David Levithan - How They Met and Other Stories

“Yeah,” I said. “Mmm-hmm.”

“It’s a cool wallet.”

“Thanks.”

Because I’d paid in exact change, there wasn’t anything for him to give me back except the receipt. And once he handed that over, I couldn’t continue to hold up the line. I didn’t think the woman behind me would understand if I turned to her and said, “I just need another moment – I’m admiring his eyes.” Or maybe she would, and she’d get further with him than I could.

Homosexual or metrosexual? Or just a fan of mass-produced Swedish fashion?

I hadn’t even realized that Arabella had disappeared from my side, which I imagined wasn’t the best babysitter behavior on my part. Luckily she was only a few steps away, at the pickup counter.

“He’s nice,” she observed. I restrained myself from grabbing her by the shoulders and asking, What else did you notice? Do you think he’s into guys? And into me, specifically? I wished I were back home, where I could send my girl posse in to suss him out.

That afternoon, after I’d abandoned Arabella to Ivan (who looked like the love child of Lenin and Stalin), I found myself ambling by the Starbucks again. I debated whether or not to go in, to see if Starbucks Boy’s shift had ended. Then I started to feel like I was exhibiting Typical Stalker Behavior and decided to stalk wallets at H&M instead.

I knew I was getting perilously close to opening up my History of Stupid Things Done in the Name of Crushes, but the insidious thing about the History was that I always felt each new blank page had the potential to transform it into a different book. One successful gesture, one successful relationship would suddenly turn it into a History of Stupid Things Done in the Name of Crushes That Were All Redeemed in the End. If on page 13 I wrote Justin Timberlake’s initials with mine in a heart on my sneakers, only to throw them out the next day when Laura Duke teased me for it, or if on page 98 I set up base camp outside Roger Lin’s locker just to see if he’d notice me there, or if on page 154 I entered a milkshake-drinking contest to be able to stand next to Mark Tamlin for fifteen minutes, only to have him puke vanilla chum onto my Skechers . . . well, somehow I felt these pages didn’t bear consideration as I headed to page 239 and bought a ten-dollar H&M wallet for a boy because it was the only thing in the world I knew for sure he liked, including me. I didn’t buy him the same exact wallet – I made his green to my blue – and I didn’t actually believe I’d ever give it to him. But at least it provided me with the illusion of doing something proactive.

That night, Aunt Celia asked me how it was going with Arabella. We were at a trattoria down the street from her apartment, her concession for never cooking me dinner.

“Fine,” I said.

Aunt Celia swirled the wine in her glass for a second before drinking it. “She’s a very talented girl . . . or so Elise tells me.”

“She’s very smart,” I agreed.

Aunt Celia nodded. “Good.” Then she speared an asparagus and we remained in silence until she released her next fleeting criticism.

Pretty much the whole time, I was thinking of Starbucks Boy.

The next morning, I couldn’t stop myself from being impatient. Arabella also seemed to be pushing the clock to go faster. Instead of spending time on each book, she sped through them, scowling at the illustrated kittens and puppies as if it were their fault that time couldn’t move as fast as she turned the pages.

Finally, a little before ten o’clock, she looked at me thoughtfully and said, “Let’s go now.”

I had spent about a half hour deciding which T-shirt to wear, which was a sure sign of a crush if ever there was one. I was also carrying two wallets – an empty one in my left pocket, an only-marginally-more-full one in my right.

I didn’t even accept the possibility that he might not be there when we arrived. I knew that if I entered the Starbucks and didn’t see him, I would impale myself on the nearest coffee stirrer.

My heart missed about a thousand beats when we walked in and discovered the surly girly behind the counter. But then Starbucks Boy emerged from the back room, a stack of cups piled high in his hands. Gently he settled them down next to the mocha machines. I felt all the nervous static in my heart empty into my bloodstream.

As he straightened the cups into neat rows, he looked up and saw me. There was instant recognition, and another one of those smiles. As Arabella and I moved to the front of the line, he relieved his co-worker at the cash register.

“The usual?” he asked.

“Thanks,” I said, handing over Arabella’s purple cup.

Then he went back and made them himself. The glum girl returned to the cash register as if it had all been planned.

I thought about leaving the H&M wallet in the tip jar. Then I thought about striking up a conversation and handing it to him. Then I thought about how ridiculous everything was, and all my resolve dissolved. When I picked up Arabella’s milk and my chai, my fingers again briefly touched his. But it was just a hand-off, not a hands-on.

“Thanks,” I said again.

“My pleasure,” he replied. And then we stood there for a second, before I felt goofy and turned away to get a table.

Arabella didn’t seem happy with me.

“He’s really nice,” she said once more, this time between sips.

“He sure is,” I agreed, perhaps too enthusiastically.

After about four more sips, Arabella announced she had to go to the girls’ room.

I looked at the restroom door and saw I’d need to get the key.

“Are you sure you can’t wait until we get home?” I asked.

“I need to go now. ”

“Okay, okay,” I mumbled. Then I went back up to the counter. Of course, Starbucks Boy was the one who came to my aid.

“The bathroom key?” I said. He reached over and gave me a key with a plank the size of a gym teacher’s clipboard attached.

I felt silly, so I told him, “It’s not for me.”

He smiled and said, “It would be okay if it was.”

Now I felt truly foolish, and knew there was no transition in the universe that could take me to “Hey, I have a wallet for you!” So I took the plank-key and led Arabella to the bathroom.

“Give me the key,” she said.

I handed it over, and she locked herself in the bathroom. I decided to guard the door, just in case.

Minutes passed. I finished my chai and threw out the cup. A line started to form for the restroom.

“You okay in there?” I asked through the door.

“It’s coming out!” Arabella called back.

More minutes passed.

“How’re you doing?”

“Good.”

The line grew longer.

I didn’t hear any activity inside, and felt like a perv for listening.

The people in the line were getting grumpy. One lady went and got Starbucks Boy.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“Great,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll just be another second.”

Up close, I could not only see his dimples, but also the light stubble on his chin. I so wanted to touch it.

“Arabella?” I called into the bathroom.

“Almost empty!” she shouted back.

Then, even louder, “Oh! There’s another!”

Starbucks Boy chuckled.

“How old’s your sister?” he asked.

“Oh, she’s not my sister.”

“She’s not?”

“No. I guess I’m . . . uh . . . babysitting.”

“I’M HALF EMPTY NOW!” Arabella called out.

Deadpan, as if he hadn’t heard it loud and clear, I told him, “She’s half empty now.”

People were leaving the line, giving up. The lady who’d complained started to complain some more, saying there needed to be a time limit for restrooms, and minors should never, ever be let in on their own. . . .