“But . . . So we were eating pizza and watching season three of Avatar, which is when Katara wears her Fire Nation gear and—by the way, when are you going to watch that show already?”
“Yes, it’s on my list. Go on.”
“Okay, so she’s, like, super hot in these episodes, right? Like, wow.”
“Mhm.” I raise my eyebrows and circle my hands to keep Melissa going, because she can get distracted and talk about Avatar for hours.
“So these are basically dream conditions for romance, right?” she continues.
I know better than to disagree, though the conditions are debatably romantic at best.
“And I look over at Chris—and I’m having a really good time at this point. Really. But I look over at him and he’s, like, obviously staring at me. Like, this kid absolutely wants to kiss me right now.”
Sometimes I marvel at Melissa’s casual attitude toward all the boys who are completely into her. I mean, I’m not jealous of her hopelessly devoted junior boyfriend (well, technically he’s a senior now, I guess), but . . . damn, I wouldn’t mind having just one boy absolutely want to kiss me.
“And,” Melissa continues, turning into Chris’s subdivision, “I realize that I just . . . don’t.”
“Don’t want to kiss him?” I shouldn’t be surprised that Melissa’s getting bored of another boyfriend. But I’m a little surprised; I’ve been thinking that their relationship was the exact balance of gross and adorable that could withstand the test of time and Melissa’s pattern of breaking hearts. Plus I like Chris.
“Not specifically. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love a good make-out session as much as the next hormonal teenager, but . . . I wasn’t dying to kiss Chris, you know?”
I’m not sure I know, but I nod anyway. Melissa slams on the brakes before we turn onto Chris’s street.
“Anyway, then we did start making out, and I obviously got more excited about things,” Melissa says all in one breath, “so probably everything is fine. And I really want to try out this quidditch thing so badly, and it’s his team, so . . .” She lurches the car forward and takes the turn too quickly, shoving me against my seat belt so hard it locks. “Sorry. Also I’m just kidding. I’m not dating him to play quidditch. Probably.”
We pull up in front of Chris’s house and watch a brown hand wave from the upstairs window and vanish.
“It was nice,” Melissa says in a rush. “He’s nice. I like him. And I like make-outs. And stuff.” She giggles and buries her head in her hands.
I take my role as best friend and sounding board very seriously, and right now I’m not sure whether I should be calming Melissa’s doubts or encouraging them. I’ve supported her through plenty of breakups, and I’ll support her through another if I have to. But I take my cue from her and decide to pretend everything’s fine.
“Well, I’m glad you had fun.” I unbuckle my seat belt and open the door. “I’m going to give up the front seat, but this is a one-time deal, okay? Next time, shotgun is all mine.”
“As it should be.” Melissa grins and waves as Chris dashes out the door.
I have to do a double take because I didn’t know Chris owned shorts that weren’t khaki. I’ve seen him in polo shirts and sneakers for marching band, but at school it’s always button-downs and vests and loafers and sometimes even ties. Before he asked Melissa out we were thinking he might be gay, but it turned out that dressing better than everybody was just part of his parents’ defense mechanism for being Black in the suburbs. Which is a shame for a lot of serious reasons, and also because he looks like much less of a dweeb in a T-shirt.
As usual, I can see the total puppy-dog love in Chris’s eyes when he leans against the window and says, “Hey, you,” to Melissa. He was always the Ginny Weasley of the relationship, trying to get Melissa to notice him with goofy antics in band, and I think he’s as bemused as everyone else that it actually worked. He ducks his lanky frame into the front seat while I climb in the back.
“Hey yourself.” Melissa smiles her own goofy smile, no matter what confusion she has bouncing around in her head. “It’s not my fault, I promise. Ellen made me wait. She is—”
“‘Late to everything ever,’” Chris says, quoting Melissa’s most common description of me as he buckles his seat belt. “Yeah, I figured.” He snort-laughs, and I kick the back of his seat in reply. Some people (who are tall, blonde, freckled, and give me rides constantly) have earned the right to mock my constant lateness. Some people (who are tall, bespectacled, and don’t even have their driver’s license despite technically being seniors now) have not.
“To be fair, Melissa was driving slowly to give us plenty of time to discuss important current events,” I say to torment him back. Just as I hoped, he hunches into his seat and groans.
Melissa clicks her tongue at me. “Be nice,” she instructs. “And sorry,” she says to Chris, “but I did warn you about the best friend code.”
“I know y’all talk,” Chris says in a strangled voice. “Just, does she have to bring it up?”
“She does not.” Melissa gives me a stern look through the rearview mirror. “She is sorry.”
“I am sorry.” I reach around the headrest to pat Chris’s shoulder. “I will have an easier time remembering your delicate sensibilities if you keep your mouth shut about my time management.”
Chris mutters about blackmail until Melissa reaches for his hand over the gearshift. Grossdorable.
“Hey, new best friend who doesn’t tease me if he knows what’s good for him . . .” I kick the back of the seat again. “Can you point the air back here?”
Garvey Park is a little south of us, located more definitely inside Houston city limits than our neighborhood, though the line between suburb and just-urb is flexible in a car-dependent city. The park is nothing fancy—a cute neighborhood green space where there’s not too much competition for field time. There’s a water fountain and a bathroom (crucial features, Chris assures us) and a few tall oak trees along with a lot more medium-sized saplings tied between metal rods. Yay for reforestation.
Melissa parks behind the tennis courts, and Chris slips his square plastic glasses into their case to complete his transformation into anti-dweeb. We walk toward the open field where maybe ten kids (and by “kids” I mean technical adults, since most of them are supposed to be in college) have gathered around one big tree. Chris starts waving way before we’re within reasonable distance, so even though I don’t see any bubble-wand hoops or brooms or wizard robes, I figure these must be the quidditch players.