fight of good versus evil, a parable for society.”
“And saving the world in leggings.”
“Tights!”
“Again, six of one.”
Fred Teplitzky doesn’t just smile. His whole face gets into the act like it’s made out of silly putty, twisting and curling and contorting for every emotion he wants to express. Mimes should take note. “Not a magazine,” he says. “Magazines imply a bunch of articles on designer scarves. It’s a scarf. You wear it around your neck. The end.”
I inch closer to his side of the. His fresh deodorant scent flutters up my nose. “Well, they both have glossy pages, colorful pictures, and unrealistic, antiquated images of women. So, forgive me for mixing the two up.”
“Touché.”
I grab him by his red polo (“Catsup-colored,” he told me. “Not ketchup.”) and pull him in for a kiss. I love the feeling of his soft lips pressing against mine, his stubble prickling my chin. He cradles my head in his hand and runs his thumb down the side of my neck. Another choice feeling. Goose bumps chill my skin.
The best part about having a boyfriend is that I can pretty much get this whenever I want.
***
As I reapply lipgloss and he puts on a coat of ChapStick, something catches his eye. Something purple. He stands up and strides over to the mash of papers, scraps, and way too many pens. (Where do they all come from, and why can I never remember to put any in my bag?)
“Oh, Bartlett.” He picks up the thick brochure. My heart scratches to a stop like a record. “You know the Midwest is super-flat. And they say pop instead of soda. And cran instead of crayon.”
“You’re quite the expert.” I barely get the words out.
“I have family out there.” He weighs the booklet in his hands. “You’re really doing it.”
I never thought I would apply to a school not on the East Coast. Why be a plane ride away from my family when there are plenty of great schools in driving distance? My mom slipped in Bartlett’s packet after being badgered by our neighbor for most of August. Each time I walked by the dining table, the purple lettering stood out to me more. I thought about last year, getting unmasked as the Break-Up Artist. Maybe I needed to put a plane ride between me and my past.
“It’s just an application, right? I’ll probably get rejected anyway.”
“I think you have a good chance.”
“I had to go for it, right?” There are kids at my school who go to the local college solely to stay close to each other. Stifling their futures to hang on to the past. It’s kind of sad.
He’s mesmerized by the shiny, happy, ethnically diverse faces staring back at him. His face grinds to a halt, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. It’s his scariest expression.
“Fred?”
“It’s far.”
“We can do long distance.”
“You applied early decision. It’s binding. You’ve bound yourself to Chicago.” Red heats up his face. He clenches the brochure in his fist so hard that it bends.
“I thought you were cool with this. It’s a really good school.”
“I know it’s a good school.”
“We’re seniors. We knew this was going to happen.”
“I know.”
“Then, what’s wrong?”
“I love you! That’s what’s wrong.”
What?
All traces of oxygen escape me, and I’m left grasping, spinning, searching for air, for answers, for a sentence.
He massages my fingers and takes a deep breath. He looks up at me with those big, blue eyes, his face chiseled into serious mode. I melt for a second. I can’t help it, not when he gives me this look. I’m the only one who gets to see this face.
“Becca, I love you.”
Love? The word bounces around my head, rings in my ears. Fred Teplitzky, my boyfriend, loves me. Our relationship is now in love territory. When did we get here? I must’ve fallen asleep in the car.
“I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that. It’s been on my mind, and seeing that brochure, knowing that you could be a thousand miles away next year…”
It’s only been three months, and we’re…here. Love. The big leagues. I can’t tell if I’m still in my room or in a magician’s box preparing to be sawed in half.
It’s my turn to speak. Has the girlfriend reached a verdict?
My mouth hangs open. I’m unable to form words. I wish I had been more prepared. Ambush of the century.
“I…”
Do I love Fred? I care about him so much, but it seems that love is probably a bigger leap.
“I really, really like you,