The park is getting more crowded with contestants and their guests. Everywhere you look, kites in bright colors float in the breeze. It’s amazing how elaborate some of them are. There are dragon ones and butterfly ones and ones with lots of spirals. The whole thing is beyond impressive.
I spread a blanket out under a tree. Erin opens her cooler and hands me my water bottle. I always carry a stainless-steel water bottle because I drink a lot of water. I absolutely refuse to drink soda. Soda causes gut rot. I’m not having that.
Jason’s across the grass, looking for us. I wave to him. He smiles when he sees us and comes over. He has the contestant number 15 pinned to his shirt.
“Bummer that I’m in the adult division,” Jason goes. The brochure said that the adult division is sixteen and over. “I would have schooled those kids.”
“Everyone knows about your advanced kite skills,” Erin says. “That’s why they put you with the adults. The kids were way too scared.” She jumps up and wraps her arms around Jason. He hugs her back.
Jason’s kite looks like a giant loop with all these cool colors and shapes on it. I’d love to know how he made it.
“How did you decide what shape to make your kite?” I ask.
“Aerodynamics, mainly. And a long, boring story I won’t be telling here.”
“Hey,” Erin says. “You never told me that story.”
“That would be because it’s long and boring.”
I’m like, “So which competitions are you entering?”
“I’m going for the fifty-yard dash and highest-angle kite.”
“Oh.” I nod like I know what
highest-angle kite
means. The brochure didn’t really say.
Jason carefully puts his kite down on the grass. Then he opens the cooler and digs around. “Is there any grape soda?”
“Sorry,” Erin says. “They didn’t have any.”
He takes out a water instead. Erin’s putting on sunblock, even though it’s only April and not that hot out. We learned about the importance of sunblock the hard way when we came to this last year. It was a day just like this—cool and partially cloudy. Erin didn’t even think about bringing sunblock. The next day at school, her arms were so red everyone was calling her Lobster Arms. She was mortified. My skin is naturally darker, kind of like I have a permanent tan. So you couldn’t really tell that I was also a little sunburned.
Jason sits with us on the blanket.
I go, “So what does ‘highest-angle kite’ mean, exactly?”
“It’s like if you’re standing in one spot? How close to being above your head the kite gets.”
“Oh! Cool.”
“So for that one, we all stand in a line and the judges look at the angle the kite is making with the horizon.”
“I remember the fifty-yard dash from last year,” Erin says. “You have to keep the kite airborne for the whole run, right?”
“Exactly.” Jason looks at me. “Were you here last year, too?”
“I come every year. I love kites.”
“Really?”
“Kites are awesome. I also love hot-air balloons.”
“Have you ever been in one?”
“No. But you know how they sometimes come down near Smoke Rise?”
“Dude. I’ve been there so many times.”
“Whenever we saw a hot-air balloon when I was little, I got in the car with my mom and we followed it. Then we’d get out to watch when it looked like it was coming down.”
“Your mom sounds cool.”
“Hey, Erin!” A boy comes running up to us. He looks like he’s in fifth or sixth grade. “I didn’t know you were coming!”
“Where else would I be?” Erin bends down to hug the grinning kid. He’s so happy to see her, the way kids always get around Erin. She’s been a babysitter for like half the town. “Chris,” she says, “you know Jason, right?”
“Oh, yeah,” Chris goes. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Jason says. He’s not exactly getting a hug from Chris.
“And this is my friend Lani,” Erin says. “I’m mentoring Chris,” she tells me.
Erin just started mentoring at the middle school with Jason. He’s been mentoring since last year and kept telling Erin she’d love it. It was a no-brainer for her. The only reason it took her a while to commit to it was that she had to figure out how to cram it into her schedule. Especially since her schedule increasingly consists of quality time with Jason.
“How’s the math going?” Erin asks.
“Nowhere,” Chris says. “The math part of my brain doesn’t work.”
“Yes, it does. I’ll help you some more. You’ll see.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“So where’s your family?” Erin asks.
