Meet Cute

by Jennifer L. Armentrout

  “I don’t know,” I said breathily, unable to make eye contact with the other girls. “He just seems, like, I don’t know. The kind of boyfriend who would, like, be really nice to your younger sister. You know?”

  I mean, he did really seem like that! I think I actually willed my cheeks to flush. Meryl Streep honestly has nothing on an eleven-year-old who feels very cozy in the closet. Back then, I didn’t have the right words for the way I felt anyway.

  They bought it completely. And it didn’t really feel like lying. I felt powerful and safe, taking on the identity of a girl I simply . . . wasn’t.

  For years, if Kellan came up, Annabel would waggle her eyebrows at me. She once got me a birthday card with his face on it, which she labeled Future Husband.

  I came out to her freshman year, and she said, so earnestly, “But there was that whole Kellan James thing.”

  Oh, Annabel. Sweet, innocent Annabel.

  In the end, it was still an inside joke between us. Just for a different reason.

  “Sorry about that,” the girl says, setting down her phone. She positions herself back toward me. I notice that—of course I do. “I swear, I’ve been traveling alone for a decade, and she still frets. Okay. Your turn to guess mine.”

  “Your reason for being in New York?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “I don’t have to guess,” I say. “Because I know: L.L.Bean catalog photo shoot.”

  “Oh my God.” She covers her face, laughing, but I think she’s pleased. “Ha. Yeah, right.”

  “Am I right? Or am I right?”

  “This outfit isn’t L.L.Bean. Just Denver-wear. And I’m definitely not a model,” she says, motioning as if presenting herself. “I am but a child of divorce. One weekend a month with my dad in the city.”

  “That’s pretty cool, right? Like a New York vacation twelve times a year?”

  “Yeah, I like it now. Because when he’s busy, which is a lot, I can just go to museums and the park and the theater. I’m not there enough to make actual friends, though. So I’m just a weird, loner art girl. But that’s okay. I’ll be at Columbia next year.”

  We talk about friends from home, about summer plans. For me? Working as many hours as I can get waiting tables. For her, unofficial nanny for her younger half siblings. At one point, I make her laugh so hard that she tips her head back.

  It can be so freaking hard to tell if a girl is into you or if she thinks she just found a new best friend. I mean, sure, I do have some sense of it. But I’ve been wrong before. Like, a lifetime of crushes on girls who later announce their straightness. Some of the time, I want to side-eye them like, You sure about that? But hey. Whatever.

  My mom says it’ll be easier in college, that not everyone knows themselves as well as I do just yet. That not everyone feels safe or comfortable enough to come out in high school. And I get that; I do live in Indiana, where I have to be careful, too. But sometimes it seems so unfair that I have to wait. Plenty of girls get their love stories starting now, starting years ago. Sometimes I even envy their heartbreak. At least they got to know what it was like, right?

  What I get, apparently, is a first date with a girl I met online, who barely spoke to me at the carnival where we met up. On our second date, we agreed that we just didn’t click. We did make out in my car, though. That’s my romance portfolio.

  “Hey,” the girl says. We never exchanged real names, and now it’s too awkward to throw that into the conversation. “Before, you said you were visiting your best friend at Tisch. Where you’re supposed to be next year. But you won’t be?”

  Everything feels so much safer in costume, with adopted mannerisms. So why, sitting here with her, do I want to empty my pockets and show her everything I own? Every flaw, every quirk. The dull coins and gum wrappers, every trivial and unglamorous part of who I am.

  “Tisch was always the plan. I got in; we sent the deposit and everything. But now I . . . think it’s a huge mistake.” The girl tips her head forward just a bit, silently asking for more information. “Ivy’s acting-school friends . . . they’re all—I don’t know. Smart and talented and beautiful. Why did I think I could go there and compete with that?”

  “Uh,” the girl says, giving me a pointed look, “because you’re also smart and talented and beautiful?”

  I stare down at my knees, puffing out laugh-air. “Yeah, right.”

