Yeah, that wasn’t creepy or anything. It took me a while to fall back asleep.
After blow-drying my red curls sleek and using an iron to create fat waves, I give my hair several aggressive spritzes of finishing spray. I use a hand mirror to painstakingly examine my hair from the back, fluffing and spritzing it again and again until it’s perfect.
In the kitchen, Mom and Dad are at the table, Mom reading news on her iPad and mainlining coffee. Dad is, as always, plowing through work.
“An outfit on a Sunday?” Mom asks, looking at my pleated skirt and pussy-bow blouse. She says the word outfit like the name of a distant cousin or a weird uncle. She still finds it amusing that I ditched my leggings and messy buns in favor of tailored dresses and sleek waves once we moved to Providence. “I thought those were for school.”
A buffet-style spread of Middle Eastern foods spans the table: homemade hummus; tabouleh; foul mudammas, a fava-bean dish; chopped tomatoes drizzled with olive oil and artfully arranged on a plate with parsley leaves; a selection of cheeses; pita bread; black olives; and Arab sweets. My dad goes ten miles out of his way to an Arabic grocery store in Midtown Atlanta once a week on the way home from Emory. The weekend is the only time we eat Middle Eastern food. Otherwise, it’s easy-to-prep meals: spaghetti, burgers, grilled chicken. Boring.
“I have plans. Remember, I asked for a ride…?” My eyes dart to my father, who is drinking probably his fifth cup of coffee for the day, though it’s only eleven.
My mouth waters at the sight of the foul, but no way am I going over to Wells’s house for the first time reeking of garlic.
My phone buzzes. A text from Wells with his address.
I still can’t believe I’m going to his house.
I met Wells in Algebra II class on the first day of sophomore year. He walked in, sat down next to me, and smiled. First impression: kind eyes, easy smile, messy curls, mouth slightly too big—like Harry Styles. I immediately wondered what it would be like to kiss his lips.
He spoke first.
“Hey, I’m Wells.”
“I’m Allie.”
“You’re in chorus, right? Second period?”
I nodded.
“Thought I recognized you. Are you new?”
“Yeah. Today’s my first day.”
“Technically, today’s everybody’s first day,” he said, smiling to let me know he was teasing.
I smiled back. “I just meant I’m new here.”
“Happy first day, Allie. Where are you from?”
I paused. An opportunity. Clean slate. I could be whoever I wanted here. Not shy and dorky. Cool and confident. The kind of girl worth paying attention to. I took a deep breath and then tossed my head a little, the way the girls who never doubted themselves did it.
“Heaven.”
His laughter burst out of him like rocket fuel. “The new kid is a comedian, folks.”
Bantering was so not me. Talking to most boys usually made me tongue-tied. But Wells’s gentle eyes and encouraging smile made me feel bold.
It was a good feeling.
“I’ve moved a lot,” I said, still smiling. “Chicago via New Jersey via LA via Dallas…”
“Whoa. Military?”
“My dad’s a professor. Forever in search of the perfect job that doesn’t exist. Yay, academia.”
“My dad’s family’s from New York,” he said. “Never been to New Jersey, though.”
I didn’t know how to respond. Students started filing into the classroom.
“Wanna hear something?” he said after a pause.
“What?”
“Today’s my birthday.”
“Your birthday is the first day of school? That really sucks.”
He shrugged. “August birthday, price you pay.”
“And I thought I had it bad with a February birthday.”
“Why? Valentine’s Day?”
“Basically.”
“C’mon, what are you complaining about? You get valentines and birthday presents. Double trouble.”
I wanted to reach over and poke him gently. I was looking for an excuse to touch him. But there was none. Instead, I said, “Hey, so I have a present for you.”
“How? You didn’t even know me five seconds ago. Quick, what’s my name?”
“Walter? Warren? Wallace?” OMG, I was still bantering.
“I look like your grandfather?”
“It’s Wells,” I said.
“Good memory, Artemis.”
I made a big show of rolling my eyes, but secretly I was d-y-i-n-g.
“Okay, birthday boy,” I said. “Meet me after school by the picnic benches near the log cabin. That’s where you shall receive your reward.”
