Being Friends With Boys by Terra Elan McVoy Read Free Book Online Page B

have to make it up to her by doing it in some park somewhere, probably seeing a chick film after that. But rather than acknowledge any of this, I slide the tray of samosas into the oven, reach behind Oliver for a bowl for the macaroni salad. Abe coughs and pours himself a soda.
    “I think we’re good with the food,” I say.
    “Awesome.” But Oliver’s hardly registering. He gesturestoward the staircase and Abe and I follow him into his teenage-boy lair: the rec room downstairs.
    They turn on the PS3 and get into the war game they’ve been working on for a while. Abe lives two doors down from Oliver, and because of this—and because he doesn’t have his own practice room—he leaves his drums set up at Oliver’s and basically has an open-door policy here at the Drake house. If this were Tekken I’d be able to jump in and take the loser’s place, but when Abe gets shot down I know to keep my mouth shut: this is a serious game, and they can be driven almost to tears over it. I watch, and remind them where bonus packs and hidden snipers are, but my anxiousness about the new guys makes me keep getting up to see if there’s anyone at the door. Good thing I’m checking, because it’s only during a small pause while the game loads between levels that I even hear the doorbell.
    “Got it,” I tell them, though they haven’t budged.
    At the door are three guys, apparently all having arrived in the same old Saturn that’s parked crookedly in front of Oliver’s house.
    “Howdy,” the mohawked redhead says, lifting a black bass case covered with band and bumper stickers.
    “Uh—hi. I’m Charlotte.” I open the door wider. They’re down the stairs before I can call Oliver and Abe up.
    In the rec room, the boys all shake hands, like their dads would. The mohawk redhead kid is Eli. The other two are Samand Sam, which is convenient, but also weirdly annoying. Immediately upon dropping their own cases, the two Sams sink into the futon to watch the game, which Abe starts up again. Eli plugs in his bass. None of them really talk. I want to ask questions, but since Oliver’s focused on the game too, I’m not going to say anything. I wish we’d set up the food down here, though. Maybe I could bring it down without looking too June Cleaver about it.
    “There’s food,” Oliver finally says, once Eli is set up and tuned.
    Eli nods, but then waits politely for Oliver to take the lead back up the stairs. Neither of the Sams moves from the couch.
    I follow Eli and Oliver to the main floor. I’m trying to pay attention to everything I see and feel, to tell Trip about it in the notebook later, but mostly I just wish he were here to see it himself. He would have a thing or two to say about this Eli guy, at least. I pour myself a glass of Slice just to have something to do.
    The doorbell rings again, and it’s this giant relief. Eli is peering deep into Oliver’s refrigerator, looking for more than what I’ve already set out. I go to the door without saying anything.
    “Am I at the right place?” the boy at the door wants to know, holding up a small slip of paper covered with tiny, antlike handwriting. He is the absolute perfect kind of cute: meaning, cute in a secret way—the way only odd girls like me notice. Glasses. Hooked nose. Close-cut black hair. Sunny hazel eyes. Bonyish wrists. Against my will, my nervous habit kicks in—my jawgoing around its hinges in a circle a few times before I clamp my teeth together to stop it.
    “I’m sorry.” He straightens his glasses, looks at me. The slip of paper trembles just slightly between his fingers. “I’m Fabian. There’s an audition? For a synth?”
    He shifts a heavy-looking backpack into my view, and there’s a portable amp in his hand. Behind him I see his car—small, white, hybrid-looking.
    “I’m, um, Charlotte.” I open the door wider. “Oliver’s inside.” I’m not his girlfriend, if you were wondering , I stop myself from adding.
    “Nice to meet