I try to pull my best shocked face. (It is not very good.)

"Whaaaat?" I ask Romano. "I don't ... what are you talking about?"

He gives me a don't play look, and says, "You weren't hanging in your car, were you? I got let out early, and you weren't there."

"I don't ... whaaaat?" Crap crap crap crap crap crap crap crap crap crap. Crap.

"Riley. C'mon."

"I...." My brain is scrambling to think of a valid-sounding excuse. "I was turning in a book."

"A library book?" he asks, still quizzical.

"Yes." I sound like a robot. Why? Why must I do this to myself? Every. Single. Freaking. Time. "I was turning in a library book."

"What book?"

What was the last book I read, oh no. "How to Train your Dragon by Cressida Cowell," I tell him.

"We have that?"

"Uh, yes," I say, because I know we do at the very least. The amount of times I've gone and hidden in the library and curled up with the high school's copy of HTTYD, without checking it out.... Well. It's a considerable amount of times, is all I'm gonna say. "I'm offended you'd even question me."

Romano is clearly about to say something, but then Bernice comes over and sets an iced matcha in front of him, and the dirty chai in front of me. Her gaze flits over to me for just a second before turning back to Romano. "Hope that tastes better than the last one," she says, then winks and struts away.

I could never have the balls for something like that.

"And then, and then," I say, "my period started."

"I thought your period isn't scheduled to start till Friday."

"Why do you know my period schedule?"

He crosses his arms. "We synced our Google Calendars, remember?"

I frown. "Well, whatever, Romano. They can start early, okay? It's not an exact science. Sometimes, your body decides to fuck with you which is so not cool. Being born biologically female with a uterus that crunches up inside your gut and bleeds and hates you to death? Noooot a slay."

"Fine, fine, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I believe you." He takes a quick sip of his matcha and grimaces. It kind of makes him look like a disgruntled old man. Or a cat about to ralph up a hairball. Not that I'd ever tell him that. "Oh, ew."

"Still tasted kinda like soap?"

"I don't even know why I keep trying this," he says, shaking his head. "Oh well. At least it was free."

Here! Huzzah! Here is my opportunity to change the subject!

"I think Moto Moto likes you," I murmur, leaning in across the scratched oak table. Taylor Swift is playing in the background, although it's not anything that I know. Romano is the Swiftie, not me.

"Bernice? Likes me?" he says, his questioning inflection clearly forced.

"Yes," I say, "but you're saying it like you know this already."

"Well, yeah, it's pretty obvious." He scratches the back of his neck, then takes his letterman jacket off, revealing the tight black T-shirt beneath it. His biceps bulge just a little when he crosses his arms. Good for him. "I feel bad, in a way."

This doesn't compute in my very single, slightly desperate brain. "Why? She's pretty. You could go out with her." If there was a girl interested in me, I'd be all up in that shiz, no doubt. (Actually, yes doubt. Yes very much doubt. But ... shh.)

"Um, she's also a sophomore," he says. "We're seniors. It's not illegal, and some people can pull it off, but it's not for me."

"Ahhh, yeah. Because—"

"'If the grades don't touch, neither do I,'" we finish at the same time.

"And yeah, she's pretty, but I like someone else," he says.

"WHO?!" A couple of elderly women sitting at their own circular table glare over at us. I clear my throat and try again, this time, significantly quieter.

"Who?" I hiss.

He shrugs, then smirks (mischievously). "I don't have to tell you everything."

I smile, but also, that's so unfair, because he tries to worm everything out of me, so why does he get to be any different?

But also, you know what? This makes me feel a lot less bad about keeping the whole Asha/Emma situation from him. So, there. There's the upside.

"So how are college apps going?" he asks. "You heard back from UMN yet?"

"Not yet. But hopefully soon." I take a sip of my dirty chai. She put too much cinnamon on top, but I don't mind. I nearly inhale a large amount of it, but once I snort it away from my face, it's all good. And, oh god, it just tastes soooo good. I could moan. Seriously. But that might freak out the old ladies, so I'll refrain. "How about you? Ivy Day is coming up, right?"

