How The Cookie Crumbles Read Free Page A

too. Testosterone overdrive. I felt like an anthropologist observing a primitive tribe.
    “Oh baby, sweet deke!”
    “Ohhh ho! Burr’s got danglelitis!”
    “Did ya see that filthy t-drag?”
    “What a dirty gino!”
    “That’s some sick sauce.”
    “Nooooo, Luuuuu! Stay between the effing pipes!”
    “Man, the Canuck’s PK is sucking big time.”
    “Fricking Kings score again! At least Cookson gets the apple, I’ve got him in my pool.”
    I had no idea what they were talking about, so I just watched the game and resumed knitting this sweater I had started last Christmas and forgotten about. One thing was for sure: the Canucks needed to stop taking penalties, because every time they did, the Kings scored. The final score was 3-2 for the Kings in overtime, with the Kings scoring on yet another power play. All the boys were unhappy. After the Canucks had won the first game, everyone was ready to jump on the Stanley Cup bandwagon. Now everyone seemed ready to jump off the Second Narrows Bridge, but hopefully not before they drove me home. Being a Canucks fan meant living on an emotional seesaw.
    Mitchell offered to drive me home, since he was leaving anyway. My mom had packed me a little container of leftovers, since she’s always worried that nobody will eat properly once they leave her house. She was the one who taught me cooking, so you’d think she remember that I was a great cook. But maybe it was a good thing to have a healthy meal around, since I didn’t want to resort to eating junk because I was unhappy. So I kissed her and thanked her.
    “Hey Mitchell, you know that I live on the west side, near U.B.C., right?” I thought that he lived about five minutes away from here, but his parents had split recently so I wasn’t quite sure.
    He bobbed his head up and down. Mitchell was kind of on the quiet side, which was probably why he got along so well with my loudmouth brother. We drove along in silence across the Second Narrows Bridge. Since it was only Game Two, there were no jumpers yet.
    “I might be going to U.B.C. next year,” Mitchell informed me.
    “Might?” I wondered. Glen had decided on Waterloo a couple of months ago.
    “Well, I will. For sure. What do you study there?”
    “Art history.”
    “Oh.”
    Yeah, that answer usually brought the conversation to a screeching halt, and Mitchell wasn’t even a talker in the first place.
    “Maybe I’ll see you there?” He looked over nervously at me and swallowed.
    Oh man, I recognized that look. Was I trapped in a little Honda Fit with my brother’s friend who had a crush on me? Damn. This was my punishment for being too lazy to take the bus. I could remember this guy from when he showed up at our place with too-short sweatpants and bedhead to play endless rounds of Call of Duty. The fact that he was now 6’ 3” and used hair product was not going to wipe those memories away. Plus, get real: I wasn’t into little boys.
    “Maybe. It’s a pretty big campus though. What are you taking?”
    “I’m at the business school.”
    Great, just like Matt. As if I needed a reminder of my ex when I was trying to keep him out of my brain, like some horrible sea monster waiting to drag me under. It was all I could do not to tear up again. One of the benefits of having a boyfriend was that I didn’t need to deal with the attention of random guys. Just the magic words, “Sorry, I have a boyfriend,” and it was like a cloak of unavailability was tossed over me. But if I were to start crying, then Mitchell would try to be all nice and comforting, and I totally did not want that to happen. So I took a deep breath and changed the subject to one I knew he could discuss.
    “Do you think the Canucks will win the series?” I asked, and off he went. I didn’t even have to listen, which was a major relief.
    Unfortunately, not listening meant I couldn’t keep the conversation going, so after a long ride with painful silences, we finally arrived at my apartment.