Again, But Better

1/12/11 4:04 p.m.
I think I’m going to organize a Flat Three card night. It feels like a good,
outgoing step forward toward long-term friendship. That sounds pathetic, but this
is where we’re at right now. Last night, there was some tentative talk of us all
going out to a pub tonight after our first day of class, since we’re legally allowed
to drink here. Maybe tomorrow we can stay in and have a card night. Friday
morning, we have class again, and afterward Pilot, Babe, Sahra, and I head to
the airport for Rome! INSANITY.
I startle as the door opens, quickly shutting my notebook and dropping the pen to the
table. Pilot strides into the kitchen with a long, thin sandwich. My heart runs around like a
puppy when there’s a visitor at the door. 
Please be cool, heart.
“Hey!” He takes the seat across from me and unwraps his food. “You writing?”
“I was.” I push Horcrux Nine to the side.
“Wow, with a real live pen and everything!” He hops up to grab a glass of water. “What
are you working on?”
I fiddle with my fingers. “Um, well, nothing really. It’s kinda like a journal, I guess.”
“Ah, nice, that sounds like something an author would do.” He comes back into view
and sits across from me. “Have you started writing your book yet?” He smiles.
I blink in surprise, before huffing a laugh. “My book?”
“I hear authors write those,” he adds, as he picks up his sandwich.
I laugh again. “One of my goals this semester is actually to start my”—I raise air quotes
—“‘great American novel,’ but it’s a pretty daunting task, so we’ll see.”
“Really? That’s awesome,” he says enthusiastically. “I read some of your stuff last
night.” I go still, shock zipping through me as he takes another bite of sandwich.

---

That was so fast. What does he think of my stuff? I can’t believe he sat down and read
stuff that I wrote. What does he mean, he read my stuff? He read my stuff! 
He read my stuff!
“Really?” I squeak. Is it chill to ask which story he read?
He swallows. “Yeah! Don’t sound so surprised.” There’s laughter in his voice. “How
could I possibly resist hitting up FrenchWatermelonNineteen.com? Your stuff was funny. I
really enjoyed it.”
I feel like running in circles.
“Really?” I say again. 
Shane, you
just 
said really.
“The post about your first day here, pointing out all the random differences like the
walk–don’t walk signs, that was great! And then I read that one about the hermit people
from that random island going to McDonald’s for the first time. That was hilarious.” He
grins.
I’m biting my lip while he’s talking, like a young adult book cliché, but it’s the only way
to keep my smile level under control. Chill. I’m chill. He read my “The First 8 Hours” post
and a short story I wrote over the holiday break. I really liked both of those!
“Thanks!” I spurt.
“We still all going to a pub later for dinner and drinks?” he asks.
“Um, yeah, I think everyone’s still down.”
“Nice! Looks like Flat Three is hitting the town tonight, then.”
I bob my head up and down, “Yup!”
I want to ask him about a card night. A few moments pass while Pilot eats his sandwich,
and I open my computer, trying to gather the courage to ask him if he likes to play cards.
Why am I afraid to ask him?
“Do you like to play cards?” I ask quickly.
Pilot’s eyes light up. “Do I like to play cards?” he says, smiling. “Does a bear shit in the
woods?”
I grin and pull my eyebrows together. “Why do people say that when they can just say
yes, which is so much faster and less confusing?”
“You play cards?” He smirks.
“Yeah, they’re only my favorite—I was thinking about going out and finding a deck so
we could have a cards night, maybe tomorrow with everyone?”
“I’m in. You want help finding that deck?” he asks.
I blink. “Do you … want to go find one?”
I stride down the sidewalk with Pilot. This is our second walk in three days. Is this a second
date? I think this boy likes me. I think he’s feeling what I’m feeling, and I can barely
contain the urge to skip down the road.
It’s still light out as we make our way down fancy-white-sophisticated-buildings lane. I
like how the sidewalk on this street is never too crowded like in New York. And when I say
never, I of course mean, in the last three days, it hasn’t been too crowded.
“Okay, so possible suspects in this card case. I’m thinking either Tesco, Waitrose, or
Sainsbury, that other grocery store I haven’t seen, but people have talked about. I don’t
know where they’ll be if they’re not in a grocery store, so hopefully they’re in a grocery

---

store. Maybe some sort of convenient store?” I’m babbling. I look at Pilot. He’s smiling to
himself. “Sorry, I’m really excited about cards…”
“We’re going to find cards,” he replies confidently. “Let’s go to a different area, though,
so we get to explore more of the city.”
“Okay.” I shrug and tuck my hair behind my ears.
“How about we go through Hyde Park? It’s right down the street.” He points down the
road toward a large gated area.
I raise my eyebrows. “Whoa, off the beaten track. We might get lost.” That was meant to
sound daunting and sarcastic, but it sounded happy. This excessive smiling has my vocal
inflections all over the place.
“Don’t worry, I’ll Magellan us back if we get lost.”
I smile at him. “Don’t worry, I’m not worried.”
“Good.” He smiles back.
We walk in content silence as we make our way down the block and cross the street to
Hyde Park. I don’t almost die this time, so things are already going smoother than they did
on our last walk. There’s a large opening in the tall black gates that surround the park where
we enter. It’s a nice day, so oodles of dog owners are out and about. Some people are
reading on blankets and under trees. We start down a paved trail in the grass.
I glance over at Pilot. “So, now you’ve read some of my stuff,” I start.
“Yeah?” He grins. His hands are stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. I’ve got one hand in
the pocket of the white zip-up I threw on and another clings to the leather of my cross-body
purse.
“When do I get to hear your music?” I ask.
He snorts, but his eyes get bright like eyes do when you talk about something you’re
passionate about.
“Oh, man.” He looks at the sky. “Well, my first album is on iTunes.”
“What?” I smack his arm in disbelief with my purse hand. He shoots me a dramatic
look.
“Oh crap, sorry!” My voice gets pitchy as I try not to laugh. I heave a steadying breath.
“Sorry, what I meant to say was: Is your album actually on iTunes? And why didn’t you
mention this before?”
He’s got this chill-modest-cool-guy half smile on. “Yes, it’s actually on iTunes, and it’s
not that hard to get your album on iTunes.”
“Pies, that’s so cool! Can I find it under your name or—how do I search you?”
“It’s under my band name.”
“What! You have a band? You’ve left out so many details of your music life!”
“It’s just me and my friend Ted, so it’s not like a full band.”
“What’s your band name?”
“We’re the Swing Bearers,” he shares with a giant grin.
A short laugh bursts out of me. “Wow, I love that. It’s almost as cool as my blog. I mean,
not quite as witty, but it’s got a nice ring to it.”
He snorts. “Okay, calm down, French Watermelon. We can’t all be on your level.” The
phrase