"Yeah," Romano says. "I'm hoping my essay about the footstagram goes over well and doesn't make me seem like a weirdo."

I try to smile, but I hate his footstagram essay. It makes the whole thing seem as if it was just his idea, when it was all mine. I just brought him on as a joke, because I have IBS and I get bored in bathrooms, okay? And people seemed upset but in a funny way, so I kept going at it. It wasn't supposed to be some sort of "satirical commentary" or whatever Romano said it was to church it up and make it seem important. But, he's my best friend, and I want to see him get into a school that's good enough for him, so he can have it for his essays.

"You won't come across like a weirdo," I promise him. "You'll just seem really cool. They'll be all, ja, vat a cool guy. Ve totally need him for our shhhcool. Vundabar!"

"Why is UPenn German?"

"Because I said so. Are you gonna question me?"

He holds his hands up. "No ma'am. Feels borderline racist, but Imma let you have it."

"Hey, my mom is like, ninety-eight percent German. My great-grandparents were fresh off the boat. If we were anymore German per my mom's DNA results, it would be because of German incest, like Conan O'Brien but like, not Irish."

"Is anything you just said supposed to make sense to me, or?"

The bell tinkles, and I see Asha, Emma, and Ryan leave onto the sidewalk. Ryan really doesn't look like a high schooler, unless you're thinking Netflix's version of a high schooler. He's, like, six-foot-five, and he's got this chiseled facial structure, not dissimilar to a Greek statue. He's ridiculously good-looking, even I can tell. Y'know, it's crazy to me that a "straight" woman like Emma would choose to makeout with her girl best friend instead of her movie-star-hot boyfriend. I could never fathom cheating on someone, even if my partner wasn't a movie star caliber of hot.

"Oh, there's Ryan," Romano says quietly, then sips his lavender matcha, grimacing once more as if he'd forgotten how bad it tasted the last time.

I turn to look back at him, my eyes squinted. "Do you ... have a thing for Ryan June?"

Romano nearly chokes on the straw. "What?" he asks, eyes uncharacteristically wide. "No?"

"You do," I tell him, and leave it at that.

"No I don't," he mumbles.

"Mmhmm. Shore." I don't drag it out any longer than that. I'm just happy knowing I can call him out on random strange things too. That I know him as well as he knows me.

"Well, can you blame me?" he says after a few minutes of red-cheeked silence. "The man is fine as hell."

"I'm sure he is," I tell him. "I don't wanna jump his bones like you do, but—"

"It's more than wanting to jump his bones," Romano says. "So much more than that. Seriously, I'm bisexual, not hypersexual. I'm not, like, sex-crazed, okay?"

"I don't—Leo. You know I don't think that."

"I know!" he snaps, before his features soften. "I know, I know, I'm sorry. I'm just having a weird day."

"You're good," I tell him. Because, that makes two of us. "But, are you okay?"

He exhales through his nose. "Yeah, I'll be fine. Can we talk about something else, though?"

"Of course," I assure him immediately. I then proceed to be unable to think of anything else to talk about. In our friendship, Romano is the talker, and I'm the listener. It's a relationship that I appreciate, because I think that, most of the time, if I'm allowed to talk too much, then I scare people off. So if I'm not talking but I'm next to Romano, who people love to listen to, then it works best for me in the long run. I think that that logics. And besides, I don't mind listening.

I like comfortable silences, too. Romano, on the other hand, isn't the biggest fan. I can't hate though. I think Romano and I both have minds that are doing a million things a minute, but while I'm okay falling into the little crevices of my own mind, Romano needs to escape it. Talking is easier to focus on than thinking a million things at once, I guess.

This is my educated deduction. But I could be totally wrong.

Romano doesn't seem to have any conversational topic ideas in mind, either, because he takes another sip of his coffee and asks, "So.... How about the weather?"

I just smile. It's nice to have someone that just understands you intrinsically.

a/n - i'm catsitting rn for my cat niece and i love her so much that is all

i have to share i'm sorry LOOK AT HER THO

okay bye forever <33