Look at me, being all breezy.
He squinted at me. “Sounds like the prelude to a horror movie. Should I holler, ‘Be right back!’ before I walk outside?”
“Only if you say it immediately after losing your virginity,” I said, trying to act cool by referencing the famous movie cliché but instead promptly blushing.
Some people blush nicely, all cute and delicate and dainty. Not me. My blushes are splotchy and mottled and impossible to ignore. My face and neck are always looking for new and interesting ways to betray my perennial embarrassment.
He laughed.
“I still can’t believe I’m at a school with a log cabin,” I said.
“Welcome to Georgia. We fancy.”
Mrs. Martinez entered the room as the bell rang. She launched into the Algebra II syllabus, but I spent all class sneaking glances at Wells and noticing the way his Chuck Taylors tapped against the desk to an invisible rhythm. I felt giddy, like I had a new secret.
After school, I grabbed stuff from my locker and walked to the log cabin, excited to see Wells again. Anxiety and curiosity jockeyed for dominance, which sums up my life pretty well:
The Allie Abraham Story: Anxious but Curious
Wherever paperbacks are sold.
He was waiting for me.
“Hey!” He stuffed his cell phone in his pocket.
“It really is your birthday, right?” I asked, suddenly consumed by doubt. Maybe this was a bad idea. What was I thinking? I couldn’t pull this off.
“Yeah. Wanna see my permit? Once I take driver’s ed, it’ll be a license.”
I reached into my backpack, pulling out a cupcake from a brown bag. “Happy birthday,” I said, offering it to him with a little smile.
He looked at me doubtfully. “Got a cupcake vending machine in your locker?”
“My mom stress-bakes. She put it in my bag this morning.”
“You’re giving me your leftovers and calling it a present. Smooth.” He smiled at me to show he was kidding.
“Okay, well, if you don’t want it…” I pulled the cupcake back, and he put his hand on my wrist. It was soft. My heart leaped at the feeling of his skin on mine.
“I didn’t say that,” he said, and grinned.
I held the cupcake out again, and he stepped closer, looking down at me. Our eyes met—we didn’t just look at each other, but for a second it was like we were looking into each other—and I nearly passed out. Instead, I said, “Imaginary candle.”
“Imaginary wish,” he replied, leaning over and blowing out in a short puff as my heart beat a staccato ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod.
And that was that. New friends.
Maybe more.
“What’s that smile?” Mom now asks.
“Nothing,” I say, jamming my phone into my bag.
“Is it time for the sex talk again?”
My face burns red. I glance at Dad. “Mom. C’mon.”
Dad frowns, pausing from grading papers. “Be careful.”
“Would you say that to our son?” Mom asks him.
“We have a son?”
“If we had a son.”
“If we had a son, I would be exhausted. I would be forty years old, raising a baby. Is there something you’re trying to tell me? Can my boy
s swim again?”
“There’s no son,” my mom says. “It’s a metaphor. And plenty of forty-year-olds have babies.”
“Okay…” Dad smiles impishly at me. “This fictional son—I hope he likes the LA Galaxy, by the way—yes, I would also tell him to be careful.”
“Mm-hmm,” Mom says. “Sure you wouldn’t take him out back for cigars?”
“I abhor cigars. Smoking is terrible for you. I would never.”
“Do I need to separate you two?” I tease.
Mom laughs, nodding meaningfully toward the phone in my hand. “Can’t wait to hear more.”
I blush.
No surprise, Dad’s a little weird about guys. On the other hand, Mom has always been supportive of my secret crushes—even when they were on unworthy-but-cute boys. (RIP the Dusty Diggerson obsession of seventh grade.)
But here’s the thing with Wells: He’s cute, but his personality makes him even cuter.
That’s the kind of thing my mom used to say when she’d catch me swooning over a hot guy and would take my half-baked attraction as an opportunity to launch into yet another one of her patented I Know You’re Eventually Going to Have Sex, So Please Be Safe talks. (Way more awkward than the Drugs Ruin Lives, So Please Don’t Do Them, Except for Maybe Occasionally Cannabis, but Just as a Casual Experiment and Never While Driving in a Car, Okay? talks.)
