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alone, Grandma says, “I’m steaming broccoli, Benjamin. My yoga teacher says everyone should eat broccoli every day. Is there anything else you’d like?”
    I’d like to be six-two and 180 pounds of lean muscle. Oh, and I’d like Colleen to come in and kiss me like she’s never kissed anybody else, ever.
    I settle for, “Maybe a baked potato?”
    “That’ll take a while. Is that all right?”
    It’s more than all right. It’s exactly what I want: time to compose an e-mail to Amy, the girl I met at the Centrist Gallery. Who loves movies. Who gave me her e-mail address and made me promise I’d write, while outside, Colleen was climbing into some stranger’s Firebird.
    That’s how it is with Colleen: I’m dying to see her and she makes me so mad. And, as far as Amy goes, I wonder if she even remembers me. She could’ve handed out her e-mail to everybody at that gallery.
    I find the piece of paper she gave me right where I’d hidden it and start typing. I remind her who I am (Ben Bancroft), where we met (on Melrose at that gallery), and what I brought to show that night (
High School Confidential
). I tell her that I remember her documentary (
Roach Coach
). I say that it’d be fun to get together sometime when she’s not busy and just hang out. Finally I hit Send. Then I lean back and take a deep breath.
    Ten minutes later, while I’m looking at IFC’s movie lineup, I actually have mail! My first. And it’s from Amy, but it’s signed
A.J.
The message is two words —
Call me
— and a phone number.
    I don’t even stop to think or worry about what I’m going to say. I just punch in the numbers before I lose my nerve.
    “Amy? It’s me. Ben Bancroft.”
    “Hi, Ben Bancroft. But it’s A.J. I just used Amy on that documentary because I wanted people to know it was made by a girl. But everybody calls me A.J. How are you?”
    “I’m good. I’ve got e-mail. Obviously.”
    “Cool. Nobody likes a Luddite.”
    Then there’s silence. That silence. Where nobody knows exactly what to say. In the movies, couples don’t just wait for each other to say something. Like, in
Notting Hill,
Hugh Grant spills orange juice on Julia Roberts. Or two people are in a store, they both want an umbrella, and there’s only one left, so they fight over it. They’re like sour cream and chutney, oil and water, paper and fire. Total opposites. Until their eyes meet.
    It happened that way for Colleen and me at the Rialto. Dreary old me, dragging one leg, and a totally amped Colleen in a lime-green miniskirt.
    “Oh,” A.J. says finally. “A friend of mine got something on YouTube. It’s just his Rottweiler playing the
Reservoir Dogs
video game, but it’s kind of cute.”
    I’m happy to not think about Colleen. “I’ll take a look at it. Which reminds me: do you know how to get something on YouTube? A guy at my school wants me to make him famous.”
    “Sure. What do you want to submit?”
    “A piece of
High School Confidential,
maybe.”
    “It’s no big deal, really. You just, like, log in, hit the Upload Videos link, choose the right file, give your piece a title, then select the category. It sounds more complicated than it is. Why don’t I come by and show you? I take the Gold Line to Sierra Madre all the time. You live in South Pasadena, right? I could bring my laptop, get off at Mission on the way, and meet you at Buster’s for coffee or something, okay?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “How about tomorrow?”
    When we hang up, I fall backward onto my bed. A date. Okay, not a
date
date, but a coffee date. With somebody who’s interested in the same things I’m interested in. I know I’m getting way ahead of myself. A.J.’s probably got a boyfriend just as cute as she is and with a functioning set of extremities. It’ll still be fun. And maybe somebody from school will see me sitting with a mysterious girl, snap me on their cell, upload that to the Net, and I’ll be on YouTube starring in
The Spaz Experiences a