity to get her to warm up to me. And so I just wait. And finally she shrugs.

  “Yeah, fine, you can come with me,” she says.

  So instead of telling my mom I’ll wait for her pound cake to finish, I ask if it’s cool if I go out with some work friends. And instead of an actual reply, I get a string of emojis that includes two thumbs-up, a party hat, and three smiley faces with heart eyes (when it comes to emojis, Mom’s take is that more is always better).

  I climb into Julianne’s car, something old and gold and designed for old ladies to drive to church. The bumper is hanging off slightly in the front.

  “Accident?” I ask.

  “Cart corral” is all she says, and I’m left to fill in the gaps.

  Then she studiously adjusts her mirror and clicks her seat belt before her keys even approach the ignition, like it’s Coach Quarles in the passenger seat with his driver’s ed clipboard. And when they do finally make contact, the public radio station my dad listens to comes through the speakers at a pleasant volume. I recognize the bluegrass show from plenty of rides in the passenger seat of Dad’s Corolla.

  It’s about a twenty-minute drive to Madisonville, and I feel every minute of it. Julianne tells me (in as few words as possible) that we’re headed to Stefano’s. Beyond that, it’s just silence and banjos on the radio.

  Madisonville is home to Warren West College, a small, competitive liberal arts school. It looks like a movie set for college, all stone and brick pathways and honest-to-god ivy. My parents want me to apply. I tell them I see myself at someplace bigger. But what I really mean is farther away. I open my mouth to ask Julianne where she plans to go to college—a reflex—before I remember that she doesn’t want to talk to me. At this point, I think riding quietly might be the quickest way to her heart.

  Stefano’s is a long, one-story building with ivy growing over it, the Stefano’s sign glowing in red neon on the stone exterior. It’s a building of indeterminate age, but it’s definitely seen some things. Inside, rows of wooden booths with super high backs give everyone their own little cubby in the restaurant. I follow Julianne to the table in the back, a square booth with bench seats on three sides, the high, dark wood making it feel like its own little cubby. The way she strides back there with confidence tells me this is “their” table, in the same way the round table two from the center of the cafeteria is “ours” at school. The boys are already sipping on red plastic cups the size of their heads, the menus still in a pile in the center of the table. It occurs to me that while I’ve spent Friday nights at football games and hanging at Tamsin and Colin’s house, they’ve been spending their Friday nights here. This is their ritual. And now I’m a part of it. Or crashing it—I can’t tell quite yet.

  “I got you a Coke,” Frank says, gesturing to the cup next to his. Julianne slides in with a smile and a thank-you that seems to light Frank up from the inside. He tears his gaze away as I slide in next to Julianne. “Didn’t know your drink. Sorry, Beck.”

  “It’s okay,” I reply, and when the waitress arrives, I order a water with lemon. It’s become a habit, since Tamsin is always dragging us to pricey cafés where a Coke comes in a glass bottle and costs like three dollars. But water is always free.

  The boys are chattering on about something, leaning in and intense, and I prepare myself to relax and tune them out (like I do when Mac, Colin, and Eli get deep into fantasy baseball conversations), when I hear the mention of Spacefarers and an upcoming galaxy war. They’re talking about an episode of Apex Galaxy that Dad and I just finished, one where the Navstar Force pulls a classic Trojan horse operation on the Exos.

  “Did you know that was Blake Garcia playing the Exo guard in the cold open?” I say, and I swear there is an actual record scratch as the boys halt their conversation and swivel their heads in unison to stare at me. Jason’s mouth is literally hanging agape.

  “You watch AxGx?” Greg asks. I recognize the abbreviation from the message boards I’ve read late at night when I can’t sleep, though I never realized it was pronounced AxGax.

  “Yeah. With my dad,” I say. “He was into the ’88 series back in the day. We finished that one over the summer and just started the reboot.”

  “It’s not a reboot, it’s a companion,” Jason says. I can tell he’s trying to regain some high ground, but he’s still too stunned to find out we share a fandom to actually put the requisite sneer in it. I bet he’s on the message boards, one of the screen names who posts a lot of corrections and actuallys. I bet he’s even a mod. But I don’t ask, because I’ve never told a single soul that I visit the Apex Galaxy message boards—not even my dad.

  The waitress brings my drink and takes our order—two extra larges, one cheese, one half pepperoni, half mushrooms and onions—and then the table goes silent. It’s like suddenly the boys are too nervous to nerd out in front of me, even though just moments ago they were seconds from achieving peak dork. It makes me feel like a total interloper. I’m throwing off their rhythm. So I try to fix it by talking.

