by Ally B
Trader Joe’s doesn’t stock Lucky Charms or her favorite barbeque chips. Therefore, she avoids it at all costs.
“Thanks.” I sit up in bed, pulling the tray onto my lap.
“You really just want Yoda and cookies? On your seventeenth birthday?” She asks.
“There’s nothing special about seventeen, why would I change things?”
“It’s your last birthday at home. Don’t you want to do something fun with your friends?”
“Max and Jackson have a tournament, and Vi’s out of town with her parents.”
“Kendall?”
“It’s weird hanging out with her without Vi.”
“I’ll never understand you.” She sighs, standing from my bed. “I’m going downstairs to get out the ingredients for your cookies. Eat.”
I watch as orange leaves from the tree next to my bedroom window blow away in the wind. During the peak of summer, the bright sea of green almost completely hides the window from the outside world, but now it’s just rigid brown branches. I fixate on the chipped white paint of my window trim, knowing I’ll probably never remember to fix it.
There’s a mug of black tea on the tray next to the pancakes. They’re coated in too much sticky golden-brown syrup, and I’m careful not to drip any on the tray as I lay on my stomach and stare out at the neighborhood, as quiet and slow-moving as ever.
I place the tray back on my nightstand before opening my Snapchat. I know the videos from Violet are either her screaming about Jackson or complaining about being in Vermont, so I ignore them and open my conversation with Graham.
Graham
Happy birthday - Graham
Wanna get dinner? - Graham
Sure :) - Phoebe
“I’m going to hang out with Graham tonight,” I announce as I set the tray down on the counter next to the sink, quickly rinsing the dishes and putting them into the dishwasher.
“Ahhh, cracker boy,” she says as she pulls strawberries out of the fridge, setting them next to the stainless-steel KitchenAid.
“Cracker boy?” I ask.
“Graham cracker. That’s all I know about him because you refuse to talk.” She glares.
“Graham Neilson from North Carolina. He likes Korean barbeque, and his favorite color is red.” I list.
“Southern accent?”
“Not really.”
“Not really or no?”
“He says y’all sometimes and talks slow, but that’s it.”
“What a shame.” She shakes her head. “What does he look like? How tall?”
“Black hair, brown eyes, a tiny bit taller than Max.”
“Is he a string-bean?”
“No.” I sigh, knowing her colloquialisms come from ancient TV shows, and I shouldn’t bother to tell her that one is outdated too.
“And he’s taking you to dinner on your birthday?”
“Apparently.” I separate the egg whites from the yolks as I begin the familiar recipe.
“I’m a little offended.” She jokes. “How are we going to make it through a million movies if you’re going out with some boy?”
“I think we’ll have to stick to the prequels today.” I sigh.
“Crush your berries.” She instructs, walking into the living room area of our completely open downstairs. I watch over my shoulder as she attempts to begin ‘The Phantom Menace,’ taking much longer than usual.
“You got it?” I shout over the food processor as I grind the freeze-dried strawberries into a fine powder.
“Where’s the stupid remote?” She shouts.
“Check next to the lamp!” I suggest, turning off the machine.
“How do you always know?” She mutters under her breath as the TV illuminates.
“You always put it in the same place.” I remind her. “And you always forget.”
I put the macarons into the preheated oven and plop down on my side of the couch, mom quickly joining me.
“This is depressing.” She sighs. “What are you wearing on your date with cracker boy?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “My Princeton interview dress?” Mom and I had picked out the dress online last summer for the interview I’ve still yet to have. It’s light blue and collared with a belt at the waist.
“It’s a date with a cute boy. Not a college interview. Dress like a teenage girl.”
“Since when do I dress like a teenage girl?” I ask her. “I’ve got sweaters with white collars, T-shirts with leggings, and this.” I gesture to my paint-stained sweatpants and grey student council T-shirt from fifth grade.
“Isn’t this Violet territory?” She asks. “She picks your clothes for everything.”
“She’s in Vermont. I’m not going to bother her.”
“That’s right.” She nods. “Google it.”
“Google isn’t useful.”
“Ask Kendall?”
“She only wears Brandy Melville.”
“That’s that skinny girl brand we hate, right?” She asks as she takes a sip of her tea.
“Right. And those are my only options besides you.”
“I can tell you to wear a blazer and jeans, and you can pretend to listen if you want.” She offers.
“I’ve got time.” I sink into the couch, returning my attention to the TV.
I choose not to worry about the dinner for the rest of The Phantom Menace, not even picking up my phone until the timer rings, indicating the macarons are done.
I pull the baking sheet out of the oven and allow the cookies to cool as I make the fillings. Mom and I have never been able to agree between a jam and buttercream filling for strawberry macarons, so I make both.
Every year.
“Am I going to have to send macarons to New Jersey next year?” She asks as she mixes her buttercream.
“We’ll have to scout out the best place near wherever I go to school,” I tell her.
“Wherever you go to school? Princeton.”
“Yeah, Princeton.” I give her a reassuring smile.