Chris points to an area jammed with little kids. His mom is simultaneously trying to get a baby to stop crying, keep two little boys from killing each other, and tie a bow in a girl’s hair.
“Why don’t you go help your mom?” Erin says. “I’ll see you Tuesday, right?”
“Yeah!” Chris goes. “Bye, Erin!” Then he runs back to his mom.
“I’m getting a snow cone,” Erin goes. “Who wants one?”
“I’m good,” Jason says.
I go, “I do.”
“Cherry?” Erin asks.
“Of course.”
And then it’s just us.
Jason scratches his knee. “Are there any apples in there?”
“Umm . . .” I check the cooler. “There’s one left.”
“Nice. Can I have it?”
“It’s mine.”
“It’s yours?”
“Yeah. I called it like an hour ago. Didn’t you hear me?”
“Not really.”
“Tough break.”
“I’ll rock-paper-scissors you for it.”
“You’re on.”
We get our fists ready. Jason goes, “Rock paper scissors say
shoot
!” I throw a scissors and he throws a paper.
“Ooh,” I say. “Another tough break.”
“Two out of three.”
“You didn’t say that before.”
“I’m saying it now.”
“It doesn’t count now. You have to say it before.”
“Says who?”
“Those are the rules. Don’t you know the rules?”
“Oh,” Jason says, “I
am
the rules.”
We drink our water.
“When’s your birthday?” I go.
“October first.”
Of course Jason’s a Libra. He’s charming, agreeable, easy-going, and idealistic. All classic Libra characteristics. I was hoping he’d be a sign that’s compatible with Taurus and incompatible with Leo. This is really interesting. He’s actually not compatible with either one of us.
Okay, what am I even thinking? We’re just friends. I’m happy for Erin. Life is good.
“Why?” Jason says.
“I was just wondering. My birthday’s coming up, so . . .”
Sunlight hits Jason’s eyes in a way that makes it hard to look at him. He has these amazing green-blue eyes.
Must. Stop. Looking.
Jason’s like, “Where’s Blake?”
“He’s not as fascinated by kites as I am.”
Jason does this contemplative nodding thing I’ve noticed before. Kind of like,
Someone’s not fascinated with kites. Wild.
“So . . . he’s at home, or . . . ?”
“I guess. I don’t know.”
Jason drinks his water. “It’s cool how you’re not one of those couples that has to do everything together. You know?”
Oh my god. Jason thinks Blake is my
boyfriend
? Where did he get that?
“Blake’s not my boyfriend,” I say.
“He’s not?”
“No.” I want to explain. But of course I can’t.
“Oh.” Jason smiles a little. He drinks more water to hide it.
One thing I’ve learned about boys? Is that when they ask if you have a boyfriend (or they say that you have one, so you either end up confirming that you do or you don’t), it means they’re interested in you and they’re trying to find out if you’re available. There’s no way Jason is interested in me, though. He likes Erin. Erin and I are so different that he couldn’t possibly like us both. Plus, if he liked me instead, he would have asked me out.
Right?
11
I’ve been sitting
with Jason at lunch all week, ever since the kite festival. Sitting together shouldn’t be a big deal. People should be able to sit wherever they want.
Of course, it’s not that simple.
My friends are acting like I insulted them. The Golden Circle keeps glaring at us. Bianca seems particularly aggravated. She blatantly stares at us as if it’s acceptable behavior. Which just makes me more determined to do what I want. I refuse to let them control me with their negativity.
Over at the Golden Table, Greg gets up. He smiles at us. He waves.
Jason ignores him.
“Greg’s waving at you,” I say.
“No, he’s not.”
“Um, I think he is.”
“That’s not a real wave. It’s a sarcastic wave.”
“How can you tell?”
“He’s been giving me a hard time about switching tables. You’d think it was a federal offense or something.”
“My friends don’t like it, either. I think they’re insulted. But it’s not like we’re not friends anymore! I’m just sitting somewhere else. Why does it have to be a monumental deal?”