  “Excuse me,” she scoffs. “You just told me that I’m good at reading people.”

  “I guess I thought I was getting the leads in every play and musical because I’m good. But maybe I’m just a big fish in a small pond. What if I’m not any good, and I’m just driving myself into debt for a career that, like, basically no one gets to have in the long run? I mean, my parents don’t have a lot of money, so this is on me. And, God, like . . . just navigating the city. It’s so much. Figuring out the subway and trying not to get lost on the streets, and . . .” I trail off, helpless.

  “You know what, though?” She’s squinting, her gaze somewhere in the crowd. “For the first issue, at least, I think all of us seniors think that.”

  This time, it’s me who cocks my head, wondering if she’s right.

  “I mean, even if we feel sure about what we want to do—what if we’re wrong? What if it sucks; what if we’re not good at it? What if we are, but we still can’t get a solid career down the road? It’s all unknowns.”

  “Okay. Then what the heck are we supposed to do?”

  She scans the people around us, as if searching in them for an answer. “I think . . . I think all we can really do is chase the oomph.”

  I lean forward, thinking I’ve misheard. “The oomph?”

  Man, she’s pretty. Pale lashes fluttering as she thinks. “Yeah, that thing you feel when you’re right where you’re supposed to be. That . . . steeled feeling.”

  Standing in the wings before my first entrance. Drawing my shoulders back, spotlight on me, as the opening notes of my solo sound from the orchestra pit. Total assurance—joy, even, that I can do it. Standing at the piano beside my co-lead in rehearsals, working through tricky, interlocking harmonies. The moments when I can work myself up to impassioned tears.

  “See?” she says, pleased. “You know what I’m talking about. Wouldn’t you do just about anything to chase that feeling? Wouldn’t you keep auditioning even though the girls competing for your roles are going to make you work harder for it?”

  “That is”—I say, swallowing—“an excellent point.”

  Someone gets on the intercom at my gate to announce that the plane is still en route. I sigh, rolling my eyes. “With my luck, I’ll be sleeping here.”

  “Well, then,” Natasha says, rubbing her hands together. She wears a thin ring on her pointer finger, gold with a tiny peridot stone that matches her eyes. I want to know what it means to her. Is it her birthstone? A gift? Just something pretty she stumbled across? “I’d better teach you to airport camp before I board.”

  “Airport camp?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I invented it when I was twelve. Stay here.”

  After I’ve watched her walk away, I glance at my phone. Two missed calls from my dad, and a text that says I’m worried. No kidding, Dad. That is your resting state of being.

  I’m typing out a response when my mom calls, a dorky selfie of us popping up with her contact info.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hey, sweetie. Thought I’d check in. Your dad figures he might be driving you nuts.” She’s probably at the kitchen island, keeping my brother and sister from bickering as they work on homework.

  “Only a little. I’m fine. Just sitting here at the gate. Still delayed.”

  “Poor thing. Delays are no fun, but even worse when you’re alone. Is Wi-Fi free? At least watch a movie or something?”

  “It’s all right, actually. I made a friend.”

  There’s a heavy silence across the line as she, apparently, deliberates.

  “No,” she decides. “Nope. I don
’t like you talking to strangers. This is how people get murdered in airport bathrooms and stuffed into trash cans.”

  “What? You made that up. And she’s harmless, I swear.”

  “Wait,” she says, breathy all the sudden. “Is it a girl?”

  Even hundreds of miles away, I can sense her grin, smug as can be. I’m quiet for too long, incriminating myself. “It is, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve gotta go, Mom.”

  “You do not! You’re literally trapped in an airport with nothing to do. Is she pretty?”

  I hold the phone away from my ear so I can’t hear her. “Bye, Mom! Love you!”

  With my remaining alone time, I consider my options: Text Ivy that I met a girl. (No, can’t do it. What if she texts me back after said girl returns, and girl sees it? Or what if Ivy asks something basic like, say, the girl’s name?) I could Google How can I tell if a girl is flirting with me? (I know from experience that it is not helpful at all.) So, I check my flight one more time, touch up my makeup, and try to convince myself that the girl is actually coming back.