  “So you guys seriously finish working five hours at a pizza place, and then you go out … to another pizza place?” I ask.

  “Okay, we love HnC—” Julianne says. I’m shocked to hear her speak, but I can’t dwell on it, because Jason cuts her off.

  “Speak for yourself.”

  Julianne rolls her eyes. “But we all freely admit that it’s not exactly the best pizza.” She drops her voice a little as she says it, like someone might be re
cording her. It’s like she’s committing some kind of act of pizza treason and doesn’t want to be caught.

  “It’s fine. Serviceable,” Frank says with a shrug.

  “It’s the perfect pizza to eat with your soccer team when you’ve won the fourth grade championship,” Greg says.

  “When did you ever play soccer?” Jason snipes.

  “It’s a metaphor,” Greg shoots back.

  “It’s the kind of pizza you have at your birthday party in middle school,” Frank clarifies.

  “It’s cafeterialicious,” Jason says.

  “Anyway,” Julianne says with an eye roll, “to try and compare Stefano’s to HnC is like comparing a Ferrari to a Dodge Dart.”

  “Okay, but you’re seriously not tired of pizza?”

  “Beck, you’ve clearly never been to Stefano’s,” Frank says.

  And I haven’t. I know what it is, of course. I’ve driven past it when I’ve been to plays at the college with my parents, but it always seemed like a place that wasn’t for me. It’s for students at the college, for people infinitely cooler than me. People who know something I don’t. It never occurred to me that I could just go there. Like I would belong.

  The pizza arrives. Two huge pies, and right away I see what they mean about Stefano’s being different. This pizza has a thick, doughy crust, and the edges are crispy with cheese overflow.

  “They use cast-iron pans, like for deep-dish pizza, only it’s not deep-dish,” Frank explains as I pull a slice of pepperoni onto my plate. The cheese is hot and gooey, and I have to break the strings with my fork to detach it from the rest of the slices. Before I take a bite, though, I reach into my purse and pull out a Lactaid.

  Jason gasps. “I’m sorry, are you telling me that the Pizza Princess is … lactose intolerant?”

  “I prefer Bathroom Baby,” I say back, shocked that I reached for the joke. Shocked that the entire table laughs with me. “I usually just avoid cheese, but this looks good, so I’ll make an exception.”

  “So that’s why you only ate the crusts on your birthday,” Julianne says.

  I hadn’t even noticed her there on my birthday. But she noticed me. She noticed my aversion to cheese. And she’s not making fun of me.

  The pizza tastes as good as it looks: salty and cheesy and yeasty, with a nice acidic bite from the tomato sauce. I’m embarrassed to hear my own moan escape as I chew.

  “She gets it now,” Julianne says as she attacks a slice of mushroom and onion.

  “I do,” I reply. And conversation slows as we all tuck into our slices while they’re still steaming, riding that fine line between delicious and painfully hot mouth burns. We’re quiet again, but this time it’s silence with a purpose. I don’t feel like an intruder. I feel like we’re all quietly sharing this delicious moment. It feels oddly familiar, like slipping on your favorite sneakers.

  And then the quiet chewing gives way to conversation, and I find myself happily tossing out Apex Galaxy fan theories between bites. Jason is over his shock now and is happy to loudly debate me over whether Captain Evangelion is a turncoat (I say no, he says I’m blinded by his blue eyes and washboard abs … He may be right).

  I’m actually having fun when Tristan shows up. I suppress a scowl, but he doesn’t. His just shines right on through as he slides into the opposite side of the booth next to Greg. He’d be facing me, if he actually acknowledged my presence. As much as I hate that he has any kind of influence over me, I suddenly feel very sour. And I’m reminded once again that I don’t belong.

  The conversation carries on around him, but he doesn’t say anything. He just silently starts in on a slice of mushroom and onion. He’s yet to say a word to anyone, just a few nods of greeting to the guys when they said hey. Is he nice to anyone?

  And then he reaches into his messenger bag and produces a small wooden box, just a little bit bigger than a cigar box. The wood is unpainted, but it looks polished such that if I touched it, it would have a velvety smooth finish. There’s a pair of brass hinges on one side, and an intricate gold latch on the other. He passes it across the table to Julianne without saying a word.

  She takes it in her hands and gasps. She lifts the lid, and inside I see that it’s divided into compartments with narrow pieces of wood cut and interlocked together. There’s a small piece of mirror set into the lid, and a delicious woody smell wafts from the box.

