Principles of Love by Emily Franklin Read Free Book Online Page A

and motions with her chin to the building directly in front of us. It’s the newest of the bunch — glass-faced and tall, with multiple doors and Starbucks-style hanging lights. We are student center bound, and — just like with movie stars in LA — the whole place turns to look at us when we walk in, and then goes back to what they were doing.
    “Were they expecting Julia Stiles maybe?” I ask.
    “Too classy. Tara Reid — way hotter,” Cordelia says and grabs us a spot on the couch near the foosball table. We watch people compete for control over the Lilliputian soccer players — and sip lukewarm coffees Cordelia procures from the snack bar.
    “Anyway,” she continues as if we were just speaking of it, “I hear you have No-Ass Thompson for math. Sucks to be you.”
    “Pretty much,” I say. “Tell me the highlight of your day so far.”
    “That’d be drama workshop with Herr Fritzman.” She sees confusion waft over me. “Herr Fritzman, aka German Drama God — gay, but totally Pitt-worthy and so great at making you get to this…” Cordelia gestures to her chest.
    “Your bra?” I’m not even trying for humor — it looks like Cordelia either has a rash or that the German Drama teacher is doing decidedly unteacherlike exercises in class.
    “No, fool. Herr Fritzman — Claus — gets you to, you know, reach inside yourself and figure out what’s there. That way, your performance on stage is — an in-depth article.”
    “Sounds, um, deep?” I say. I just can’t stomach one more who am I , reach inside and feel my innards, blah blah blah. I’m sinking further into the grimy couch and a moodswing sponsored by my alter-ego known to Mable as Brick. Then Cordelia yanks me out of my sandpit of despair and gloom.
    “Someone’s checking you out,” she whispers and toes my shin. I look up and see none other than my photo lab buddy, Robinson Halll — so cute he deserves an extra ‘l’ on his name — who guy gestures at me with his head and takes his place at the foosball table. Nothing hotter than a rousing game of mini-soccer I tell you. Who knew that spinning a handle and yelling “Dude, score!” would entice me to near-fainting extremes.
    “Earth to Love, tune in — do you need epinephrine or will you survive?” Cordelia rolls her eyes.
    “Clear!” I yell, electro-charging my own heart like a gurney-bound patient on ER. “I’m back now. Sorry for the delay.”
    “No problem,” Cordelia tips the rest of her coffee back into her mouth and sighs. “He’s totally taken, he and Lila Lawrence are practically conjoined twins — but I completely get the vibe — what’s not to like?”
    Taken? I try to have this not register. I want to be the kind of girl who doesn’t care. I’m fairly good at that, since with my claim to fame as Friend Girl (Friend Girl=me as a superhero, minus the tights), I get a lot of practice at lusting/loving from afar and never admitting to it. Lila Lawrence? No idea what two by two photo claims her in the facebook, but damn sure I’m looking her up.
    “I’m not into him or anything,” I say, taking a huge interest in stirring invisible grains of sugar into my coffee. “He was just nice to me earlier today — that’s all.”
    “And you practically fell at his feet at Whitcomb,” Cordelia throws in, sharp as a tack, a hawk, a needle — whatever is too sharp for its own good. “Besides, he’s a senior, you’re a new sophomore, and despite the age-old senior-sophomore hook up scene, it’s never gonna happen. He’s, like — and no offense…” Of course, this means take offense. “…he’s out of your league.”
    “Sure,” I cover. “He’s cute — but not really my type.” Out of my league? Am I the NFL? The ACL? The ACLU? In my head I think a) I am not a league and b) Just say I were a league, who’s to say what guy is out of it? Another way of responding to that would be “screw that — I can get him if I want to” but since I’m not Tara