by Meg Leder
“Eph, is he that tall guy with the brown hair you hang out with, the artist guy?”
I was surprised he had registered all that. “Yeah, he’s one of my best friends and I’ve known him and his family for like forever, but we’re just friends, you know? He’s an old family friend. We don’t date or anything—I mean, not that you asked . . .” Last night flashed through my mind and I felt a faint pang of guilt, but Eph had said it himself: It wasn’t a big deal. Chill, Penelope.
Keats ripped open a raw sugar packet and poured it in his coffee. “Actually, I was going to ask,” he said.
“That’s funny,” I said, feeling brave. “A few people told me you and Cherisse have a history—”
“Old family friend,” he interrupted without missing a beat, and his smile was teasing.
“Fair enough,” I said.
“Enough of her.”
Fine by me, I thought, warmth filling my stomach. Keats wanted to be with me; he picked me. It was a miracle, this feeling of being chosen.
As the afternoon light faded, we talked and talked. And ordered two more hot chocolates and one more coffee (decaf this time).
Keats told me his first real concert was the National, which was so cool I couldn’t stand it. It took ten minutes of prodding afterward for me to finally admit mine was Selena Gomez.
I liked the way he used his hands when he talked about something he loved—college football, Cormac McCarthy books, the movie Clerks, Arcade Fire.
He said he was addicted to Red Hots, had to order them online because they were hard to find, showed me a half-empty box in his coat pocket, close to the chest like a pack of cigarettes. No wonder he always smelled like cinnamon.
He told me the Washington Square Park brownstone where his family used to live was haunted, and when he was eight, his mom insisted they move because the ghost was hurting her chakras. Up until last month and thanks to Beckett’s influence, he had covertly smoked a cigarette every morning and every night, along with an occasional joint, but he had finally decided to quit.
I told him how I thought John Hughes was a genius and that he needed to watch The Breakfast Club stat, that “Fake Plastic Trees” was the saddest song in the entire world, that I hated the Flaming Lips. I said that the best place I had ever been was Costa Rica, on a trip with my parents, that I had seen a tiny poison tree frog there that was so exquisite, it made me cry, but that if I could, I would live in a mews in London, a place with flower boxes in the windows.
I told him the three things I liked best about myself: my handwriting, my eyelashes, and my ability to stand on one foot for extended periods of time.
We segued mysteriously into NYC pizza, and whether Di Fara’s was worth the wait.
Me: Yes, a thousand times yes.
Keats: Overrated.
Keats leaned forward when I talked, his eyes focused on me, and I pulled out details of myself to show him. I liked how he asked for more.
“So, Scout, what are you going to be when you grow up?”
I shrugged. “Well, there’s biology, but I don’t really love it. I mean, I’m good at it, I know that.”
Keats raised his eyebrows.
“That sounded braggy, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No, you only brag about your handwriting and eyelashes and balance, I get it. Keep going.”
“Hey!” I said, feeling like the best, most flirty version of myself. He grinned. “I don’t care a ton about science. I mean, it’s fine and all . . .” My voice trailed off.
“What do you care about?”
Besides you? I wanted to say.
“Words. I really, really like words.”
He stroked his chin, sizing me up, and the silent focus embarrassed me, so I looked away, studied the cracked edge of my mug.
“Got it,” he said. “A book editor. Because clearly you have a lot to say about how Kerouac could be better.”
“No, I promise, I’m going to give it another chance!”
“I’m teasing you. You’re cute when you blush.”
I blushed four times harder.
“So, what are you going to be when you grow up?” I asked.
He told me how, starting with his great-grandfather, all the men in his family had graduated from Yale—there was even a wing of a building named after his family—and that Beckett was currently paving the way for a spot for Keats in his fraternity. His parents wanted Keats to pursue finance; Keats wanted to apply to the fiction program.
“I think my dad will disown me if I don’t graduate with a job at Goldman Sachs in hand. But I have to follow my passion, you know?”
