Read Everything You Want for Free Online Page B

hurt for me to go to class dressed up for a change, she says. And who knows who might notice me walking through campus and think, who’s that girl?
    She straightens my skirt, polishes a scuff on my Docs with a Kleenex, then steps away from me, head tilted, lips pursed, assessing. Then she comes back at me with a dab of eye shadow, spritzes an errant curl. Moments later we set out together, Tiff chattering as we go. When we get to the place where we’ll split to go our separate ways, we stop and she puts her hand on my arm. “You look beautiful, Emma. You really do. Just be yourself, okay? It’ll be fine. And e-mail me about how it goes, okay? Matt and I are leaving for home right after my class, so I’ll be gone when you get back.”
    I salute, which makes her laugh and roll her eyes.
    “Have a great Thanksgiving!” I call out as she walks away.
    I head toward Ballantine, like I’m heading for my class, but as soon as I know Tiff can’t see me I turn and take a path through the trees back to the dorm. I can’t wear all this makeup. It feels like a mask on my face. I wash it off, and there I am again, in the mirror. But now my hair doesn’t look right. I don’t mean it doesn’t look good—Tiff made me wear it down and did something amazing with a round brush to make it curl at my shoulders. I mean it looks, well, like I took too much trouble with it. Like this so-called date is a big deal to me. So I pull it back in a ponytail, the way I usually wear it.
    By the time I leave for the Daily Grind, I’ve talked myself out of the skirt and sweater, too. They’re folded up at the bottom of my laundry bag, replaced by jeans and a baggy sweater. My only hope now is that Tiffany was wrong about how cute this Gabe guy is. Maybe he looks like Matt, who she obviously thinks is cute, but in my opinion is kind of bland. Not that it matters, I remind myself. This is not a date. It’s a stupid college newspaper interview.
    Unfortunately, however, Tiff was dead-on about him. Gabe Parker has dark curly hair and chocolate brown eyes. That olive skin that makes you look tan, even in the winter. He’s sturdy, like my dad. He’s wearing a gray Phi Delt sweatshirt—that’s how I know him.
    “Gabe?” I say, to be sure.
    “Yep.” He smiles. “Emma?”
    I nod, then stand there like a dork until he gestures toward the chair across from him.
    “Oh,” I say, and sit down so fast I bounce.
    I have this weird feeling in my stomach. I feel light-headed. Plus, it’s like someone just turned up the treadmill of my heart. Is this how Dad felt the first time he saw Mom, I wonder—then immediately think, shit, shit, shit, do not even go there . And try to concentrate on my surroundings.
    The Daily Grind is a dark, battered kind of place, nothing like the cheery Starbucks up the street. The barista looks like a vampire, the clientele looks seriously underfed. What little light there is filters in through the posters and notices taped to the grimy windows. I’ve only been here once before. Early this fall, I went to a reading with a gloomy, poetic girl from my dorm. I thought maybe I’d meet someone who liked to talk about books, maybe even get inspired to write down some of the stuff floating around in my head. But it was incredibly tiresome: a bunch of intense, humorless people wearing black, sitting around smoking and drinking espresso. Then this anorexic grad student read a bunch of really bad poems about the six months she spent in a mental institution.
    I’m having a total flashback, and before I know it I’m telling Gabe Parker all about it. “One of those brain-scan poets,” I say. “You know. Thank you for sharing your derivative anger and the shock therapy you had as a result of it. Jesus. When she was finished, the conversation naturally turned to Kafka. Doesn’t it always? The Metamorphosis . I mean, what’s to say? It’s about a fucking cockroach.”
    Gabe laughs. “Matt told me you were funny.”
    That stops me