  Which she does eventually, a purposeful walk even with her hands full. She’s carrying a Starbucks cup, a Rice Krispies treat in plastic wrap, and chocolate-covered grahams.

  “I don’t get it,” I admit.

  “You will.” Using the empty seat next to her as a flat surface, she cuts the Rice Krispies treat into smaller cubes, then spears one with a wooden coffee stirrer.

  “Okay,” she says. “So. If you wind up having to stay overnight, you find an empty gate.”

  She removes the lid from the cup, revealing what appears to be plain hot water. Steam floods upward.

  “Maybe knot the sleeves of two sweaters together, drape them over the armrests of these chairs. Definitely pull up a YouTube video of a crackling fire on your laptop. And then . . .” She holds the Rice Krispies treat kabob over the steam. I give her a puzzled look, but it hits me quick.

  “Oh my God,” I say, laughing.

  When her makeshift marshmallow is gooey enough, she presses it onto a chocolate graham.

  “Et voilà,” she says, handing it to me. “Airport s’more.”

  When I take it, she licks melted chocolate off the pad of her finger. I almost cough up the bite I’m trying to chew. Instead, I look away, hmming thoughtfully. “This is impressive.”

  She gives that same self-possessed shrug. “I’m an impressive person.”

  Across from us, her gate’s intercom announces boarding. The line forms in a rush, which I’ve never understood. Why sit in that tiny airplane seat any longer than you have to?

  “Well, I better get over there,” she says, jabbing a thumb at the gate.

  “You’re lucky. I live here now.” I try not to betray that I feel split down the center, realizing I’ll never see her again. I might hang on to the wooden stirrer/marshmallow skewer, to remind myself it was real. “Hey, if that drunk guy talks to you again, tell a flight attendant, okay? Seriously.”

  “I will,” she says, solemn. “Nice to meet you, Carter. I’ll tell the home office you’re as talented as they say.”

  “Back at you, Romanoff.”

  She hefts her duffel bag over her shoulder, gives me a half smile before she turns to go.

  It settles in, that feeling of total certainty that I will regret what I am doing—nothing—even while I have a chance to correct it. I settle back into my seat, knowing I will wonder forever. That I’ll recount every moment to my friends, that they’ll scream “Why didn’t you ask for her number?”

  I won’t have an answer. Something I have longed for was right there, an arm’s reach away. Why couldn’t I just lift my hand? Too afraid that I’d have it slapped away, I guess. Maybe it was enough for it to just exist, here and now.

  Or maybe that’s an excuse I use, to avoid putting myself out there. Maybe I’m just hiding behind the guise of a strong-woman character whose lines I’ve memorized, without ever making my own, bold choices. I tear through my purse for a pen and paper.

  I’ve gotta do it, right? She started the conversation in line. She flagged me down. Have I given her anything concrete in return?

  “Natasha, hey!” I say, breathless from hurrying.

  She looks up from her phone. The people nearest to her in line are pretending not to eavesdrop.

  “Johanna, actually,” she says. Is it my imagination—does she look relieved? “Jo.”

  “I’m Cassidy.”

  She nods, as if she knew this. Like she’d known me in another life and just couldn’t quite remember what name I’d gone by in those years.

  “My number,” I say, holding out a carbon-smeared receipt. “In case you want to show a New York newbie around the museums next year. Have a laugh at how dense I am about art.”

  She looks pleased. “It has always been my dream to just be weird art girl, instead of weird loner art girl.”

  “Happy to help. Okay. See you.” I say it breezily, acting again—just a little. Trying to be a more confident girl.

  “Bye, Cass,” she says. The smile stays put.

  Back at my own gate, I grin like a fool. But I’m not a fool—I know this girl might never text me. Or, if she does, it’ll be as friends, and that’s okay. She’s disappeared into the tunnel toward her plane.

