"No," he said. "Your mom must be cool. I mean, I can't imagine getting to see the places you've seen. All my mom does is cook all the time, you know? Like one kind of pie isn't enough. No. She's got to have three different kinds, and …" His voice trailed off as he looked at me. "I bet your mom doesn't do that."
"Oh, yes she does!" I said quickly. "She's really big on all that stuff."
"You mean, I'm not the only kid who has to sit through eight-course dinners?"
"Oh, are you kidding?" I said. "We do that all the time!" (If eight courses could be defined as five Diet Cokes and three Twinkles.)
"Really? I thought that with the Peace Corps and…"
"Oh, no, are you kidding? They're big on family time and"—I thought back to the huge stack of Pottery Barn catalogs—"decorating."
"Yes!" he said. "I know. You know how they decide, overnight, that you need new curtains in your bedroom…Like plain curtains aren't really getting it done, and now you need striped curtains?"
Plain curtains? Striped curtains? What kind of society had I stumbled into? I should be getting COW extra credit for this! We walked farther, down a winding street with manicured lawns and perfect flower beds that couldn't possibly have been mere miles from the Gallagher walls. I was getting an insider's tour behind the picket fence. I was going where no Gallagher Girl (well, at least this Gallagher Girl) had ever gone before—into a normal American family.
"This is nice. It's a nice…night." And it was. The air was chilly but not cold, and only a light dusting of clouds blew across the starry sky.
"So what was it like?" he pried. What was what like? "Mongolia? Thailand? It must be like …"
"Another world," I said. And it was true—I was from another world—just one that was surprisingly near his own.
Then he did the coolest thing. We were stopped under this streetlight, and he said, "Hold it. You've got a …" And then he reached up and brushed my cheek with his finger. "Eyelash." He held it out in front of me. "Make a wish."
But right then, there was nothing else I wanted.
I don't know how long we wandered the streets of Roseville, because, for the first time in years, I lost track of time.
"But I guess you don't have crazy teachers," he said, teasing after he'd finished a story about his psycho track coach.
"Oh, you'd be surprised."
"Tell me something about you," Josh was prompting me. "I've told you all about my crazy Martha Stewart-wannabe mom and my hyper kid sister and my dad."
"Like what?" I asked, freaking out, as was probably evident by the mind-numbing silence.
"Anything. What's your favorite color? Your favorite band?" He pointed at me as he jumped off the curb and turned in the street. "What's your favorite thing to eat when you're sick?"
How great a question is that? I mean, my whole life I've been answering questions—hard ones, too—but that one seemed especially telling.
"Waffles," I said, suddenly amazed when I realized it was true.
"Me too!" Josh said. "They're so much better than pancakes, which my mom says is crazy because it's the same batter, but I tell her that it's a—"
"Texture thing," we said at the exact same time.
OH MY GOSH! He gets the pancakes versus waffles thing! He gets it!
He was smiling. I was melting.
"When's your birthday?" He shot the question at me like a dart.
"Um…" The second it takes for you to recall something your cover should know, is the second it takes for bad people to do bad things. "November nineteenth," I blurted for no apparent reason; the date just landed in my head like a stone.
"What's your favorite ice cream?"
"Mint chocolate cookie," I said, remembering that was what we'd found in his garbage.
His face lit up. "Me too!" Fancy that. "Do you have brothers and sisters?"