Eight: Royalty.

“I want to know how to make this girl laugh. I want to know what makes her cry. I want to know what it feels like to have her look at me as if I'm her knight in shining armor.”

-Simone Elkeles, Perfect Chemistry

They say that sometimes, between two people, there's this special mental connection that's almost like a sixth sense. It's a kind of harmony, like how couples and best friends can almost read each other's minds. And maybe at that point we weren't anywhere near close enough to have that kind of perfect chemistry, but I think maybe our minds are on the same wavelength. Because on that Saturday, as I approached the big Victorian home that houses the teashop and two thrift stores, I saw you walking toward it as well, wrapped in your bright yellow raincoat.

“Sam!” you cried, noticing me at the same time that I noticed you.

I smiled and waved, squinting my eyes to see you through the misting rain. You skipped toward me, but your foot caught on the uneven pavement and you tripped, dramatically. For one frozen second you flailed through the air—before thudding, quite suddenly, into my chest.

I caught your weight with a surprised breath, then realized that you were pressed against me, clinging to my jacket to keep your balance. Your messenger bag was digging into my knee.

My face turned red; I felt it. And when you pulled away, your cheeks were pink and your eyebrows were angled and your lips were pressed together. I felt a little bit relieved, because you seemed almost as embarrassed as me.

“That was some greeting,” I remarked, laughing nervously. Was that even the right thing to say? I didn't know; I was just trying to be funny. But hell, who was I kidding? I am the most unfunny person on the planet.

You laughed, though.

“Sorry about that.” You half smiled, looked up from under your eyelashes, smoothed down the front of your coat. It was still raining, and we were getting soaked, but I'd almost forgotten about that.

Then: “We should probably get out of the rain,” you said.

I nodded, followed you up the stairs. Turned right, then another flight, up to the teashop door. I opened the door for you, saying, “Ladies first,” and you dropped a brief curtsy before slipping inside.

Krystal was working the counter that day, which is rare, because usually she just sits in the closet-sized staff room with an easel and paints. Painting is her passion; I think it's what she'd do all the time, if she didn't have the shop.

But today she was out, perched on the stool behind the counter and stringing colorful beads onto a piece of thread. She grinned when she saw us, and came around to envelope me in a cinnamon-scented hug.

“Sam, how are you?” she said, but she didn't hear my response because it was muffled by her shoulder. When she pulled back, she looked at you, and I saw you shrink a bit under the appraisal in her eyes.

Krystal is very tall, so tall that people usually think she's wearing heels. She's not; in fact, when she's in the shop, she's always barefoot. She's the kind of person who's described as devastatingly beautiful, with her dark mocha hair and cappuccino complexion, and her eyes like espresso beans. But she's kind. It's just that she has a very strong presence and that can take a while to get used to. I'm not sure if I'm used to it, and I've known her for years.

“This is Ellery,” I said, awkwardly gesturing to you. “She's my—ah—friend.” The way I said friend was hesitant, but it still made you smile at me. I liked the idea of making you smile.

Krystal grinned immediately; she has moods like that. “Well, I'm Krystal, and any friend of Sam is a friend of mine. He's practically royalty around here, you know.”

“Oh, I don't doubt it.” You laughed, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind your ear. “Prince Sam, I presume?”

I rolled my eyes. But I was smiling.

I realized, as Krystal took our orders, that I had smiled more in the days since I'd met you than I had in quite a while. And these were real smiles. Real, genuine smiles.

We sat down at a table; the same one I'd sat at when I first saw you, in fact. Somehow it was natural. Even so, it was hard not to dwell on the fact that I was sitting at a table with a beautiful girl who was beautiful in a quiet way, and that you were actually real and not a figment of my imagination.

I sipped my tea (I was back to peppermint), and watched you wrestle your netbook out of your back and set it down on the table. I watched you type, type, type yourself out of reality and into your faraway story world. And I couldn't help but ask again:

“What are you writing?”