  But I still get to keep it—the fact that a pretty stranger patched up my relationship with NYU, like some angel of college plans. That she made my heart feel full of glitter, if only for half an hour. That I got to feel seen.

  I’m so lost in it that the buzz of my phone startles me. A number I don’t know.

  Hey, it’s Jo. You’re not going to believe this, she says. And I like that. I like that she thinks she knows what I would and wouldn’t believe.

  I put my music on shuffle when I sat down and this is the first song that came up.

  A screenshot of a song called “Pretty Girl at the Airport.”

  One beat. Just enough for a sharp inhale. And there it is, deep in my chest.

  Oomph.

  The Dictionary Of You And Me

  — — — — — —

  JENNIFER L. ARMENTROUT

  CHEEKS FLUSHED AND stinging from the whipping winds barreling through the near-empty parking lot, I hurried toward the small, two-story county library I’d worked at three days a week for the past two and a half years.

  The wind was picking up loose strands of my black hair, tossing them across my face as if it were attempting to blind me. That’s what I got for not wearing a hat or taking the time to pull my hair up.

  Winter had come early this year to Waverly Hollow, turning the small, barely there town into the North Pole since the day after Thanksgiving. Now that Christmas was in a week, there was a high likelihood that we’d have a dusting of the white fluffy stuff come Christmas morning.

  A white Christmas! I thought happily.

  I was a big old dork when it came to Christmas. I loved everything about it—the twinkly lights and crinkling paper, the smell of pine and balsam, the music and the movies, and most, I loved all the hope.

  As soon as I pushed open the main lobby door, the musty scent of books hit me. I tugged off my thick mittens with a smile. I loved that smell. I guessed it was a good thing that I did since I planned to study library science when I entered college next fall.

  The library was dead, but that was no surprise. It was a Wednesday night and we tended only to be busy on the weekends.

  I crossed the main floor, passing the reference section that saw about the same amount of action as I did. Boyfriendless since the end of last summer, I was officially giving up on the whole dating thing. Not that anyone would blame me, since my last date ended with my fist connecting with Jared Richmond’s nose.

  Shoving my gloves into the pocket of my coat, I walked behind the front desk, and like I did every time I showed up for work, I headed for the return cart.

  Mrs. Singer, the head librarian in charge, always left the return cart for me to handle. Not that I
minded. She took care of everything else, so there wasn’t much for me to do in the evenings that I worked.

  But there was one book in particular that I was searching for.

  I bent over and started rooting through the books I’d have to put away later. It didn’t take long for me to realize that the way-overdue book hadn’t been returned.

  The corners of my lips tipped up again.

  I straightened as I pulled off the scarf, unsure if the tiny smidgen of relief I felt was absurd. Actually, I knew the answer to that. It was the epitome of ludicrous.

  Shaking my head, I went over to the front desk as Mrs. Singer strolled out of the small office, her steel-gray hair smooth and sleek. I slid my backpack off and placed it under the desk. Mrs. Singer was already bundled up, wearing a puffy black jacket and a pale white scarf. Her sparkly purse dangled from her gloved fingers.

  “Good evening, Miss Evans.”

  Before I could open my mouth to respond, Mrs. Singer turned on her heel. Cold air rushed into the library as the door swung shut behind her. And that was it. Off she went, home to her husband of a billion years.

  Mrs. Singer wasn’t much of a talker.

  Scanning the stacks and tables, I spotted two patrons, one by the computers and the other sitting near a window reading. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear as I grabbed the clear plastic holder that contained a dozen or so index cards.

  Our systems were pretty archaic due to lack of funding and the fact that our town was still stuck in the fifties. I mean, we had one high school that served the entire county, so our library was like the little library that could.

  These cards were linked to library accounts that had overdue books on them. Normally we’d shoot e-mails to the offenders. We rarely ever called them.

  Except for Mr. H. Smith.

  Getting the way-overdue book back from him had become a personal mission of mine. I’d call him at least once, sometimes twice a week, and he always answered.