  “Tristan, it’s beautiful! Thank you! My mom is going to absolutely love it,” she says, running her hands over the delicate woodwork inside.

  “You made that?” I say, but he just shrugs in response.

  “Tristan is super talented,” Julianne says, like I’ve accused him of stealing it. “I’m going to give this to my mom for her birthday.” She carefully closes the lid and cradles it gently in her lap. “How much do I owe you?”

  Tristan shakes his head, waving her off.

  “No, seriously, let me pay you. This is gorgeous!”

  “It’s on the house,” he says, staring down at his plate as he rubs the back of his neck. It’s hard to tell on his tan skin, but I can see a hint of blush creeping into his cheeks, which surprises me. “It was good practice. That’s the first jewelry box I’ve ever made. Really, you were helping me.”

  Julianne sighs, running her hand across the box’s lid. She smiles. “Thanks, Tristan,” she says, her voice soft.

  “It’s fine,” he mutters, before returning to his pizza crust.

  “Hey, Beck, have you gotten to the episodes with Ataria yet?” Frank asks, pulling my attention from Tristan and his act of surprising kindness.

  “I actually just saw her first episode the other day,” I tell him. Ataria is an alien who has magical powers that she can’t seem to control. Her first episode was treated as comic relief, but there was a hint at something darker. “She comes back?”

  “Don’t spoil her!” Greg yelps, punching Frank in the arm.

  “You can’t spoil a twenty-year-old show, dude,” Frank shoots back as he rubs the spot on his arm and groans.

  “It’s okay, I don’t mind spoilers,” I say, channeling the debate I’ve been having with Dad for the last year. He’d seen all the episodes in the original four seasons, but he never watched the reboot (or, companion). He’s relentless about not being spoiled, but I love perusing the online forums and reading fan theories. Spoilers are inevitable. “Any show that depends solely on audience surprise isn’t very good to begin with.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.” Jason slaps the table with his palm like we’re debating in the United Nations. Getting agreement from Jason feels like a hard-won victory. I have to stop myself from fist pumping. “Don’t worry, you’re close. Ataria comes back in, like, three or four episodes? As soon as the producers saw her on film, they knew they had to have her back. She’s magnetic. Her arc with First Lieutenant Ringold is classic.”

  “Beware. You’ve just climbed aboard Jason’s ship,” Greg says.

  “Then we’re about to fight, because First Lieutenant Ringold belongs with Ensign Oriana forever and ever the end,” I reply. I know I’m quickly severing whatever connection Jason and I forged in that moment of spoiler debate, and I can’t help grinning. I never get to talk about Apex Galaxy in real life. I once tried to bring it up at lunch, thinking at least I could get the guys to bite, but Tamsin just wrinkled her nose in disgust while Eli called me a Trekkie. I couldn’t even manage to tell him that’s an entirely different show, you dipstick.

  Only instead of pushback over my preferred ship, I get silence, as all three boys’ eyes go wide, Jason looking way too satisfied. I’m guessing I’ve stumbled on a major spoiler.

  “Don’t tell me,” I say, plugging my ears. Apparently my spoiler stance is flexible, because if I’m about to find out that Ensign Oriana dies I will thoroughly lose my shit. “I will go down with this ship!”

  Everyone at the table laughs, including Tristan, who is straight-up cackling.

  “What?” I ask, leveling him with what Na
talie calls the eye.

  “I just didn’t realize you were such a nerd,” he says with a shrug.

  “Hey!”

  “It’s a compliment,” he says, and as I look around the table, where Julianne is leaning toward Frank talking about some books where fairies astride dragons wage war with humans while Jason and Greg start in on the origin of the Exos and their relation to the Synchros, I realize that he’s right. At this table, being a nerd means being part of the squad. And I’m surprised at how good that feels.

  The waitress returns to clear away empty plates and drop the check, a subtle hint to GTFO. I pull out my phone to check the time and see a text from Natalie from nearly an hour ago.

  We’ll be at Cora’s till midnight. Boys have early practice. Come when you can!

  But it’s already 11:30. By the time I get back to Brook Park, I will have missed them completely.

  “There’s no way Rigel gets commander. He lacks Academy training,” Jason says, thoroughly leaving any trace of inside voice behind.

  I glance back down at my phone, then back at the table. Then I fire off a reply to Natalie.

  Sorry I missed you guys! Work went late.

  And then I school Jason on why Rigel is absolutely qualified to command the Navstar Force thanks to his apprenticeship with Admiral Fox.