Again, but Better Read Free Page A

through the kitchen window across the ten feet of concrete and back through my window, and he smiles at me. I explode.
    Not literally. But you know that feeling like light being circulated through your veins when you see someone cute, and all of a sudden you explode all over with the thrill of said cute personnoticing and acknowledging your existence as a human with whom they could potentially fall into a relationship?
    I can’t help it. My brain jumps right to:
GOAL 3) Kiss a boy you like.
    I smile back at him and then look away so as not to appear to be a weird statue that stares at him. How do I meet this boy? Instinct says to retreat to my computer and hope I run into him later today.
    I stealanother glance his way. There’s a dark-haired boy I can’t see very well in there with him, sitting on a black leather couch on the other side of the room.
    Maybe I can play it like I’m going to check out the kitchen? But I don’t want to go over there alone. I might forget words and need someone to fill the empty air. I think my heart is palpitating. I turn back to Sahra and Babe, and sag a bitin an attempt to look chill.
    “Hey, guys, anyone want to go check out the kitchen?” I ask quickly.
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    The last time I actively put the moves on a cute boy was in eighth grade. It’s what first opened the rift between the cousins and me. Before that we were pals, especially Leo and me—we’re so close in age and his family lives rightdown the street. He used to come over and hide in my room wheneverhe did something to upset Uncle Dan (which was a lot).
    When I was thirteen, I worked up the courage to instant message Louis Watson. We ended up IMing on a Sunday during one of the weekly Primaveri family BBQs. I was inside on Uncle Dan’s PC while everyone else was outside in the pool. Twelve-year-old Leo wandered inside, saw me, and told the entire family I was in love with Louis Watson. I wasroasted for the rest of the afternoon. It started with Leo, then the rest of the boys, then my uncles, and finally my dad. By the end of the night, I was nothing but a hot, sweaty puddle of embarrassment. That was the last time I spoke to Louis Watson. Today there are no family members here to judge me. I will talk to the cute boy.
    Babe joins me on my kitchen quest. Together, we backtrack downthe hall and take a left when we reach the staircase. Be outgoing, be outgoing, whatever you do, be outgoing.
    We come to a stop outside the kitchen door. There’s a keypad. Apparently, we need a code to get in.
    “Did they tell us about a code?” I ask Babe.
    “Maybe it’s on the information in those blue folders they left on our beds?” she speculates.
    Luckily, there are thin vertical windows onboth sides of the kitchen door, so the boys inside can see us. A tall Asian boy with close-cropped hair and warm brown eyes pulls the door open. He’s the guy I noticed on the couch.
    “Hi!” he exclaims with a big dorky smile. He’s lanky and sporting an oversize, black long-sleeve shirt with loose-fitting jeans. “Welcome to the kitchen! I’m Atticus.”
    “Hi,” Babe and I chorus.
    “I’m Babe,” she continues.
    “I’m Shane,” I add.
    The boy who smiled at me through the window is facing us, still by the sink. He meets my gaze and smiles again. Not a giant toothy smile, but a cool, chill half smile. He’s holding a dish towel and leaning against the counter, wearing a long-sleeved plaid shirt and jeans. His light brown hairis haphazardly ruffled. He’s fair (but nowhere near the ghost level I’m at); hisskin is rosy with what looks like a fresh sunburn. He’s all cool and leaning … and looking cool. What am I doing? Awkwardly standing in the middle of the room next to Babe. I reflexively put my hand on my hip. And drop it because it feels forced. And then I put it back up. And drop it. Oh god.
    “Hey, I’m Pilot,” he says.
    Be outgoing . “Pilot, like a pilot?” The words escape my mouth before I canthink them