There’s no way I can be in here with Jason and not want to sit with him. I’m hoping he feels the same way, because he’s the one who asked if I’d sit with him. But it’s not like I could just go over and sit with him at the Golden Table. And he wasn’t about to come over to my table and sit with a bunch of girls he never talks to. So we had to stake out new territory.
Jason’s like, “This sucks.”
“I know,” I say. “I can’t wait for next year.” Seniors get to leave campus for lunch. They can go home or over to the lunch counter or the pizza place. We’re stuck in cafeteria hell for the rest of the year. “It’s so unfair. Look how nice it is out!”
“This blows.”
“I thought it sucked.”
“Dude, it’s doing both. It’s out of control.”
“I am
so
going to the lunch counter next year.” The lunch counter is this old-school sandwich place that’s been around for, like, a hundred years. You go in and it’s just this long counter you sit at on one of these retro diner stools. Their sandwiches are really good and cheap. It’s fun to pretend you’re stuck in 1960-whatever for a little while.
Bianca is staring at us. Again.
I block out her negative vibes.
Jason’s like, “Here’s something.” He takes out a notebook. His notebook is actually pretty neat for a boy’s. There aren’t any pages sticking out, all crumpled.
“Nice notebook,” I tell him.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“It’s not falling apart.”
“Oh! That. I try to apply organizational notebook skills whenever possible.” Jason rips a page out. Some fringies fly out of the spiral part. “Do you like codes?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good answer.”
“What do you mean by codes?”
Jason laughs. “I like to make up codes so no one can figure out what I’m writing.”
“Like for passing secret notes and stuff?”
“Exactly.”
“I love that!” I don’t know how he does it, but Jason always comes up with these fun, bizarre activities. So far during our week of sitting together, he’s shown me how to:
• Watch a conversation from across the room and invent dialogue for it.
• Use grapes and string cheese as an abacus.
• Apply
Farmer’s Almanac
weather forecasts to predict teachers’ moods.
I glance at my usual table. Danielle is talking with some other kids from One World, half turned away from me, eating the baby carrots she always brings for lunch. I watch her fidget with her glasses. She always fidgets with her glasses when she’s stressed. I wish Danielle would look at me. I’d smile so she’d know I’m not ignoring her or anything. She wasn’t exactly understanding about me leaving the table. I had no idea she’d be so sensitive about it. I mean, we still see each other every day. We’re still good friends. Just because I’m sitting at a different table doesn’t change any of that.
Bianca’s still staring. I don’t know why the Golden Circle finds us so fascinating. There’s zero drama here. Erin knows we sit together. She says it will give me a chance to find out what Jason thinks about her, so she’s fine with it. I’m not sure if she’s assuming we’re just sitting together for a few days as a temporary thing, but the year is almost over so I really don’t think it matters.
“So with this one . . .” Jason digs a pencil out of his bag. “The first letter of every word represents one letter in your message. You use periods to separate words. So like—” He writes something on the paper. “Here.”
He passes me this:
Heaven inside. To helicopters everywhere riding
elephants.
I’m like, “Helicopters can ride elephants?” Clearly, I’m not the most adept code-breaker.
“It doesn’t matter what it says,” Jason explains. “The sentences don’t have to make sense. It’s all about the code.”
“Okay . . .”
“So what does it say?”
I take his pencil and write the first letter of each word below what he wrote. When I see how easy it was to get “Hi there,” I’m embarrassed I wrote anything down.
Jason’s handwriting is fascinating. I learned about graphology all the way back in October, but I still remember some things. He has this whole forward, upward slant to his writing. This indicates emotional expressiveness and optimism. I also notice that he uses a lot of pressure when he writes, which means he’s intense.
“Sweet,” I go. “Did you invent this yourself?”
“Can you believe how brilliant I am?”
“Not really.”
“Now you go.”
There are some things I really want to tell him. But it’s not like I can actually say any of those things. So I just write:
Cucumbers on our level. Can one decide enough?
I pass it over to him. “I wasn’t sure if you’re allowed to use question marks.”