Read Online The Great American Whatever by Tim Federle - Free Book Online Page A

around behind the glass case.
    â€œYes, which size iced coffee is big enough for me to bathe in?”
    This girl behind the counter kind of glares at Geoff. He nervous-laughs.
    â€œDo you want a Caffeine Level Four?” he says. (There are four sizes at Loco Mocha. Even the Level One has enough jolt to fuel an overnight study binge.)
    â€œMake it a Two.”
    â€œWill the following guest please step down ?” the girl says, and she scoots Geoff out of her way with her hip. He gives me the sorry grin.
    â€œWhen’s your next break?” I ask him.
    The girl rolls her eyes and doesn’t even look at Geoff. “You can take a five now, but you have to come back early from lunch.”
    â€œCool.” He whips off his hat like it’s a costume, and we walk to two large leather chairs across the store and plop down. The chair cushions hiss and wheeze and kind of burp, which makes us laugh, because we’re secretly still thirteen years old.
    â€œYou still have my AC,” I go.
    â€œYes,” he says, “I know. I literally got to the end of your street last night and pulled over and texted you a hundred times, but, you know—if you never turn your phone on, you can’t receive messages.”
    I’m not turning the phone on again. “I’m anti-cell these days.” Nobody but the police and my therapist know why. Thank God it didn’t get out to the local press. I can barely live with myself as it is, with out people knowing the full story.
    â€œYou are literally worse with technology than my Nana. My Nana sends me GIFs, Quinn. My Nana.”
    I thought his Nana dropped dead during crafts day last year. I’ve gotta stop rewriting other people’s lives.
    â€œYou should stick around for my lunch break,” he says. “We’ll pop over to the Verizon store. It’s time to get a new phone.”
    I wave him away. “You could have just walked right back through our front door last night. That never stopped you before. I needed that air conditioner.”
    Geoff is using his finger to doodle something invisible into the arm of his chair. His autograph, I think. He wants to be famous; he just doesn’t know what for, yet. I love him for this.
    â€œI didn’t want to freak out your mom,” Geoff says. “The porch light was off.”
    Boring scene. Change the stakes: “So, something happened last night,” I say to him. My heart plays hopscotch, and it isn’t just the caffeine.
    This moment is the reason for the entire bike excursion, but here’s another theory: When you’ve got big news, don’t even think about how you’ll write it or you’ll choke. Same goes for standardized tests, by the way.
    â€œGeoff,” the girl calls over, cocking an eyebrow from behind the counter. A line is forming.
    â€œOkay, what?” he says to me. “Be quick.”
    Perfect. That’s all I want this to be. But I feel my face close in on itself, like Mom’s does when she doesn’t get my humor. I’m not confused, though, just unsure about how to deliver this. Is this a comic scene? Where does this occur in the screenplay of my life, and is Geoff’s character going to be weirded out?
    I’m in my head. Dammit. Don’t write, Quinn, just talk.
    â€œDude,” he says, but in a sweet way.
    I look around to make sure we’re not being overheard. Some terrible jazz music plays overhead, and when the horns get loud, I get quiet.
    â€œYou know when we were little,” I say, “and I used to put your sister’s ballet tutus on my head, before we knew it was kind of strange for boys to do that?”
    Geoff puts his palm up to my face and stands. “Quinn, is this about you being gay? I literally don’t care at all.”
    Um, what? “Um.” He knows? Wait, Geoff knows. Wait, did somebody tell him? Wait, I’ve never told anyone .
    â€œI have to get back to