Free The Great American Whatever by Tim Federle

Geoff and I had taken seats in the almost sadistically powerful air-conditioning of his Corolla and each had a foot-long hoagie (I waited for his lunch break) that I even realized I was missing the only Thursday therapy session I’ve ever actually wanted to have.
    You’ve never seen a guy pedal home so fast. Sparks flew from my wheels, at least in my mind.
    â€œI’ve just got a ton to figure out today,” I say, still willing my heart to slow down.
    â€œStart from the beginning, then.”
    I can barely concentrate, though, because hovering just above my laptop screen is Amir’s handwriting on the slip of Celebrity paper.
    Incoming boner.
    â€œI met a guy,” I say, in a quiet way. “At this party.”
    My therapist barely conceals a smile. “I see .” She stares, and stares. Dammit. She has picked up on my techniques and mastered them.
    â€œAm I allowed to, like, talk about sex stuff with you?” Gah. I want to slam my computer screen shut. My therapist is the stepmom of this second-tier boy at school. She sees me for a “deeply discounted” rate because her son was friends with Annabeth, and they feel bad for us.
    â€œOf course you can talk about sex stuff,” she says. “For many people, that’s all they talk about.”
    Wow. “Okay,” I say. I look out my window. No lemonade stand in sight. “So this college guy said I have a nice butt.” Gah. I can’t believe I’m saying this to a, like, mom-lady. “I mean, he didn’t say it to me—he said it through friends. That I have an okay butt or whatever. Through Geoff’s sister.”
    â€œI see,” my therapist says, and I take over staring duties to make her talk. It works. “People have long noticed you for your looks, Quinn, but now one particular boy has. How are you feeling about that?” I lower the volume on my computer. Mom is snoozing in the sunroom, but suddenly I develop a theory that the air vents in our house deliver sound better than I’ve made note of recently, since I’m so frequently in earplugs.
    â€œWell, I don’t know how to communicate with him,” I say.
    â€œMost people start with honesty.” She laughs—a therapist joke, I guess. Hard to tell. Her side of the screen is always blurry because I truly believe people over the age of fifty aren’t willing to splurge for good Internet. “Okay, that’s not always true,” she says. I have her pegged at fifty-three, by the way. “But it’s best to start with honesty. I advocate for honesty.”
    â€œNo,” I say, talking faster than I mean to. “I mean: I literally don’t know how to get ahold of him.”
    â€œMight this be the time to finally power your phone back up? Would you like to turn it on during this session? Together?”
    No way. “I’m not even sure where it is, to be honest. It’s somewhere here, but I don’t know where. But I’m not ready .” I say that part loud, because he who’s loudest wins, at least according to Dad.
    So, scratch that theory, actually.
    â€œAll right, then,” my therapist says. I don’t remember about what.
    â€œThe problem is, I have this amazing idea,” I say. “I kind of want to ask Amir out, but not like on a date, but like on a group situation, I mean.”
    â€œCould you send out an e-mail?”
    I wave my hands. “I hate e-mail. Nobody checks e-mail.”
    She begins playing almost flirtily with her silk scarf. That’s a first. “Go old-fashioned, then,” she says. “It’s very Quinn Roberts to buck trends. Ask him out through Geoff. That could be charming to an older man.”
    I chuckle. “ ‘An older man,’ that’s hilarious. Amir’s only, like, nineteen, I bet.”
    â€œThe difference between a sixteen-year-old and a nineteen-year-old can be substantial, Quinn,” she