“Maybe you could do both?” I suggested.
“Do you think the fiction idea is lame?”
“No, not at all,” I said, hurriedly shaking my head. “I told you, I love words.”
“Emily thought it was a pretty pathetic excuse for a future degree.”
I leaned across the table, wanting to squeeze his hand but not sure if I could touch him yet. “I think it’s a really cool idea, and brave.”
“You do?” He looked hopefully at me, his eyes clear and vulnerable and open.
“I do. I think it’s pretty amazing.”
He nodded appreciatively, dimples betraying how pleased he was. “You wanna get out of here?”
“Sure, yeah.”
I watched him at the counter, asking for the bill. One plaid sock and one argyle sock peeked out between his jeans and beat-up Oxfords. He was so freaking cute it hurt a little.
When he came back, he handed me a Cafe Gitane matchbook, only it wasn’t full of matches—instead it was a tiny notebook.
On the first page someone had written Scout.
Yes!
A smile started breaking through the clouds, and I turned to the next page.
Your nose.
My hand flew to my nose, but he shook his head. “Keep reading.”
The way you bite your lip.
The next page.
The way you talk about words.
“The three things I like best about you,” he said.
I felt all blushy and kind of a little bit frantic, so I tried to slow down my heart and all the blood coursing through me.
“Come on,” he said, moving to the door. “Let’s bust this joint.”
As we passed the register, I grabbed another matchbook/notebook, sliding it in my pocket for Eph—he’d want to fill it with tiny dinosaurs.
Outside, it was a gray evening and chilly. We walked, not talking about which way to go first, and ended up strolling down Mott Street, the boutiques cozy and lit. We stopped in front of a building with a huge street-art mural on the side, a really cool black-and-white anatomical drawing of a rat.
“That’s kinda creepy, but awesome,” I said.
We studied it until Keats blurted out, “It’s cold.”
I took in his thin coat. “Why don’t guys ever dress warm enough? You must be freezing!”
Keats grinned and clasped my arm in the crook of his elbow. “You’re warm,” he said.
We walked into Little Italy that way, weaving among tourists braving the cold and crowding the sidewalk, strings of white lightbulbs swaying over the street, and I couldn’t imagine ever feeling cold again.
When we got to Canal Street, I beckoned him closer. “I have to show you something.” I pulled him past vendors selling foreign fruits and vegetables, men with garbage bags of designer knock-off purses, everyone’s breath starting to show in the chill. I turned and caught him watching me. I grinned. “Almost there,” I promised.
I found the small silver food cart on Baxter Street, steam coming from within, and dug in my purse for a dollar, then handed it to the woman working, who poured batter into a honeycombed skillet. Keats leaned into the warmth of the cart, leaned into the warmth of me, and I felt his closeness, his solidness. In one fluid motion the woman opened the skillet and dumped out small, perfectly formed cakes, scooped them into a wax bag, and handed them hot to me.
“Mini hotcakes,” I said, offering the bag to Keats. He tasted one.
“Oh man, you may have questionable taste in books, but that’s good.”
I teasingly elbowed him in the stomach, lightly, so I could feel him, and with one hand he gripped my elbow and squeezed it.
“How’d you find this place?” he asked, letting go and grabbing another hotcake, biting halfway through, the steam escaping.
“Eph showed me—his mom knew about it from one of her friends who used to live down here.” I took a few of the mini cakes from the bag and popped them in my mouth, and they were sweet and warm, like pancakes, but light and easy, like goodness.
We meandered toward Chambers Street, companionably digging into the wax bag. When it came time for him to head toward his train and me to mine, I made him take the last three mini hotcakes. As I handed them over, he circled me with his arms, and I lingered there, against his shoulder, smelling pine trees and thinking, Keats, Keats, Keats, it’s finally happening.