Mom: “It’s what’s on the inside that counts.”
Me: “That sounds like something you’d get from a fortune cookie.”
Mom: “When you’re older—”
Me: “Mom. You are not seriously playing the ‘When you’re older, you’ll understand’ card.”
Mom: “When you are older, you’ll understand that good looks are nice, but attraction can fade. It’s important to find somebody quality. Somebody who shares your values.”
Me: “I value extremely ridiculously good-looking boys.”
Mom: “Hilarious. I give it a five out of ten. Your routine needs work.”
Me: “I especially value—”
Mom: “No, no. We’re done here.”
I would always joke with my mom about the It’s What’s on the Inside thing. Then I met Wells. Now, I get it.
He has a great sense of humor—teasing and generous. Last month’s newly learned fact: He volunteers at the animal shelter near his house. He’s incredible at soccer, and used to do Quiz Bowl, just like me, and can match me point for point on everything from the best Star Wars episode (he votes The Empire Strikes Back, but The Force Awakens is way better) to the greatest band of all time (Wells says it’s a tie between Pearl Jam and Foo Fighters, but I’ve been in love with the Beatles since I was a kid, because my dad used to sing me to sleep with their songs).
Even better, he’s not arrogant. He must know how girls look at him—but he also has that obliviousness you see when people didn’t grow into their looks as fast as everybody else. He’s humble and he’s kind and he likes cats, and I just died because he’s perfect.
And he actually … maybe … likes me back.
“So, what’s his name?” Mom asks.
Busted.
Dad looks up from his stack. He refuses to switch to an iPad, insisting on grading papers by hand. “Whose name?”
“Wells,” I mumble.
“Wells?” Dad says, his brow furrowing as he looks between us.
“He’s a boy, honey,” Mom says.
Dad’s frown deepens. “A boy?” he repeats, his entire being one giant italicized expression of incredulity.
Fear grips my stomach. Has my dad been pretending to be cool this entire time? Is now when Scary Dad unmasks himself and reveals he’s actually not cool with me dating?
“A friend,” I say, clarifying.
Who I want to make out with.
Dad doesn’t say anything.
“We’re going to study,” I say.
Mom cocks her head. “Oh? You don’t have any homework yet.”
“For Quiz Bowl.”
The corners of my mother’s mouth turn up. “Looks like a perfect Quiz Bowl studying outfit. Besides, I thought you were dropping Quiz Bowl this semester so you could focus on your course load.”
I shoot her a look.
“Odd given name,” Dad says. “Wells. Maybe it’s a family surname. British, no doubt. Or perhaps Irish.” His dark eyes narrow as he ponders.
The joke of it is, people are constantly trying to guess my father’s background—dark hair and bushy eyebrows contrasting with paler-than-you’d-expect skin and an accent he’s never managed to shake. Northern Italian? Serbian? Croatian? Nobody ever guesses Circassian via Jordan—nobody’s even heard of Circassians.
I’m relieved he’s focusing on the name of the guy rather than the fact that there’s a guy, period.
After all, though my dad is progressive compared to a lot of Muslim dads, most Muslims don’t really date.
Then again, I’m barely Muslim.
“He’s the same guy you hung out with before Christmas, right?” Mom’s face is serious, but her eyes are laughing. She takes way more pleasure out of embarrassing me than is appropriate for a parent.
“Yeah. I can go later, if you want,” I say, praying she won’t take me up on it.
“Go! I’ll drive you.” Mom pushes back from the table, taking one last sip of coffee. “I’m going to have a rage aneurysm if I keep reading the news.”
“It might be a diminutive for Wellington,” Dad says, stuck on the name. “In which case, still British.”
“You sure it’s okay?” I ask hopefully. “I feel bad missing breakfast.” We haven’t spoken about it, but what happened on the airplane has felt like the elephant in the room ever since.
It’s not like Dad hasn’t been discriminated against before. But with the way things are going nowadays … it feels different.
It’s hard to explain.
“My sweet girl.” Dad raises his cup of coffee in my direction. “Have fun studying, pumpkin.”
“Studying. Riiiight,” my mom teases, grabbing the car keys from the bowl and walking toward the door.
