(I mean, I did carry my own with me, but it was nice not to need it.)
I got in line while Chip made a beeline for the Good Table: a polished mahogany dining room table butted up against one wall, with a bench on one side and mismatched chairs with red cushions on the other. Chip grabbed one cushioned seat and set his bag in the other to save it for me.
I ordered a cup of Ali Shan (an excellent Chinese oolong) for me and a Mocha for Chip, and grabbed a couple of napkins to wipe down the Good Table before we got to work.
“What’ve you got?” Chip asked as I pulled out my tablet.
“Algebra II.”
“Algebra II was the worst.”
“Still is.”
Chip nodded and sipped his Mocha. He pulled out his own tablet, popped in his earbuds, and got to work.
Here’s the thing: I’m still not entirely sure how I ended up doing homework with Cyprian Cusumano at Mindspace several days a week. In fact, I’m not entirely sure how we ended up friends.
Growing up, Chip had teased me almost as much as Trent did. And then somehow, after I got back from Iran, things changed. Chip started being nice to me. He said hi in the halls, and we hung out at practice, and we biked home together—Chip’s house was in the same direction as mine—and talked about soccer or homework or whatever.
One day after practice, when we both had American Lit essays to work on, Chip asked if I wanted to work on them together, and I had suggested Mindspace, and somehow, a tradition was born.
I kind of liked hanging out and doing homework with Chip.
I don’t know why, but I did.
That’s normal.
Right?
Chip and I got back to the locker room at six o’clock.
My stomach felt like it had a small neutron star in it.
He squeezed my shoulder. “You okay?”
I nodded and rubbed my hand against the back of my head.
I still wasn’t used to the bristly feeling back there. It felt good.
Relaxing, even.
“You look kind of green.”
“Just nerves, I guess.”
Chip grinned at me. “You’ll do great.”
“Thanks.”
I got changed into my kit—crimson and black for our home games—and sat on the bench to lace up my cleats.
Next to me, Gabe peeled off his sweater. I kept my eyes on my cleats, because Gabe was pretty good-looking, his stomach flat and brown with a little bit of hair right above his waistline, and it was kind of distracting.
Besides, I was dating Landon. So it was wrong to look at another guy. Wasn’t it?
“Is your boy coming to the game?”
My cheeks heated. “Landon? No, he’s got band rehearsal. Mom and Dad are, though. And my sister.”