“I like you so much.” The words came out of my mouth before I had a chance to stop them. So much for playing it cool. But Keats smiled the smile I was coming to know as his and his alone, the left side crinkling up a little higher, the dimple on that side a little deeper, his eyebrows furrowed.
He stepped back, held up the bag, and winked. “See you later, Scout.”
I rode the train home as warm and light as the mini hotcakes, my burned tongue pressed raw and new against the roof of my mouth.
Santa Claus figurine
Santa Claus statua
Brooklyn Flea
Brooklyn, New York
Cat. No. 201X-14
Gift of Ephraim O’Connor
AS SOON AS MY ALARM went off the next morning, I sat straight up in bed—awake and jingly and blushy with thoughts of Keats. I stretched my arms Ford-style, feeling happiness extending to the tips of my fingers, shooting out in beams of sunlight, and flopped back down with a contented exhale.
Being in love, or at the very least being in like, was waking up with spring inside me—everything chattering and blooming with blue sky and white petals.
My phone dinged, and my heart jumped.
Thanks for yesterday, Scout. Having brunch with bro and parents today. Dad talking about b-school. It sucks. How’s Kerouac? K.
Keats!
I flopped happily back down in bed, gazing at the leaves outside my window, the beginning of oranges and reds, a bright golden ginkgo yellow. It was Sunday, and I had never felt so pretty, so noticed, so delirious, like every part of me was light and perfumed and lovely.
I missed Audrey right then, wanting to tell her how liking Keats was a miracle, how it was everything Delphine had always dreamed of. I wanted to show her the matchbook notebook with his scrawled handwriting, and to tell her about the paw print on the top of my hot chocolate.
I debated calling Eph. But what would I say? After I kissed you, the next day I fell head over heels with a beautiful boy?
The social triangle was broken. So I scrolled through my phone contacts until I found the one I was looking for.
Hi Grace it’s Penelope. Wanna go 2 the bklyn flea 2day?
Send.
As soon as I heard the whoosh, I second-guessed my decision. Even though we’d been at Nevermore meetings together, and I’d joined Grace and Miles at lunch on days I was brave enough to risk an Audrey-Cherisse sighting in the cafeteria, what if Grace and I weren’t really hang-out friends yet? What if we didn’t have anything to talk about? What if the silence was weird or I took a joke too far? Should I text her back and say “never mind”?
I conjured Eph, thinking what he would say about Grace, probably something like Chill, Pen and If she’s weird about it, you don’t want to hang out with her anyway and Don’t make things so fucking hard.
Okay, okay, stop freaking out.
The phone dinged.
Yes! 11?
All right. Maybe I didn’t always have to make everything so hard after all.
Perf c u there, I wrote, deciding right then that this was a reminder to take it all down a notch. Grace wanted to hang out; I wanted to hang out; done.
Keats liked me; I liked him; done.
Not everything needed to be hard.
I shoved out of bed and dug through my dresser for something to wear.
I pulled on Eph’s gray sweatshirt along with black leggings and my Docs, tried to scrunch some Ellen-like waves into my hair, shoved On the Road in my bag for the subway ride to Brooklyn (I would persevere, for Keats!), and headed downstairs to grab a bite to eat.
A wrinkled bag sat on the kitchen counter, bagels spilling out, a trail of sesame seeds across the floor the only indication someone in particular had already dug into them.
“Dad? Is one of these for me?” I called out.
“Of course,” he called out from the general direction of the living room.
I headed out to meet him, half a cinnamon raisin bagel already in my mouth.
“Darling daughter,” my dad said, lowering his copy of the Times. “Just who I wanted to see.”
“Mmm?”
“You joining your mom and me for a movie later today?”
“Where is she?” I asked, wiping a crumb from the corner of my mouth. I wondered if Keats liked bagels.
“Emergency coffee date with Ellen. But she’ll be back by three for a movie.”
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
My dad shrugged. “Not a clue.”
I flashed back to George being weird in the bookstore, to Annabeth-with-the-ponytail touching his arm, and a wave of discomfort passed through me.
