Love and Other Foreign Words by Erin McCahan Read Free Book Online

driving.”
    â€œYou realize I haven’t stopped driving,” he says.
    â€œBe quiet,” she says. To me, she asks, “What else?”
    There’s more. There’s lots more.
    He will never ask me to eat gray, slimy, gelatinous food nor will he tousle my hair. Not that he could tousle it since I wear it daily in a neat and tidy ponytail, but there are times—showering, blow-drying—when my hair is, in fact, tousle-able. I’d prefer it if he just never touches my head or touches it only with my permission, which I will grant on special occasions such as Arbor Day, poor, neglected holiday that it is, but never on my birthday.
    He will not collect white crud in the corners of his eyes or mouth. He will be athletic, but his interest in sporting events will stop well before obsession. He will understand the difference between:
    â€¢ coincidence and irony
    â€¢ smart and gifted
    â€¢ ticks and things that are interesting
    He will agree that the single greatest musical talent of our times is Dennis DeYoung, whose picture we will enshrine in the foyer of our first home together. He will never criticize my mother’s cooking or my parents’ house but will, instead, fit seamlessly into the Sheridan family dynamic. And his name will easily lend itself to a silent
p
.
    He will be Pperfect.
    But I don’t say any of this to Sophie. Instead, I ask, “What else do you want to know?”
    â€œWell, is there anyone at school you like?”
    â€œI don’t think so,” I say.
    â€œNot even Stefan?”
    â€œHomecoming?” I say by way of reminder.
    â€œYeah,” she says, producing an entirely too cheerful cringe.
    Stu pulls up to the high school, and Sophie grabs her backpack.
    â€œOkay, so this afternoon, come find me, and I’ll let you know what I find out,” she says of her new mission. Stu watches me in the rearview mirror, his lips parted and frozen halfway between a smile and a laugh. I slouch in my seat a little and ride the rest of the way to Cap like this, impatient and pessimistic about the future of love in my life.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Cap is the nickname for Capital University, a small liberal arts university of old brick buildings on lush green grass, about a mile from Bexley High School and two miles from my house. This semester at Cap, Stu and I are finishing up our freshman year.
    We’re in our high school’s Early College Program, slightly tweaked. Usually, it’s only for seniors, but Stu and I were accepted into the program last year as sophomores.
    We should have graduated high school last year, but my dad refused on our behalf. His specialty is creating educational programs for highly gifted teens that also meet social and psychological needs. He insisted on this division between high school and college for what he calls age-appropriate socialization.
    To him, we’re like a couple of kittens in training before we leave the birthing box and explore the real world. If improperly socialized, he fears we could become skittish and strange our whole lives, peeing in potted plants and hissing at people who just want to pet us.
    So in the spirit of socialized cats, I am not allowed to go away to college until I am eighteen, by which time I’ll be a senior at Cap, so I figure I’ll graduate from there and go away to graduate school. Unless, of course, my dad catches me urinating in one of Mom’s Boston ferns. I should do it someday, with a camera handy just to capture his expression.
    â€œSo what about this Geoff guy?” Stu asks when we exit his car.
    I pop up my umbrella even before I get out since rain and eyeglasses do not mix. “Kate is not going to marry him,” I say.
    â€œOh, really?”
    â€œReally. It’s a phase. It’s an engagement phase.”
    We’ve parked a couple blocks from the campus because Stu won’t spring for a student parking pass. On nice days, we park