“Are you sure?” he’d asked me during art class.
Gnawing on the top of the crayon that should’ve been sweeping over the vellum sheet before me, I nodded. “I’m so going to fail this class,” I muttered, studying the overflowing basket of fruit.
Ten filched my paper and with a few quick strokes corrected some of my shading, creating perspective where there’d been none. I spent the rest of class trying to re-create what he’d done and failing miserably. Right before the bell, he’d lifted my paper again and hurriedly turned my childish sketch into something way better.
The Dylans’ kitchen is made up of a wall of bow windows that look onto a garden that’s in the process of being landscaped. I run my fingers over the gigantic slab of smooth, midnight-blue granite that glistens like a dark pond at the center of the room. The space smells new, like cement and glue, but also like chocolate and butter.
Nev struts to the stovetop and lifts a piece of foil off a pan. “Ten made blondies for us.”
I squeeze my phone between my fingers, applying so much pressure I imagine it bending. “If they’re any good, I’m going to kill him.”
She grins, then steals a gooey morsel right from the pan and sticks it in her mouth. After she swallows, she says, “Yep. You’re definitely going to kill him.”
I walk over and scoop out a piece that binds to my fingers and then to my teeth. It’s heaven. Like, seriously. Best. Blondies. Ever. “I so am.”
Nev hands me a spoon, takes one for herself, and together we put a serious dent in the mushy treat. Bellies full, she finishes giving me a tour of the house. I get to see the downstairs area, which is a mess of bare plaster and tarp-covered furniture.
“The movie theater will be through here, and then the pool table will go there, as well as a less formal living room. Dad calls it the kids’ area,even though I keep reminding him we’re not kids anymore,” she says, as she leads me back upstairs.
She shows me the formal living room, which is composed of structural greige couches and storm-gray leather armchairs arranged beneath a showstopping glass chandelier. Mom loves her artistic light fixtures almost as much as she loves her binders bursting with fabric swatches.
“I’ll show you my bedroom,” Nev says, tugging on my wrist. “It’s not totally done.” She tows me up the main staircase toward the bedrooms, gushing about Mom’s talent. “Over here is Dad’s room.”
I dig my sneakers into the hallway runner. “I don’t feel comfortable going into his bedroom.”
“Do you want to see Ten’s room?”
I shake my head. Not that I’m not curious, but I’d rather not barge into his space unannounced, so we head over to her bedroom, which is gray and pink, like her outfit. One of the many finds of our shopping trip.
“You match your room, Nev.”
Blushing, she pats her pink blousy tank while I drop my bag by her door, remove my shoes, and sink into a beanbag, which molds around my body.
“I still can’t believe you have a TV in your room. You’re so lucky.”
She grabs the remote control, plops down on the other squiggly patterned beanbag, and rakes her hair back.
After three episodes of our favorite witchy show, we head to the kitchen. There’s a Tupperware filled with giant meatballs in tomato sauce. We boil pasta and then mix it with the sauce.
As we slurp down our meal at the gigantic island, I ask Nev about school, about the girls who make fun of her. Apparently nothing has happened since the cafeteria standoff, which is unexpected and comforting.
“Actually. That’s not true,” she says.
I put down my fork, appetite on hold. “What happened?”
“This boy… Charlie… he asked if I wanted to go to the movies with him.”
Not what I was anticipating at all.
She tucks her hair behind her ears. “He’s like the most popular boy in our grade.”
I pick my fork back up and twirl some pasta around the tines. “What did you say?”
“I told him I’d think about it.”
“Do you like him?”
“A lot, but I’m not sure why he asked me out.”