I kicked at the floor. “Do you know someone at the museum named Annabeth? She’s working on her dissertation, I think?”
My dad furrowed his brow. “Huh, no, but you know me, I can’t remember our neighbor’s first name.”
“True,” I admitted.
“So, you joining your mom and me this afternoon? Vertigo’s on the agenda.”
“I’m going to the Flea for a bit, but yeah, I can be back in time.”
“Good. Adios, darling daughter. Until we meet again!”
Dad didn’t seem to be worried about Eph’s parents. Maybe I was making things too hard yet again.
• • •
When I got outside, the world took my breath away. It was stunningly, amazingly, beautifully fall outside, the sky the ridiculous color of a crayon. Glowing red and orange leaves littered the sidewalk, and I scuffed through them with my boots.
I loved the feeling of being in like. I loved the giddy feeling of being me today. I loved everything.
My phone dinged.
Did you get my text? Did I offend you? K.
What? No! I stopped in my tracks, trying to type back as quick as I could.
Yes! And no! And sorry! On my way to Bklyn. Can’t wait to c u in chem.
I paused, trying to decide how to sign off, and feeling brave, not wanting him to doubt me, I signed xo, hit send, and waited.
Ugh bklyn. Until tmrw Scout.
Okay, okay. There. I guessed things were okay now?
Another message ding, but this time it was Eph.
U around?
I felt a rush of weirdness about the kiss. But it wasn’t a big deal, per the other half of the kiss himself, a fact that exponentially increased the weirdness.
Weird: Eph wet his pants in second grade because the art teacher wouldn’t let him use the restroom.
Weird times weird: Sometimes when Eph and I watched movies and he took off his hiking boots, his sweaty feet stank up the room so bad I actually gagged.
Weird to the third power: Eph hated reading anything other than graphic novels, comics, and The Hobbit—I think because reading was still challenging for him, a fact I totally got. But reading was pretty much the best thing in my life.
Weird to infinity: I watched him make two different girls cry at last year’s spring dance, when they discovered he was dating them both
at the same time.
I kissed that person.
Kissing Eph = weird.
(And good?)
No. Eph wasn’t my dream boyfriend. Keats was.
Clearly, I needed a little time on my own to process things. Flea w my friend Grace, I wrote back. There. That should do it.
Grt c u there.
Dang it.
I was so busy fretting over Keats’s message and Eph’s message that I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking—and bam!—plowed right into someone.
“Watch it,” the person said. I looked up.
That someone, unfortunately, turned out to be Cherisse. Even more unfortunately, she was with Audrey.
There’s like more than one and a half million people living in the borough of Manhattan. One and a half million! Granted, Audrey lives within a ten-minute walk, but what were the odds that right there, right then, when all my newfound confidence was wobbling, when I was worried I’d hurt Keats’s feelings, when I couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of Eph’s lips, that I’d run into the two of them?
The Bearded Lady’s token was slacking off.
Cherisse was decked out in pinks and whites, like she’d just been weekending in the Hamptons. My lip curled, imagining what Eph would say about the getup—probably that she looked like an eighty-year-old socialite named Bunny.
“Hey, Pen,” Audrey said, shifting uneasily, and I looked over at her, missing her something fierce.
Before I could answer, Cherisse straightened. “You should really watch where you’re going, Penelope. I’d hate for you to walk into traffic because you were too busy looking at your phone.”
I was pretty sure she wouldn’t hate it very much at all.
“Sorry, Cherisse, I was texting Keats.”
Cherisse wilted about two degrees.
Bull’s-eye.
“You know how it is.” I tried to giggle dizzily, like a girl in love, but it ended up sounding like I had just inhaled helium from a birthday party balloon.
Distracted, Cherisse started chewing on her nails, but Audrey frowned at me, and I immediately felt a little bad about who I was being.
“Um, what are you guys up to?”
“We’re going upstate to see my gram,” Audrey said.
