Idaho.
That one word would become my nickname, our inside joke, the beginning of everything. As we sat at Double Burger on our first date, three days later, we decided we would have to go there, maybe in a year’s time, to commemorate our victory. Never mind that we were both under eighteen, had no actual money to speak of, and still probably would have had trouble picking it out on a map. Already, with Colin, anything seemed possible.
“Have you ever been?” he asked me as he started another burger. The boy could eat, although he was so skinny it was hard to tell where it all went.
“To Idaho?” I asked. He nodded, chewing. “Nope. You?”
He shook his head, helping himself to the fries we’d put on the table between us, only after he’d established that I didn’t believe in putting any condiments on top of them—Are you a drencher? I can’t date a drencher—as well as my preference for extra salt. “The only part of the country I know other than here is Chicago, which was home of the Frisbee Fam until I was in eighth grade and my dad got his job here.”
The Frisbee Fam. Who else did I know with a family nickname? I loved it. “What’s he do?”
“Political science professor at the U,” he replied. “When you meet him, avoid asking him about the election. He won’t stop talking for hours.”
He was like that too, right out of the gate: a maker of plans, already assuming a future for us. It wasn’t just Idaho, or asking about my drencher status, or this—prepping me already to meet his dad (who did bring up a recent decision by the president before going on to list both pros and cons in full detail). There was also how he referred to his friends, and how they’d love me—the laptop girls, Hannah Klein and Nalini Kumara, were two of his besties—not to mention that I was a natural for their group game night, which they did every week after the Frisbee Fam Friday dinner, another tradition.
“What about you?” he asked. “You always lived in Lakeview?”
I nodded, adding some salt to my end of the fries. “My parents met at school here. When they divorced, Dad and I stayed.”
“Where’s your mom live?”
Immediately, I had a flash of her current apartment. All her places—and there had been several as she climbed the corporate ladder—were done in the same aesthetic: modern, cool, and minimalist. “Timlee,” I said. “That’s her home base. But she travels most of the year.”
“What’s she do?”
With someone else, I might have felt like I was being interrogated. But Colin’s curiosity was flattering, even contagious. His need for details made me feel interesting. “She’s a corporate staffing advisor. Basically, the person who comes and tells you who to fire.”
His eyes widened. “Wow. Intense.”
“I guess,” I said, dunking a fry. “I don’t actually know her that well.”
A pause, just one beat. Then he said, “What about your dad?”
I smiled. “He’s an English teacher at the Fountain School. My stepmom teaches kindergarten. They met there, when I was in her class. Now they have the twins, my brother and sister, who are six. Will and Piper. And the baby, Leo.”
He froze for a second. “Wait. You went to the Fountain School?”
I nodded. “All my life until this year.”
“I have always been fascinated with that place,” he said. He leaned in closer. “Is it true there are chickens on the campus?”
“Yep. A coop and everything. We got to collect eggs and feed them.”
“I always wanted a goat,” he told me. “My mom wasnoton board.”
“She’s smart,” I told him. “The one at Fountain was a nightmare.”
He looked thrilled, as if this was another check in my column. “You had goats, too?”
“Just one,” I said, and he laughed. “His name was Seymour.”
“Are you kidding me with this?” I shook my head. “Idaho! You’re fascinating. What other secrets are you hiding?”
I laughed. “None. Livestock’s all I got.”
“Livestock can take you a long way,” he said. “I can’t wait until you come over for Friday dinner. It’s going to be all about Seymour the Goat, right out of the gate.”
“You guys really eat dinner together every Friday?” I asked. “Our house is too chaotic for that. Sometimes I just eat cereal and call it dinner.”
