How They Met and Other Stories. David Levithan

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СКАЧАТЬ his job. He banters with the counter girls relentlessly, whether it’s cornrowed Latisha, corn-fed Barbara, or corn-toed Betty. You listen in on their in-jokes, and then think that the way he says “Good morning” or “Have a good one” or “Here you go” to you is a little different from the way he says it to anyone else. Or at least that’s the hope.

      The dreamy guy at this Starbucks wasn’t working the counter. Instead he was working a broom behind it, smiling as he swept. At first I didn’t get the smile, but then I realized he was listening to the radio, to Norah Jones sliding her voice around the notes. In his own way, he was dancing along.

      I was so busy not-looking-but-looking that I didn’t notice Arabella arrive at the front of the line.

      “Can I help you?” the counter girl asked. She was about my age, with her hair pulled into a ponytail and her face pulled into a ponyfront.

      Suddenly, Arabella became shy. She leaned into me and whispered, “I want a vanilla mocha decaf latte but with no mocha.”

      I figured the counter girl had heard, but instead of punching it in, she stared at me. So I said, “She’d like a vanilla mocha decaf latte, hold the mocha.”

      “You mean like a vanilla steamer?” the bored barista asked.

      “No!” Arabella shouted. “I want a vanilla mocha decaf latte, hold the mocha! ”

      “One vanilla mocha decaf latte, hold the mocha,” the bore-ista repeated.

      Arabella pulled on my shirt. I leaned down and she whispered, “I have my purple cup.” She rummaged through the small Hello Kitty purse she’d brought and pulled it out.

      I could sense a stop to the sweeping, and could imagine Starbucks Boy finally noticing me as I said to the counter girl, “And would you mind putting it in this purple cup?”

      “I’m sorry, we can only refill Starbucks mugs,” she said.

      I looked down to Arabella and saw she was on the verge of an outburst.

      “C’mon,” I said.

      The barista looked offended by this plea – I was violating the Starbucks Code of Customer Behavior. But she would be violating the Starbucks Code of Employee Behavior to tell me to piss off, so we were at a standstill.

      Arabella chimed in with a “Pleeeeeeeeease,” and that’s what did it. Starbucks Boy leaned in, took the cup out of my hand, and said, “No problem.”

      Then he smiled. At me. The kind of smile that feels like there’s a wink attached to it.

      I ordered an iced chai, then paid with my hard-earned (well, unearned parental) dollars. Arabella and I shifted over to the pickup counter, where Starbucks Boy was already waiting with her vanilla milk. Frustratingly, a Starbucks Boy never wears a name tag, so you just have to imagine his name is Dalton or Troy or Dylan. As my Starbucks Boy handed Arabella her drink, I observed that he gave her the same smile he gave me. I realized how stupid I was being, thinking his attentions were anything more than routine. Then, when he handed over my drink and our hands accidentally touched, I forgot that realization entirely.

      Arabella picked out one of the superlong straws to sip her milk with, and I drank the minute’s worth of liquid that had been given to me with an afternoon’s worth of ice cubes. When we were finished, I stole one last glance at Starbucks Boy, who was making some foam. I almost went up and purchased a mini bundt cake just to get another view, then I dismissed myself as too silly for words (this was a full conversation in my head) and ushered Arabella (who’d lost interest in her drink after six carefully spaced sips) outside. I proposed a stop at the Central Park Zoo, and she acted like she was humoring me by saying yes.

      I found myself wanting to impress her, like we were on a date. I rattled off facts about polar bears and penguins, and was excited when she seemed mildly interested. She started asking me the names of each of the animals – not their scientific names, but their proper names, like Freezy or Gertrude. I gave her the answers, making them up as we went along, and it took a good dozen species before Arabella figured out I was kidding.

      “The emu is not named Clifford,” she said. “Clifford is a dog.”

      “Did I say Clifford?” I backtracked. “I meant Gifford. Like Kathie Lee.”

      “Who’s Kathie Lee?”

      “Kathie Lee’s the sea otter. Let’s go see her.”

      I had thought it wouldn’t be any problem for us to get back by two, and because of that I didn’t bother to check the clock on my cell phone. I was shocked when I finally saw that we only had twenty-five minutes to get home.

      “You forgot lunch,” Arabella said as we headed home.

      “You didn’t tell me you were hungry,” I replied, and then immediately felt the way any adult feels when he or she picks an argument with a six-year-old – namely, stupid.

      “I was,” Arabella said, and that was that.

      We got back with three minutes to spare.

      “Don’t worry,” Arabella told me as I made her a pb & j sandwich in the kitchen. “Manolo’s always late.”

      I nodded and asked her who Manolo was.

      “My French tutor,” she replied. Then she asked, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

      I was about to bitch and moan – the usual response – but then I realized who I was talking to. Only in New York (and maybe San Francisco) could a six-year-old have gaydar.

      “How do you know I’m gay?” I asked. I genuinely wanted to know. My wardrobe wasn’t infused with pink or rainbows, and I certainly hadn’t been very flamboyant in her presence. I wondered what my tells were.

      “The way you look at boys,” she said. “You’re gay.”

      The doorbell rang. Arabella made no move to answer it.

      “I’ll get it,” I said. It took me a minute to walk to the door, but two minutes to get the locks open.

      “The top one first and to the left,” the voice on the other side of the door said. “Then the middle one to the right. Then the bottom one, twice around to the left. Now turn the knob.”

      When I finally got it open, I found a guy a few years older than me, wearing a winter sweater on a summer day. He had Harry Potter glasses and a Beatrix Potter body.

      “Bonjour,” he said.

      “ ’Allo,” I said, trying to sound Cockney but ending up sounding Klingon.

      “You must be Astrid’s successor,” he continued. “I’m charmed to meet you.”

      “And you must be Manolo,” I said. “Or do you prefer Manny?”

      At that last word, he shuddered.

      “Manolo,” he said. “Is la fille ready?”

      “She’s in le kitchen. ”

      “Can СКАЧАТЬ