We fill the cookies and delicately sandwich them together, making way too many cookies for two people. I fill my usual plastic container for Max, knowing he looks forward to strawberry macaron birthday cookies almost as much as I do.
“Cracker boy might like them,” Mom speaks up, and I quickly put a few in a small container for Graham, too.
Andromeda
The Chained Maiden
“Are you going to straighten your hair?” Mom startles me, making me get mascara on my eyelid.
I groan, digging through the bathroom drawers for cotton swabs and quickly wiping it off, along with a big of the light pink eyeshadow I’d applied in an attempt to look like I tried. “No.”
“Want me to straighten it while you do your makeup?” She asks.
My phone vibrates, another message from Graham.
Graham
See you in fifteen? - Graham
Dress code? - Phoebe
Business casual. - Graham
“I don’t have time,” I tell her.
“There’s always time,” she says, plugging in the flat iron.
“I look like a man with my hair straightened.” I groan as I dig through the container of earrings in the middle drawer.
“A very cute man.” She jokes.
“You’re not helpful.” I glare.
“Sorry.” She holds up her hands in innocence. “You really don’t have time, do you?”
“Nope.” I shake my head as I apply highlighter to the tip of my nose and sweep the remainder over my cheekbones.
“You want a bun or half up?” she asks me.
“Why can’t I just leave it down?”
“It’ll be in your face too much,” she says matter-of-factly. “Half up it is.”
She sections my hair and loops a hair tie around the top half, the yellow lights of our shared bathroom reflecting off of my silver necklace. I reach behind my neck, quickly unclasping it and setting it on the counter.
“
Really?” I see her raise her eyebrows in the mirror.
“My earrings are gold,” I tell her.
“You never take that thing off.”
“I know, but it doesn’t match.” I adjust my black oversized turtle neck, tucking it into the black tweed skirt woven with brightly colored threads. “My hair would look better straightened with this.”
“I’m always right.” She reminds me, offering a handful of rings.
“And you’ll never let me forget it.” I joke, taking three of them out of the pile. “What’s this one?”
She stares at the shiny piece of metal with admiration, “My mother’s wedding ring.”
I place it back in her hand, trading it for a different one.
“No, wear it. It’ll look cute.” She slides it onto my middle finger with a slight smile.
“You think she’d approve of that?” I raise an eyebrow.
“She would pretend she didn’t.” She grins. “She liked to pretend she didn’t find things like that funny, but she did.” Sometimes I swear I can almost hear a little bit of her Czech accent when she talks about her parents and when she gets upset or angry, but part of me thinks I’m just making it up.
I slide the other rings on my hand, one of them on top of the wedding ring. I see the glimmer of headlights from behind the curtains covering the bathroom window.
“Cracker boy?” She asks. I push the curtain aside, spotting Graham’s black Jeep in the driveway.
“Yeah.” She follows me into my room as I slide on a pair of short black heeled boots, something my mom bought on a whim and put in my closet when she realized how uncomfortable they were.
“Am I supposed to give you a curfew or something?” She asks as she follows me down the stairs.
“I think so,” I say, digging through the coat closet for her black pea coat. “Do you mind if I steal this for the night?”
“Of course not.” She waves it away. “I’m not giving you a curfew, but don’t make me worry.” She warns.
“I’m going to hang out with Max tonight anyway. I won’t be too late.” I say as I open the side door.
“Cookies for cracker boy.” She reminds me, pressing the Tupperware into my hands as I shove my wallet into my pocket.
“Purse?” I ask her.
“Oh, we’re getting fancy.” She digs through the coat closet again, pulling out her little black crossbody bag and tossing it to me.
I put my wallet and phone in the bag before putting it over my shoulder. “Does this look okay?”
“You look great,” she says with a smile, her messy bun flopping off of her head.
“See you soon?” I ask her, letting out a nervous exhale.
“Oh calm down.” She laughs. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.” I close the side door behind me and walk toward Graham’s parked car.
I climb into the passenger seat and buckle my seatbelt quickly.
“Happy birthday.” He smiles.
“Thanks.” I nearly say you too, but I manage to stop myself.
“So, what have you been up to today?” He pulls away from the curb without turning on his signal, but I try not to focus on it too much.
“Star Wars and baking,” I say simply, setting the macarons on his center console for him to see. “I made too many.”
“Macarons?” He raises an eyebrow, slowing to a stop at the light next to Mr. McCoy’s house.
“Strawberry. It’s an annual thing.”
“You have a lot of traditions, don’t you?”
“Annual events, tradition is peer pressure from old dead people.” I smile to myself, recalling Max’s phrasing from last night.
He shakes his head with a smile, and the GPS on his phone instructs him to turn left.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“It’s a secret.” He smiles. “So, what should I know about Phoebe Mitchell?” He asks as we turn toward the highway.
“I’m seventeen. I’m a Libra. I hate pineapple on pizza.”
“And that’s all you’ve got for me? I think we covered all that already. Nothing more interesting?”
“There’s nothing interesting about me.” I shrug.
“Then tell me all of the boring stuff,” he says. He’s going sixty-six instead of the sixty-five speed limit, but I remind myself that he’s a good driver.
