the cell phone, drops the box into the trash, and hands it to me. “After a long and thought-provoking discussion—”
“Fourteen seconds,” interrupts my mother, smiling.
“We decided it’s time you become a typical American teenager.”
Although it is only five o’clock, the twilight sky is a velvety blue scattered with an endless sea of crystals.
It’s something I like about Waterford—seeing the stars Botswana bright.
Plump mounds of snow barricade the sidewalks. Around us, the shops are decorated with pine boughs and ribbons; lights strung from the lampposts form an awning of twinkling lights above us.
Beside the entrance to the Creamery, a man wearing an oversize fur parka, its hood drawn low over his face, watches us.
I’ve become accustomed to this—Charlotte is possibly the only 178-centimeter Dominican-Korean American girl in Waterford. She’s stunning. Everyone stares.
Inside, we partition ourselves into snug booths. I sit across from Charlotte, who sits down between Mason and Henry.
“You made it.” Mason grins at me.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” I say.
“No, no. Thanksgiving finished, so now you say Merry Christmas.”
“Joyeux Noël,” I laugh.
Tate strolls over, nudging everyone aside to make room for himself in the booth.
Zipping down my Moncler puffer jacket, I reach into my pocket to pull out my phone.
A typical American teenager.
I turn it around in my hand, wistful. Tate peers over at my lap. “What is that?”
“My new phone,” I say proudly.
Tate snatches my phone from my hands. He guffaws so loudly he nearly chokes. “This is not a phone.” He inspects it. “This is an antique.”
The phone is fifteen centimeters tall, and nearly three centimeters thick. From 2002, my father said, ancient. But it can text, and it can make and take calls, and most importantly, it has no GPS. Only a satellite transponder, which is activated by a distinctive SOS power-on-power-off system my father installs on all our phones.
I move to snatch it back, but Tate is swifter; he passes the phone behind him to Oliver who passes it to Emma, who passes it to others, who each take a turn examining it.
Mason holds me hostage, keeping it firmly in his hands. “You have to press buttons?” he mutters, squinting to read the dim screen. “And scroll with an arrow? Each time?”
“It’s sophisticated,” I divulge. “In Shanghai and Tehran, journalists utilize old school tradecraft to protect their sources. An electronic trail is transparent. My parents …” I falter at Mason’s confused expression, “… read about it online …”
Laughing, I slide my phone out from Mason’s fingers and return it to my pocket.
When Charlotte prances away to collect her waffle cone from the counter, Tate puts his arm around my shoulder. “I was hoping you would be here tonight,” he says.
Emma once said memories of kissing Ryan Rice in ninth grade give her the “heebie-jeebies.” This is what I feel when Tate puts his arm around me—the heebie-jeebies.
Across the table, Henry glances discreetly at me before typing into his phone.
Tate’s fingertips touch my knee. “Want to hang out later?” he asks me. Behind his leering eyes I sense an arrogance. “You’re coming to the movie, aren’t you?” He is attractive, and well built from basketball, but his playful, predatory smile unnerves me.
He drums his forefinger on my kneecap, the muscles in my thigh tense.
I swirl out of the booth so quickly I bump into Charlotte.
“What’s wrong?” She stares at me, puzzled.
Tate raises both his arms in surrender. “I scared Sophia,” he snickers.
Charlotte’s puzzled frown breaks into a stern look. “You didn’t tell her about last summer when you were attacked by a bobcat—”
“Cougar.” Tate rolls up his sleeve, showcasing his forearm. “I still have the scar.”
“Kitten, whatever.” Charlotte’s mouth curves upward. She tosses her glossy hair over her shoulder. “Because Sophia has a habit of running into bigger game.”
Once everyone finishes their ice cream, we migrate to the doors—it takes time in such a herd.
I stay close to Charlotte and Mason, but Tate slinks his arm around my waist. “Sophia, you’re coming with me.”
“I’m riding with Emma,” I counter.
Tate nods to Emma and Oliver, entangled in a flirtatious, embracing argument. “You don’t want to ride with those two.” Tate’s hand moves from my waist to the top of my butt.
“Where’s Charlotte?” I shrug away from Tate.
“Here!” Charlotte waltzes toward me.
“Aren’t we riding together?” I ask her.
“We’re going to the same theater,” Charlotte says airily. Waving me ahead, she glides her hand through Mason’s arm. “We’ll meet you there in five minutes.”
“You heard her,” Tate laughs. “Come on. I’m parked around the block. We’ll beat her there.”