Free The A-Word by Joy Preble

mother and brother while Ryan and I attempted awkward small talk.
    “Leave the door open,” Mom hollered after us.
    Which I had to hand it to her was decent motherly advice.
    Once we were in my room and I had thrown my comforter over my bed and kicked some dirty clothes into the closet, Ryan carefully opened his backpack. Out came a box withfive pink-frosted cupcakes, each one with a letter of my name.
J E N N A
. The frosting was a tad squashed, but they looked otherwise quite tasty. My eyes bulged, a big stupid smile on my face. It felt very quiet all of a sudden.
    “I baked them,” he said, looking proud. He dug in the backpack again and pulled out an envelope. I set the cupcake box on my bed so I could open it. I tried to will my fingers to stop trembling. This was more than my already overloaded system could handle. “Morris jumped on me while I was packing them up,” he added.
    My words rushed out in an awkward jumble. “You bake? Who’s Morris?”
    He laughed. “Pit bull/lab mix. And yeah, I do. Bake, I mean. Mostly homemade pizza. These are my first cupcakes.”
    I was still clutching the note. My heart was beating fast but not crazy. Subtly, I gave him the once over, noting his jeans and Spring Creek Mustang T-shirt. Also he was wearing multi-colored Vans, probably because he had biked here. I knew he favored boots like I did. The shirt fit him well and the jeans were a straight, slim cut that made him look super hot, including his butt which I’d sneaked a peek at while we were climbing the stairs. He smelled like cologne—Axe maybe—but not too much of it, and the cupcake smell was under there, too.
    I fumbled with the envelope and pulled out a birthday card with a picture of a cupcake and
Happy Birthday
inside. Pretty generic and safe, which relieved me. But inside, in neat and tidy handwriting that was part cursive and part print and sort of manly-looking, he had written:
I’m bringing the party to you. Hope you like the cupcakes! Ryan S
.
    I smiled to myself. Like I wouldn’t know which Ryan!
    “It’s a Tony Stark quote,” he said, to the question I wasworking up to ask. “You know—Iron Man. From
The Avengers
?”
    Did he like those Avenger movies? And how much? Just in general or full-on Comic Con like? Not that it was a deal breaker or anything, but suddenly my brain whirred into overdrive, wanting to know EVERYTHING about him.
    My mouth said, “You write nicely.”
    I wanted to slap myself. I could be clever around Bo Shivers, but I sounded like a ditz in front of Ryan Sloboda. No wonder angels didn’t know squat about the universe. It was a freaking mystery.
    He shrugged. “I want to be a writer. After college. I’m going out to California to write for TV. I’ve researched it and do you know some TV studios offer a writer’s workshop? You get to apprentice with them. Learn the ropes on how to write for shows. You have to do what they call a spec script to get in. So I’ve been taking notes when I watch TV—about how all the shows are set up.”
    “California?” I said. I had been only once. We’d done one of those studio tours when we were in LA. Hadn’t thought about it since our family’s implosion and downward mobility. Now I was thinking that my life could be a TV show and Ryan could write it, only who would believe it? Mostly I was thinking,
Don’t move to California
.
    “My parents—well, they love Texas. And I love it, too. But I want—”
    “More,” I said, not meaning to finish his sentence but out it popped, and I was nervous until he grinned real wide.
    “Exactly!” he said.
    After I figured we had done enough talking and I decided to eat one of the cupcakes, specifically the
J
. The frosting might have been squashed because of Morris—which was agreat name for a dog—but the chocolate cupcake part tasted good and the frosting was this cream-cheesy stuff that I love. I offered the
E
to Ryan.
    “Happy birthday, Jenna,” Ryan said, his mouth half