M or F? by Lisa Papademetriou Page B

you’ve got nothing to lose.”
    â€œBut that’s the thing,” she said. “I do have something to lose. I think I really like him.”
    I sighed. “Lucky.”
    That seemed to prop her up a little bit. She thought about it for another second, then sat up straighter. “You’re right,” she said. “I am lucky. This is a good thing. I’m being stupid. What am I so worried about?”
    I figured I knew the answer to that one, but the whole point was to put her mind somewhere else. “All right, then,” I said. “You ready to go in?” She nodded. “So, one more time: If you want me to talk more, look at me and touch your chin. If you want me to talk less, look at me and touch your lips.” It was a new system I had come up with that morning.
    â€œIsn’t that supposed to be a come-on?” she asked. “Like if you touch your mouth, the guy’s supposed to know you’re interested?”
    â€œMaybe,” I said. “But if you want me to talk less, that means you are interested, so it doesn’t matter.”
    She put a hand on my leg. “Thank you for being here.”
    â€œYou’d do the same for me,” I said.
    â€œIn a heartbeat,” she said.
    â€œNot that it’ll ever happen.”
    â€œAnd we’re focusing . . .”
    â€œSorry,” I told her, and I reached for the door handle. “Let’s go.”
    The inside of the restaurant was nicer than I expected. There were plants everywhere, clustered in the corners and hanging around the dining room, which was all glass and greenhousey. A little waterfall fountain gurgled near the front. It was all kind of beautiful, actually.
    â€œHey! Over here!” Jeffrey leaned out from behind a potted tree, where he was sitting in a booth. It wasn’t until we got over there that we saw he had brought someone. “Do you guys know Glenn?”
    Glenn Scarpelli was one of Jeffrey’s more popular friends. He had that Italian thing going on, with the dark hair and cocky smile. At school, he was one of those hybrids—in his case, sports and theater. I was pretty sure he played baseball and soccer, and I knew he had been the lead in Grease when Frannie did costumes.
    I was a little mad at Jeffrey for pulling this, which was hypocritical of me, except that I wasn’t a surprise guest and Glenn was. Then, when we sat down again, it ended up me across from Jeffrey and Frannie across from Glenn. I couldn’t think of any excuse why we should all stand up and start over, so I let it pass. Hopefully, Glenn would know enough to hang back and let the two of them be the center of things.
    â€œSo Jeff’s told me about Frannie,” he launched right in, smiling and waggling his eyebrows at her. “And you’re Beauregard. The Southern guy, right?”
    None of the responses in my head were helpful at this time:
    1. Don’t call me Beauregard if you don’t know me.
    2. When you say “Southern guy,” why do you make it sound like it’s a bad thing?
    3. Please tell me you’re not going to talk the entire time.
    Frannie headed off my sarcasm and jumped in. “Marcus moved here from Georgia last year.”
    â€œWell, thanks for letting us come along,” Glenn said to her. “Me and Marcus, I mean. I kind of thought this was supposed to be a date.”
    I felt Frannie’s nails through my jeans where she was gripping my knee.
    Jeffrey picked up his menu. “Get whatever you guys want. Lunch is on me.”
    â€œYou don’t have to do that,” Frannie said.
    â€œI know,” he said, simple as that. “The burritos are really good and the tempeh burgers. That’s what I’m going to get.”
    I looked for burrito on my menu and recognized the words tortilla and cheese , along with a bunch of ingredients I had never heard of.
    â€œI’ll get the tempeh burger too,” Frannie said.