“You could take this on the road! Stage show. The big time.”
Lane walked past us, halfway out of her jacket for break. “Do I want to know?”
“It’s a good day, Lane!” I said.
After work, I raced home for the quickest shower of my life, where I frantically scrubbed the smell of butter and salt from my skin. I tousled my hair as I blow-dried it, hoping to override Max’s memory of my clipped-back greasiness. Scrutinizing the finished product in the mirror, I tried to believe I was a cute and together person, capable of minimal awkwardness in a date scenario.
Downstairs, my sister hunched over her latest batch of sugar cookies, a hobby she’d picked up around the time my mom started taking in stray furniture. I’d learned by now not to interrupt her while she was piping—a process that required a stern, almost glaring concentration.
When she stood back up, surveying her work, I cleared my throat and gestured to my outfit. “Yeah?”
Cameron looked over the rims of her trendy glasses, inscrutable. I’d chosen a striped T-shirt dress, a SoHo clearance-bin find. “Let me see the shoes.”
I lifted one foot. She had no particular love for my Keds, but they were me and, in my opinion, immune to criticism.
“Good,” she said simply.
I pointed at the cookies, glossy red apples in neat little rows. The pencil shapes were cooling, waiting for goldenrod icing—an homage to our school colors. “Back-to-school bake sale?”
“Mm-hmm. Practice run.” She tapped one finger against her lip. While baking, she kept her hair piled like a haystack on top of her head, apron knotted at her waist. We’d always looked alike, but lately I saw more flashes of my mom’s features on Cameron’s face than on my own. “I added lemon zest to the base recipe this time, so we’ll see. Max on his way?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you, like … nervous?” Cameron peered at me. I hadn’t realized I was rapping my fingers on the island until she nodded toward the sound.
“No.” I pulled my hand back.
She gave me a look as if anxious behaviors were a new development for me. “Why? It’s just you and Max.”
Before I could reply, my mom came in from the backyard, blotting her face with a bandanna. “You look nice, sweetie!”
“Thanks.” Why did I care so much? This boy had seen me in ratty, study-marathon clothes, on the school mornings when I’d hit snooze too many times.
“She’s flipping out,” Cameron said, twisting the icing bag for better control.
I glared at her. “No, I’m just rushed. We don’t have a lot of time before we need to be at Tessa’s.”
Cameron gave my mom a knowing look. “Translation: Max and I don’t have time to talk to you two.”
“That’s not—” I began, but what was the point? She wasn’t wrong. I feared they would pull Max in, ask him about Italy, and fawn like this was senior prom instead of a casual first date.
“Oh, honey,” my mom said. “We won’t keep you! And we won’t embarrass you.”
“I know,” I lied. At any point, Cameron could tell Max how long I’d taken to do my hair. She didn’t need that kind of power.
My mom picked up a mixing bowl Cameron had left by the sink. “You do realize … we have met Max before? He’s been in this home? Repeatedly?”
I did know. Still, I bolted up when Max knocked. I strode down the hallway, affecting the posture of a more confident girl. I had hated my required improv class at NYU, truly, but at least it had some real-life applicability.
I opened the door expecting the Max from earlier today, with tired eyes and thick hair rumpled. Instead, he looked bright-eyed, his hair neater on the sides.
“When did you get a haircut?” I asked.
“My mom cleaned it up,” he said, sighing. “She said I wasn’t presentable.”
“It looks good!”
“Yeah?” His hand went to the back of his neck. “She was overenthusiastic, in my opinion.”
“Well, I like it.”
“Good.” He’d stood in this same place at least a dozen times before. Coming over to study. Picking me up for QuizBowl practice. After my grandmother’s funeral, wearing dress pants and a worried frown. And one windy afternoon last April, before the first time we’d ever really fought.
I motioned him in, but before we even made it to the kitchen, my mom and sister popped into view like two nosy little birds on a windowsill. Please, God. Make them not be like this.
“Hey, sweetie! Oh, look at you.” My mom gave Max a quick hug. “Tell us about Italy. Was it a dream?”
“Absolutely. Like walking around in a movie.” Max gestured at the countertop, full of Cameron’s icing handiwork. “Gotta say, they’re even better in person.”
“Why, thank you.” Cameron dipped her head, a little bow. So often, my snippy back-and-forth with my sister seemed inevitable. I assumed she bickered with everyone in her life. But I had noticed, all summer, Cameron commenting on Max’s photos on social media: OMG and so jealous!!! and bring some of that gelato back to Indiana. The most I’d ever gotten from her, on one photo of me that Tessa had taken, was cute. Max, in turn, liked every one of her baking posts.
“I know you two have to get going,” my mom said. “But come over for dinner soon, okay? You’re welcome anytime.”
“I’ll be here,” Max said. Then, to me, “You ready?”
He smiled over at me as we settled into his car, and I shoved away the guilt, the weight of my film school plans hidden in my back pocket. He’d asked once, when I first got home from the city, if I would apply to NYU. And I wasn’t lying when I said no. It was too expensive, too far, too improbable a career. You’re playing small! Maeve had huffed on one of our last nights in the city.
“So,” I said, straining. “Where are we off to, maestro?”
Why did I just call him that? I mean, he was orchestrating the date, sure. But honestly, self, at least try to act normal.
“Well, the original plan was Arpeggio’s,” Max said, “Then the drive-in, to see Ghostbusters. Only movie I could find that’s set in New York. But you’ve seen it before anyway, right?”
Arpeggio’s for Italy, Ghostbusters for Manhattan. Both our summers in one night—who thinks of that? I looked over at Max, at his profile while he watched the road. He glanced over, a lopsided smile—puzzled about why I hadn’t responded to his simple question. Because sometimes, Max, you are literally a bit breathtaking.
“It’s one of my dad’s favorites,” I managed. “He got emotional about the reboot, obviously.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah. Sitting with his two daughters, watching women bust ghosts? Dan Hancock Kryptonite. As soon as the theme song played, he was a goner.”
“I guess that doesn’t surprise me. His column’s pretty sentimental sometimes.” My dad was one of the few old-school newspaper writers hanging on to his weekly column. It made him what he called a “Z-list” local celebrity. Since his headshot was featured, he was occasionally stopped at brunch by readers with a kind word. Or a less than kind word, especially as his columns had become more blatantly political.