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 Iâve ever actually wanted to have.
Youâve never seen a guy pedal home so fast. Sparks flew from my wheels, at least in my mind.
âIâve just got a ton to figure out today,â I say, still willing my heart to slow down.
âStart from the beginning, then.â
I can barely concentrate, though, because hovering just above my laptop screen is Amirâs handwriting on the slip of Celebrity paper.
Incoming boner.
âI met a guy,â I say, in a quiet way. âAt this party.â
My therapist barely conceals a smile. âI see .â She stares, and stares. Dammit. She has picked up on my techniques and mastered them.
âAm I allowed to, like, talk about sex stuff with you?â 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 âdeeply discountedâ rate because her son was friends with Annabeth, and they feel bad for us.
âOf course you can talk about sex stuff,â she says. âFor many people, thatâs all they talk about.â
Wow. âOkay,â I say. I look out my window. No lemonade stand in sight. âSo this college guy said I have a nice butt.â Gah. I canât believe Iâm saying this to a, like, mom-lady. âI mean, he didnât say it to meâhe said it through friends. That I have an okay butt or whatever. Through Geoffâs sister.â
âI see,â my therapist says, and I take over staring duties to make her talk. It works. âPeople have long noticed you for your looks, Quinn, but now one particular boy has. How are you feeling about that?â 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 Iâve made note of recently, since Iâm so frequently in earplugs.
âWell, I donât know how to communicate with him,â I say.
âMost people start with honesty.â She laughsâa 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 arenât willing to splurge for good Internet. âOkay, thatâs not always true,â she says. I have her pegged at fifty-three, by the way. âBut itâs best to start with honesty. I advocate for honesty.â
âNo,â I say, talking faster than I mean to. âI mean: I literally donât know how to get ahold of him.â
âMight this be the time to finally power your phone back up? Would you like to turn it on during this session? Together?â
No way. âIâm not even sure where it is, to be honest. Itâs somewhere here, but I donât know where. But Iâm not ready .â I say that part loud, because he whoâs loudest wins, at least according to Dad.
So, scratch that theory, actually.
âAll right, then,â my therapist says. I donât remember about what.
âThe problem is, I have this amazing idea,â I say. âI kind of want to ask Amir out, but not like on a date, but like on a group situation, I mean.â
âCould you send out an e-mail?â
I wave my hands. âI hate e-mail. Nobody checks e-mail.â
She begins playing almost flirtily with her silk scarf. Thatâs a first. âGo old-fashioned, then,â she says. âItâs very Quinn Roberts to buck trends. Ask him out through Geoff. That could be charming to an older man.â
I chuckle. âââAn older man,â thatâs hilarious. Amirâs only, like, nineteen, I bet.â
âThe difference between a sixteen-year-old and a nineteen-year-old can be substantial, Quinn,â she
Sharon Kleve, Jennifer Conner, Danica Winters, Casey Dawes