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agree right away. A mountain of them with everything possible. While we’re trying to decide what else, a server walks by with sizzling plates of fajitas, and we make immediate We need that too eyes at each other.
    The nachos come fast, and we dig in. From watching both Lish and Gretchen in front of their various boyfriends, I know girls are often uncomfortable eating in front of guys. The two of them always pick at their food, because they don’t want their guys thinking that they’re pigs or something. But I am not like them. Partly because I don’t know how to eat like a bird—food is just too good to take only two bites and leave it at that. But I’ve also seen how guys eat: both the sheer volume and the fingers-into-face-as-fast-as-possible method. There is no way, if there’s foodin front of him, that a guy—not a high school guy, anyway—is going to pay a lick of attention to how much or how little you’re eating, except maybe to eyeball your barely nibbled-at plate and say, greedily, “You gonna eat that?”
    So I don’t worry about it, either with how many nachos I’m eating (I have to move fast, anyway, to keep Trip from getting all the jalapeños) or what I pile on my plate when the veggie fajitas come, about ten minutes later.
    By the end of dinner, we’re both greasy-smiled and utterly stuffed.
    “Fried ice cream?” Trip asks, eyebrows jerking up and down.
    “Not even I can accomplish fried ice cream right now,” I groan. “And besides, you promised me Zesto later.”
    “Did I really promise?”
    “Maybe not promised. Indicated. Hinted. Teased.”
    He holds his hands open. “What baby wants, baby gets.”
    “Not right now, though, god. Let’s go on a walk or something first.”
    We settle the bill (nicely cheap for each of us, thanks to that Scoutmob Mr. Brewer gave to Trip) and decide to stroll down to Criminal Records, to do some browsing. Which means, for a while, I’ll lose him to the vinyl section. But that gives me a minute to stand in an inconspicuous corner and reply to the texts from the audition guys. It’s not like I’m trying to hide it fromTrip, exactly, but I also don’t want to superfocus on the whole Hey, we’re going to replace you element of tomorrow. All four have confirmed they’ll be there, though one guy asks what color the house is and what to look for in the yard, which for some reason strikes me as really cute.
    God. New guys in the band. And what if they are cute? It hadn’t occurred to me that one of the new players might actually be interesting. The idea gives me a hot feeling around my neck, makes my jaw pop around in a circle on its hinge. So to stop thinking about it, I flip through the giant bins of used CDs, letting the stream of names fill my head, laughing at myself for only recognizing the cheesy, embarrassing ones.
    When I get to the end of the bin, Trip’s head-bent over the “New Releases” racks, so I entertain myself by leafing through some of the magazines I wish I had a subscription to. I’m lost in an interview in Bust when Trip slides up next to me, so many CDs and records picked out that he had to get a basket.
    I arch my eyebrow. “You think you got enough?”
    “Utter goldmine,” he practically gasps. “I don’t know why I don’t come over here more; it’s not that far.”
    “Because then you’d have to get a job .”
    He mock shudders, eyes rolling back.
    “You good?” He is clearly not impressed with my two-disc selection.
    I blink up at him sweetly. “Why should I buy music when I’ve got you?”
    “Sheesh.” But he is smiling.
    After shopping we walk the rest of the way down Euclid, laughing together over the ridiculous outfits in the windows of all the specialty boutiques. Trip says he’d be embarrassed to go out with a girl who thinks leggings are pants, and I think—to myself—that on my short-waisted body, most of those wide belts would serve better as push-up bras. When we get down to the apartments of