Flat-Out Celeste Read Free

and couldn’t imagine a better liberal arts education.
I hope you can attend the meet-up!
-Thanks, Justin
    Barton College? Celeste didn’t know anything about this Barton College. How did they know about her? And when was this meet-up thing? She usually did not participate in “meet-ups.”
    Her email sounded again.
Celeste-
Oh God, sorry. The meet-up is next Saturday afternoon at 5 p.m.
-Justin
    Before she could even hit the delete button, he wrote again.
Seriously, I’m really sorry. By “next Saturday” I mean the one after the one this weekend. Next week’s Saturday, not the next Saturday that arrives. Hold on; I’ll check the date.
Okay, it’s Saturday the 15 th .
-Justin
    Celeste stared at the emails. This Justin was not one for details. At least not condensed details. So where exactly was she to go if she, in fact, did want to attend this “meet-up” for this unheard of college?
Celeste, I’m really sorry. I tend to just fire off emails and don’t always pay attention. The meet-up is in Harvard Square at Border Cafe. I haven’t been there in ages, but they used to make this awesome Camptown shrimp dish that was amazing? Do you like shrimp? Half the menu is Cajun; the other half Tex-Mex.
My apologies for all of these emails. And this started off so well!
-Justin
    It hadn’t started off that well, she thought. She did like shrimp, but that was not enough to entice her to venture out to a social event for a college that was not on her list, nor for her to do so just to please this person who needlessly sent multiple messages. She did note that it was quite bold of Barton to hold this affair in the middle of Harvard territory, and that confidence piqued her interest slightly. Still, this was not for her. There would be conversations to be had, and awkward exchanges, all of which were unnecessary because she was applying to other schools. Applying via written applications and one-on-one interviews with academic and professional people from those schools. People who would be appreciative of her intellect and not judge her on her ability to make small talk while eating crustaceans.
    There was a knock at the door, and Matt leaned in, swinging a brown paper bag in her direction. “I heard Mom made stuffed peppers tonight. Last time she made those, I nearly died from flatulence. I assume she stuffed them with her usual repulsive ground chicken, quinoa, Brussels sprouts, and pomegranate seed mix?”
    Just the sound of Matt’s voice made Celeste relax. She smiled at him. “Based on the smell, I believe you’re right.”
    “So you didn’t eat then? I was right!” Matt flopped onto her bed and lay down, his long body scrunching up the neat white comforter that she had spent ten minutes arranging before she’d gone to school this morning. “I thought I’d take a break from studying and bring you something edible.”
    “It smells like a burger from Mr. Bartley’s,” she said as she got up and took a seat next to Matt. “Hand it over, thoughtful brother.”
    He tightened a hand around the top of the bag. “You have to guess which kind I brought you first.”
    “How am I supposed to know?”
    “Close your eyes.”
    She did as instructed and felt him move the bag under her nose. Sweet, spicy… a bit garlicky. “Aha! Boursin cheese and bacon! The Mark Zuckerberg burger!”
    “And sweet potato fries and a bottle of iced tea, but you win. A burger named after the so-called ‘richest geek in America.’”
    “You will be the richest geek in America after you finish your Ph.D. Program,” Celeste said through a mouthful of fries.
    “If M.I.T. doesn’t land me in a psych unit first.”
    “You only have this year left to endure. And you will hardly find yourself in need of psychiatric care, Matthew. You are doing stupendously.”
    “I’m scraping by.” Matt reached into the bag to grab a handful of fries and opened her iced tea.
    “You are not ‘scraping by.’ You are teaching classes, excelling in