I shoot her a look—OMG, will you stop?!—before giving Dad a kiss on the cheek.
“Love you both—even when you’re the worst.”
* * *
“This can’t be right.”
I double-check the address Wells texted me. His house is fifteen minutes away from mine, on the other side of the border between Providence and Milton.
It’s a three-story brick Colonial with a cross-gabled roof, white columns, and a sloping green lawn wide enough to land a fleet of jumbo jets. In the distance, I see stables.
You have got to be kidding me.
This isn’t a house. It’s a freaking mansion. Mom looks impressed. “You didn’t tell me the new boy’s a Rockefeller.”
“I would have,” I say, “if I’d known.”
I fire off a couple of texts.
ME: I’m outside.
ME: Also, um, your place is bigger than the White House.
WELLS: Coming out now
WELLS: PS Don’t judge
“Park behind that, I guess,” I tell Mom, pointing to a black Mercedes G-Wagen in the circular driveway.
A minute later, Wells comes out from the side of the house. When I see him, I feel like I’m free-falling.
Every single time.
He smiles as I get out of the car, gently closing the door. “Hi,” he says. His voice is low and scratchy.
“Hi back.”
I turn toward Mom, waving her off. Instead, she rolls down the window, grinning at Wells. “Hi! You must be Wells. I’m Allie’s mom.”
Wells walks over to the window and reaches through, offering Mom his hand to shake. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Abraham. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Likewise.” Mom is still grinning, and now fully checking him out.
Seriously, this is mortifying.
I look him up and down, seeing him through her eyes. Messy brown curls. S
traight-cut dark-denim jeans. Chuck Taylors. One hand jammed into the pocket of the same faded navy zip hoodie he always wears. It’s unzipped, with a white T-shirt underneath. It says THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE.
“Have fun, you two!” Mom says. “Call me to pick you up, Al. Give me half an hour heads-up, okay? Love you!”
With a wave out the window, she’s finally gone.“I like your dress,” Wells says to me shyly. It’s a skirt, but I don’t bother correcting him.
“Thanks,” I say, trying and failing to hide my dorky smile.
Wells and I take a step closer to each other and hug awkwardly. He smells fresh, like soap and cinnamon gum.
As we break apart, he lightly taps me on the hand. “Joey and Zadie’ll be here any minute. Mikey and Sarah are running late, and Emilia’s at a horse show. My mom ordered pizza. Hope you like pepperoni.”
I don’t eat pepperoni. My lapsed dad might drink alcohol, but pork? That’s a deal breaker. I don’t want to seem high-maintenance, though—and I definitely don’t want to get into it. “Sounds great!” I say.
I’ll pick it off when he’s not looking.
I follow him into the house. We walk through a large vestibule filled with muddy boots, dog food, and umbrellas, into a windowless back hallway covered in pastoral horse drawings and inspirational plaques. I read one: FAITH IS BEING SURE OF WHAT WE HOPE FOR AND CERTAIN OF WHAT WE DO NOT SEE. He leads me down a set of stairs to a finished basement.
“And this is where the magic happens,” he says, raising his hands to the ceiling, palms up, as if a shepherd welcoming his flock.
I giggle. “Magic? Is that what you call it?”
His face goes pink.
Mine does, too. Couldn’t pull it off.
I reach into my bag, clearing my throat. “Hey, I brought you something.” I hold out the latest Black Series Star Wars figurine.
“Whoa! Where you’d get this?”
“I went to a couple stores.” Five over the holidays, to be exact, spending my entire allowance for the week. “You like it?”
“It’s awesome.” He grins, looking back and forth between me and the limited-edition collectible. “You’re awesome for remembering.”
“It’s not a big deal.” I wander around the massive basement room so he can’t see my blushing cheeks. There’s a big-screen TV opposite an L-shaped leather couch, with an old-school Ms. Pac Man arcade machine in the far corner. The TV console shelves display soccer trophies, a lone Quiz Bowl trophy, and Manchester United gear: framed and signed pictures, a Man U flag, bobbleheads. Framed concert posters cover the walls, mostly bands I’ve never heard of.
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