Read Online The Lucky Kind by Alyssa B. Sheinmel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alyssa B. Sheinmel
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dusky pink.
“Well, you are a moron,” she says finally.
“Well, you picked me, so what does that make you?”
Eden closes her locker and leans against it, hefting her bag up on her shoulder. She grins at me. “Nick, don’t kid yourself. We know who picked who here.”
“Whom,” I correct her. But I’m thinking, Yes we do, and praise Jesus that I picked this girl.
I can’t remember whether my dad was working from home today. Maybe he won’t be home at all. Maybe neither of them will. I don’t know if they’d let us close the door to my room. I think I just don’t want to bother telling them that I have a girlfriend.
Pilot greets us at the door—a good sign; when someone’s home, he doesn’t usually run to the front door when it opens. Eden crouches down to pet him but he turns his back to her.
“He’s pretty shy with new people,” I say.
“I see that,” she says, since after he rejects her he comes over and leaps on me, and when I don’t lean down he settles for licking my knees through my pants.
“Anyway,” I say, unwinding my scarf and taking off my coat. I reach for hers and begin to put both coats on the back of the chairs in the dining room, but then I change my mind and keep walking toward my own room, thinking I’ll put them on my desk chair instead.
“Come see my room,” I say, my back to her.
“So much for the grand tour,” she says, putting her arms around me from behind.
“Not much to see,” I say, and then I turn around to face her, lean my lips down toward hers. But instead of kissing her, I say, “That place by the door with the big, shiny humming appliances was the kitchen, and the table and chairs to my right make up the dining room, and the sofa to my left is in the living room.”
“Very nice,” Eden says, and now I take her hand, leading her down the hallway that leads to the bedrooms.
“That room on the left is the guest room, and down on the other end is my parents’ room.”
“And right smack in between?” Eden says, her lips close to my ear.
“My room,” I say, opening the door, and dropping her hand now to step inside. She’s going to be the first girl ever to have stepped foot in here, I guess, not counting, you know, elementary-school playdates, before girls became icky, and long before icky became attractive.
Eden stands in the doorway, watching me put our coats on my desk chair. She doesn’t fully step inside the room.
“You coming in?”
She shakes her head, and her hair falls out of its ponytail. A piece sticks to her lip, and I walk over to her and brush it away.
“I’m enjoying the tour,” she says.
I grin and take her hand. “This is my desk,” I say, pulling her toward it. “This computer, believe it or not, is where I nightly compose those emails that put you to sleep all weak in the knees.”
“All that at this little desk?” she asks, mock incredulously.
“Hard to believe, I know.” I turn to face the window. “This is the window, out of which I stare when I am pretending to study and really just procrastinating.”
“Fascinating,” she says, like she’s a scientist studying me. I imagine her with a Dictaphone, or taking notes.
“These are my bookshelves.”
“And how are your books organized?”
I think about it for a minute, and she continues, “Alphabetically? Color-coded? By subject?”
“Nah,” I say finally, “sequentially.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Like this shelf, for example.” I point to the second shelf from the bottom. “Every single book we had to read in middle-school English.”
She crouches down. “I see.”
“And this shelf is all the reading I did in the summer between ninth and tenth grade,” I say, pointing to the third from the bottom.
“Did you really do that on purpose?” she says, standing up, genuinely interested.
I smile and shake my head. “Nah, I just put them on the shelves from the bottom up as soon as I finished them.
“And now our tour
“Well, you are a moron,” she says finally.
“Well, you picked me, so what does that make you?”
Eden closes her locker and leans against it, hefting her bag up on her shoulder. She grins at me. “Nick, don’t kid yourself. We know who picked who here.”
“Whom,” I correct her. But I’m thinking, Yes we do, and praise Jesus that I picked this girl.
I can’t remember whether my dad was working from home today. Maybe he won’t be home at all. Maybe neither of them will. I don’t know if they’d let us close the door to my room. I think I just don’t want to bother telling them that I have a girlfriend.
Pilot greets us at the door—a good sign; when someone’s home, he doesn’t usually run to the front door when it opens. Eden crouches down to pet him but he turns his back to her.
“He’s pretty shy with new people,” I say.
“I see that,” she says, since after he rejects her he comes over and leaps on me, and when I don’t lean down he settles for licking my knees through my pants.
“Anyway,” I say, unwinding my scarf and taking off my coat. I reach for hers and begin to put both coats on the back of the chairs in the dining room, but then I change my mind and keep walking toward my own room, thinking I’ll put them on my desk chair instead.
“Come see my room,” I say, my back to her.
“So much for the grand tour,” she says, putting her arms around me from behind.
“Not much to see,” I say, and then I turn around to face her, lean my lips down toward hers. But instead of kissing her, I say, “That place by the door with the big, shiny humming appliances was the kitchen, and the table and chairs to my right make up the dining room, and the sofa to my left is in the living room.”
“Very nice,” Eden says, and now I take her hand, leading her down the hallway that leads to the bedrooms.
“That room on the left is the guest room, and down on the other end is my parents’ room.”
“And right smack in between?” Eden says, her lips close to my ear.
“My room,” I say, opening the door, and dropping her hand now to step inside. She’s going to be the first girl ever to have stepped foot in here, I guess, not counting, you know, elementary-school playdates, before girls became icky, and long before icky became attractive.
Eden stands in the doorway, watching me put our coats on my desk chair. She doesn’t fully step inside the room.
“You coming in?”
She shakes her head, and her hair falls out of its ponytail. A piece sticks to her lip, and I walk over to her and brush it away.
“I’m enjoying the tour,” she says.
I grin and take her hand. “This is my desk,” I say, pulling her toward it. “This computer, believe it or not, is where I nightly compose those emails that put you to sleep all weak in the knees.”
“All that at this little desk?” she asks, mock incredulously.
“Hard to believe, I know.” I turn to face the window. “This is the window, out of which I stare when I am pretending to study and really just procrastinating.”
“Fascinating,” she says, like she’s a scientist studying me. I imagine her with a Dictaphone, or taking notes.
“These are my bookshelves.”
“And how are your books organized?”
I think about it for a minute, and she continues, “Alphabetically? Color-coded? By subject?”
“Nah,” I say finally, “sequentially.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Like this shelf, for example.” I point to the second shelf from the bottom. “Every single book we had to read in middle-school English.”
She crouches down. “I see.”
“And this shelf is all the reading I did in the summer between ninth and tenth grade,” I say, pointing to the third from the bottom.
“Did you really do that on purpose?” she says, standing up, genuinely interested.
I smile and shake my head. “Nah, I just put them on the shelves from the bottom up as soon as I finished them.
“And now our tour
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