“Supreme?”
“With extra everything, baby.” She does a little shimmy dance.
“Large?” I ask, my mouth already watering.
“A super, enormous extra-large.” She waggles her eyebrows and skips out of the kitchen. “Can you grab a couple of canned sodas from the fridge? Oh, and the bag on the counter. I got us some snacks.”
“Sure.” I amble over to the shiny silver appliance and pull it open. “There’s enough food in here to feed an army.” I’m lucky if we have bread and mayo at home.
I snag four carbonated drinks and toss them into the bag before heading into the living room. Zilphia hovers by the front door, clutchingthe pizza box between her small hands. The savory smells of pepperoni and sausage invade my nostrils.
“Come on,” she chirps, starting up the stairs.
“Where are we going?”
“To my bedroom, duh,” she teases, throwing me a playful look over her slim shoulder. “Where’d you think we were going? Mars?”
Apprehension clenches my stomach, rooting me to the spot. I thought we were going to stay in the living room. My hormones go haywire, a hundred different scenarios swirling through my mind. Things a friend shouldn’t think. Are we going to watch movies on her bed? We’ve snuggled on the futon in the tree house plenty of times, but this is different. It’s her bed. Her private domain. This is a really bad idea.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask her.
Her eyebrows furrow. “Yes. Why?”
I shrug. “You’re always so intense about us never going inside, even when your parents and brother aren’t home.”
“Guess I’m a little more comfortable. As long as we’re careful, there’s nothing to worry about.” She smiles, cocking an eyebrow at me. “Anyway, you can always jump out the window if they come home early. Now move it. I’m hungry.”
I follow her lead, admiring her pink flannel shorts. The soft material clings to her bottom. I reach out, lightly skimming a finger along the hem, careful not to brush her thigh. It’s risky, but touching her is an addiction. She’s simply perfection in every way possible, and I’m a filthy black spot in her otherwise unblemished world. Be that as it may, I’m not going anywhere.
We get to her bedroom, and my probing gaze scans the silver and purple color scheme. No posters on the walls. Just one canvas of a woman with an afro, painted in graffiti-style brushstrokes, hanging over her queen-sized bed. Trophies and framed photographs are displayed on shelves mounted to the wall. More pictures are taped to the intricate oval mirror above her dresser. She happily poses for the camera, sometimes alone, sometimes surrounded by friends who aren’t me. The sight stings more than it should.
“Sit,” Zilphia says, patting the spot next to her on the bed.
I place the snack bag on the nightstand, slip out of my sneakers, then climb beside her—more nervous than I’ve ever been in my entire life.
“What do you want to watch?” she asks, pressing the power button on the remote.
“Doesn’t matter.” I open the pizza box and help myself to a cheesy slice.
“Romantic comedy it is,” she singsongs, browsing through Netflix.
“Have some mercy on me, Zilphia,” I plead around a mouthful of pizza.
“Hey, you’re the one who said it didn’t matter,” she reminds me.
“Well, I lied,” I reply, reaching for a second slice. “Find an action movie.”
She rolls her eyes playfully. “Fine.”
“Wait, scroll back up,” I instruct her. “Right there, three spaces to the left.”
“What? Aliens?”
“Yeah, oldie but goodie.”
“Okay,” Zilphia agrees. “I haven’t seen my acid for blood friends in a while.”
We eat, joke, and talk about how badass Ripley, aka Sigourney Weaver, is.