You looked up, startled. Maybe a little annoyed. “I told you. A story.”

“But what kind of story?” I pressed. “Tell me about it.”

I worried; for a moment, it looked as if you were going to freeze up and shut down. Sam, you idiot, I thought. You've gone and blown it.

But then you paused. You looked down at your tea. You looked back up. You took a deep breath—and you told me everything.

I realized that usually, you were very quiet. You were like me. But this was something you loved beyond all doubt, and when given the chance, you could talk about it. I mean, really talk.

It was hard to follow you, with your quick tongue and waving hands and interwoven sentences. It was like chasing a cheetah through a maze. But it was eye-opening. You painted this—this picture inside my head, all full of colors and textures and beauty and intensity. I didn't understand it, how an entire world could be hidden inside your head. It must have been magical to live up there.

“Wow,” I said, over and over and over. I used up the word, but there was feeling behind it every time. I drank in every word you said, because each one told me something more about you. And I wanted to know everything.

And then, somehow, we started talking about other things: things like school and family and books and the weather. I learned that you went to Franklin, a high school across the river. You'd moved to Portland in the summer with your family, all the way from Florida, so you didn't know the area too well. I told you that I could show you around.

Your favorite color was blue, and you commented on my blue eyes. I said that yours, in green, were pretty, and you blushed.

You loved Shakespeare; I said I hated him. That made you laugh. I told you about the book I'd just read, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and you got really excited because it was one of your favorites. You told me that you like old musicals and country music and lace-up boots. I explained my love for comic books and action movies and everything written by Edgar Allen Poe.

We were different in a lot of ways, but I think we were very similar too. And I liked that, because we would go from arguing to agreeing and back to arguing in a heartbeat. I'd hardly known you for long, but I felt relaxed. Accepted.

You didn't get any writing done that day.

Just like the Saturday before, you had to leave quite suddenly. “Shoot, I've got to go,” you murmured, abruptly ending our conversation about how nice the weather was in the winter.

“Already?” I frowned, disappointment building in my gut. An hour had passed, and I hadn't even realized. You were like Cinderella, doomed to leave the ball before the clock struck midnight. Or in this case, four P.M.

You smiled apologetically. “Yeah. I have a ballet rehearsal; The Nutcracker starts in a few days, so we're practicing like mad.”

That's right. Somewhere in the whirlwind of words, you'd mentioned that you were a ballerina. It was kind of strange to imagine you doing ballet, because you were clumsy. I mentioned that, stupidly, but you just laughed. Always laughed.

“Oh, in real life, I have two left feet,” you admitted. “It's different when I'm dancing.” A shrug, then a mischievous smile. “And I can prove it to ya, too. My studio is in the city, and we'll have practice again tomorrow. Maybe you can drop by and watch.”

My eyes grew. “I—”

“Yeah, it'll be great!” You rummaged through your bag for a pen and pencil and haphazardly scrawled out an address. “Just go to the studio and ask for Ellery at the front desk. They'll let you right in.”

“Uh—” I almost objected. But then I realized that I'd be crazy to do so, and anyway, you were grinning at me so widely that I couldn't say no. I didn't want to say no.

“Sure,” I said instead. I tugged the paper across the table and looked at it; the address was in walking distance of my apartment.

Your handwriting was curly and flowing. The line was ended with a tiny heart for a period.

“Great!” You shouldered your bag, somehow already packed, and tugged your raincoat tight around your shoulders. “So tomorrow, then?”

I grinned, feeling for once like I was, as a person, okay. “Tomorrow it is.”

“Until then, Prince Sam,” you trilled, waving over your shoulder.

As you left, Krystal came up to the table to collect our empty mugs. She paused and smiled after you, her eyebrows raised.

“New friend,” she said, nodding as you opened the door.

I smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

Krystal shook her head. “She's pretty.”

I was glad she agreed. “Yeah,” I said. “Really pretty.”

“You like her?” she asked, eyeing me.

I felt my face turn bright red, and I think that was answer enough.