“His name is Leo.”
“Whatever. Just read.”
I looked down at my phone, between us on the bed. At my desk, Crawford was now reading my dictionary the way anyone else might a newspaper, flipping through for the big stories. “‘Hey, it’s Louna. Going to a party tonight, want to come?’”
She considered this, wrinkling her nose. “It’s a bit conversational for my taste.”
“It’s eleven words,” I pointed out.
“Yes, but it’s how theysound.” Bean let out a wail, and Jilly put her on the floor, where she promptly made a beeline for my closet, her hands slapping the hardwood. “I would have been like, ‘Party Tuesday you in’. No punctuation,because you’re a busy girl, and let him ask who it is, don’t tell him.”
“Why not?”
“Because it adds mystery!” she said. “And mystery is everything, especially at the beginning.”
“Well, it’s done now,” I told her. “He already responded.”
“And said what?”
I hit the screen, scrolling down. “‘Sure. Off at 7.’”
From her serious face, studying the screen, you could have thought this was an ancient scroll that needed to be translated. “Yeah. He’s got the upper hand now. It’s obvious.”
“How?” I asked.
“He responded with ‘Sure.’ It’s like you’re twisting his arm, begging him. He’s agreeing, not accepting.”
“You get all that from ‘sure’?”
“It’s syntax. Context. You have to read between the lines.”
“There aren’t lines, it’s, like, one sentence.”
“Two,” Crawford corrected me from the desk. “That was two sentences.”
“Are you supposed to be listening?” Jilly asked him. “Read your book.”
“It’s the dictionary.”
“Even better.” She got to her feet, walking over to the closet, where Bean was now trying to chew on one of my shoes. Picking her up, she said, “Let’s just work with what we have. He’s off at seven. Now, you absolutely can’t go to his work and meet him there—”
“Why not?” I asked. “Isn’t that why he told me that?”
“Because that looks even more desperate! You never meet anyone halfway, you make them come toyou. He’s already had ‘sure.’ You need to call the rest of the shots.”
“This is insane,” I said. “I refuse to believe everyone strategizes at this level when it comes to a simple date.”
“Don’t call it a date,” she corrected me. “Too formal. You’re hanging out at a party. With a group.”
There was a bang outside my door as KitKat entered, each carrying a bag of pretzels. “What are you guys doing?” Jilly demanded. “Did you let yourselves in?”
“No, William did,” Kat told her. “And he offered snacks.”
“No fair,” Crawford said. “I’m hungry.”
“Mom says you need to drive us to the truck so Dad can take us to gymnastics,” Kit told Jilly, popping a pretzel in her mouth.
“I thought she was doing that. I have a party to get to.”
