Eve stares at me. “What did you do on the call?”
I summarize it for her, and she shakes her head at me. “You’re the most ridiculous person I know.”
“I know,” I groan. “It’s so embarrassing.”
“No,” Eve says with a laugh. “You’re ridiculous because that’s a perfectly normal and fun time you had. She clearly wants to talk to you again. Just be yourself, for the love of all that is holy, and leave me alone in my cute workspace because if I don’t finish today I’m going to miss the deadline.”
She spins on her heel to go to her room, and reemerges with her laptop and headphones, which she puts into her ears with a pointed look in my direction.
Taking the hint, I plop myself on the living room couch and try to let the hours disappear into a TikTok hole. Instead, I feel every agonizing second rip past. All I can think about is Alyssa’s text, waiting for me. But every time I think about answering, the panicky shaking in my gut returns. What can I say to her?
It only gets worse when, a few hours later, she texts me again.
Is everything okay?
I bite my lip, hard. No, everything is not okay, Alyssa, I want to tell her. Everything is in fact very bad. I like you so much, and the idea of saying the wrong thing to you makes me want to hide under a rock and never come out.
Of course, I can’t say that to her. Plus, now I have to give an explanation for why I ignored her text this morning.
I turn, about to call Eve, but she’s busy writing. Instead, I think about what she told me yesterday. You have to put yourself out there at some point.
Isn’t that what Alyssa and I talked about last night, about being vulnerable with people you care about?
I tap over to TikTok and hit record.
“Hi, guys,” I say, waving at the camera. “I need you to help me make this go viral, because I majorly messed things up with my crush and I have to fix it.”
The rest of the video is a montage of me packing all the Coke cans I can fit into a cardboard box, along with a pack of chocolate chips, because why not? And the scariest part: the note. I don’t show the video what it says. That’s just for Alyssa.
I’m so sorry I didn’t answer earlier!! To be totally and probably cringily honest, I was scared. Like we were saying last night, being vulnerable with someone you care about is scary. And I have a whole lot of anxiety, so that doesn’t help. But anyway, the point is, I like you. Even though you have a massive problem with carbonated beverages
“Next step, ride this over to her house,” I say to the camera, filming myself as I clip my bike helmet on. I balance my phone on top of the package in my handlebar basket to edit together quick cuts of me biking the twenty minutes to Alyssa’s place, dropping the package off on her front porch, and hurrying off with my fingers crossed.
When we get back home, I post the video and text Alyssa.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately. And hovers at the bottom of my screen for what feels like a hundred lifetimes. I can see myself growing old as she composes her message, taking her sweet time.
Eventually, her response pops up.
I like you too
Even though you do not understand the power/access that Coke has
Also your video is great but you really shouldn’t TikTok and bike
I bite back a laugh as I check my profile. TikTok has done me a solid here—the video has done just as well as Eve’s Smush masterpiece.
“Eve,” I call out.
She takes out a headphone. “I swear on that typewriter I got for my birthday, if you say one more word I will take you out with the trash.”
“I told Alyssa I like her,” I say quickly, before she can put her headphone back in.
She rips out the other one to run over and give me a hug. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Thank you for your faith in me,” I respond dryly.
She pats my head, and I slap her hand as she goes back to her workspace. I turn back to my phone, the panicky feeling fizzing away as I text Alyssa.
They’ve been living here for two weeks and four days.
Lockdown began two weeks ago.
Our next-door neighbor, Mr. Cotton, was telling Mom that the Brady family brought COVID-19 here. As if they packed it in their boxes. He’s the neighborhood gossip, heavily into conspiracy theories. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’s converted his basement into a doomsday bunker.
I look out my window and can just about see Archer Brady lounging on a sunbed in his backyard, staring at his cell. He looks around my age. Tall, dark hair, square jaw, high cheekbones that Michelangelo himself couldn’t have sculpted any better. Archer belongs on a teen drama series, starring as the angry one who eventually wins everyone over.
So far, he hasn’t won anyone over.
Except me, that is. I can’t seem to make myself stop watching. He’s one of those people you can’t help staring at as you try to figure out how it’s fair they look so perfect.
The fact that his house is right next to mine doesn’t help the growing obsession.
So far we’ve seen each other when our moms have come back from the grocery store and we’ve been outside helping take things from the car. Twice that has happened and all we’ve done is raise our hand in a little wave. It still sends my heart on a sprint. I haven’t heard his voice, but I’ve wondered so many times if he wants to talk, to make a friend. To sit in my tree and chat.
Between our houses is an old gnarly tree that looks dead