“I’m Salutatorian of our class,” I tell him. Of course, that’s the first thing that pops into my head. “Point zero-three points ahead of Max. My proudest accomplishment.”
“Who’s Valedictorian?” He asks.
“Erika Davidson. She has a photographic memory. Two full points ahead of me.” I shake my head.
“Favorite color?” He asks.
“Blue and yellow,” I answer.
“Like those stars?” He asks. “Your favorite ones. Al-something A and B, right?”
“Albireo.” I smile. “Yeah, that’s exactly why, actually,” I answer, and I’m honestly surprised he remembers. “And yours is red because…”
“I really liked Lightning McQueen when I was little, and I haven’t taken the time to pick a new one.”
“You’re kidding.” I laugh.
“Absolutely not.” He shakes his head, a faint smile playing at his lips. “Didn’t you have a thing you were obsessed with when you were little? Like weirdly obsessed with?”
“Star Wars,” I answer. “I was Padmé for Halloween three years in a row.”
“Padmé? Not Princess Leia?”
“That was for the two years prior to that,” I explain. “I was also Yoda when I was a baby, but we don’t talk about that.”
“Like painted green?” He chuckles.
“It’s slightly terrifying.” I shake my head. “You will never see those pictures.”
“Does Max have them?” He asks.
“Maybe, why?”
“I’ll definitely see those pictures.” He grins.
“I’ll kill him.” I huff.
“He’ll die for a noble cause.” Graham chuckles.
“What about your favorite drink?” He asks. “You a White Claw girl?”
“I don’t drink,” I say simply, shaking my head.
“Really?” He asks.
“Nope. Always the designated driver.” A lie, but a good enough one to end that part of the conversation without bringing up the accident or my ex-alcoholic father.
“Well, that’s no fun,” he says, merging lanes right in front of a tractor-trailer. I hold my breath as he speeds up, barely making it in front of the truck.
“I don’t mind.” I shrug. “I like to know everyone’s safe.”
“That’s cute. So, you really don’t drink?”
“Nope.”
“Never?”
“Never.” I shake my head. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise, remember?” He keeps his eyes on the road. Good.
“I’m not a big fan of surprises,” I tell him.
“Good to know.” He smiles. “I love surprises.”
“Weird.” I shake my head.
“I feel like all I really know about you is that you like Star Wars, the colors blue and yellow, and hot chocolate.”
“Then you know everything about me.” I shrug as we continue down the highway. “I like the stars, too,” I remind him. “But, you knew that one, I think.”
He nods as he takes the exit toward downtown, opting to listen to the GPS instead of just telling me where we’re going.
“Yeah, I knew that one.” He pauses. “Is State Street this one?” He leans forward, trying to see the green road sign under the light of the street-lamps.
“The next one.” I shake my head.
“Thanks.” He slows down as he reaches a red light.
“I could help you a little bit more if you told me where we’re going.”
“The fact that you don’t like surprises makes me want to surprise you even more.” He shakes his head, turning left as the light turns green.
&
nbsp; “Well, that’s not very nice.” I joke.
“Someone’s gotta make you like them.” He shrugs, parking against the curb behind a bright blue Prius. He hits ‘end’ on his GPS before I can steal a glance, tucking his phone into his pocket with a grin.
I climb out of the Jeep and meet him on the sidewalk, following him blindly toward the warm lights of the square.
The street is lined with string light-wrapped trees, and dull music can be heard from the inside of bars and dimly-lit restaurants. The paved street turns to cobblestone, and the more modern buildings slowly begin to fade to brick as we get further from the college campus. Yellow and orange leaves still dot the trees here, the restaurants and little shops shielding them from the icy wind.
“Are you sure you know where we’re going?” I ask him as he reads every sign.
“Not telling you.” He shakes his head, taking a sneaky glance at his phone.
“You’re no fun.” I huff.
“I think you’re secretly enjoying not knowing every little detail.” He scans the buildings, the warm light glowing from apartments over boutiques and fitness studios matching the glow of the streetlamps.
And I’m not sure if he’s right or not.
“Here.” He points toward a building with a tiny black sign across the street.
“Wait.” I grab his hand instinctively as a grey SUV abruptly turns a corner, driving well over the speed limit directly toward us.
He doesn’t let go of my hand until we reach the hostess stand of the familiar sports bar.
“You could’ve told me we were going to Paulie’s.” I nearly laugh.
“You’ve been here? It doesn’t exactly seem like your vibe.”
“The parents of one of the kids on the soccer teams own the chain. You’ve stepped into an Emerson classic.”
“No way.” He shakes his head as the hostess leads us toward a familiar green booth. “It’s a chain? I’ve never heard of it.”
“I think there’s like seven or eight, all in Upstate.”
“Wow,” he says simply, sitting across from me in the booth. I don’t know what I expected when he said business casual, but this definitely wasn’t it. I notice his attention shift to right above my head. I turn to see a football game on the TV behind me, I can’t tell what teams are playing, but he’s fully engrossed in the game.
