it’s warm, but not humid, with a nice breeze that rustles the leaves and makes the smell of fresh-cut grass and smoke from the grill waft through the air.
“Crunch coat,” Noah says, “is delicious. And besides, I’m supposed to be taking advice from you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You listen to Lady Gaga.”
I gasp. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve heard it pounding out of your iPod when me, you, and Ava hang out.”
I consider telling him that I only listen to Lady Gaga because she’s on my workout mix or something, but then I think better of it. I mean, I’m not embarrassed. “Lady Gaga is fast-becoming a cultural icon, the likes of which we haven’t seen since Madonna,” I report.
“Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right.” The line moves forward again, and I move with it, enjoying the last few minutes of sun on my face. “And besides, the fact that I listen to Lady Gaga has nothing to do with my knowledge of ice cream.”
“What about the Jonas Brothers? Does the fact that you listen to them have anything to do with your knowledge of ice cream?”
“I don’t listen to the Jonas Brothers!” This one, I definitely have to lie about. Lady Gaga is one thing, but Joe, Kevin, and Nick are another altogether. “And even if I did, they’re very popular with the kids. And they wear purity rings.”
“My ten-year-old cousin thinks the Jonas Brothers are over.”
“All right, smart ass,” I say. “What should I be listening to?” I bend down to scratch my newly formed mosquito bite.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious.”
“You could be listening to Paramore, or The Beatles, or Sting.”
“Sting? Isn’t he, like, old?”
Noah blinks his blue eyes at me, then shakes his head and buries it in his hands. He peeks at me between two fingers. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Of course.” I roll my eyes and take a step forward. A little girl comes walking back from the order window holding a huge cone with two scoops of butter pecan, one of which promptly falls onto the concrete. She reaches down and picks it up, plops it back on her cone, and keeps walking.
“Wow,” I say. “Did you see that? That girl just—”
“Oh my God,” Noah says. “You’re not kidding. You’re not kidding at all! You don’t know who Sting is.” He’s staring at me like I’m the eighth Wonder of the World or something.
“I know who Sting is,” I say. Which isn’t really true. I mean, obviously I’ve heard of Sting, he’s a rock star. I’m just not completely familiar with his music. “He’s the one with the wraparound sunglasses.” I shuffle a few more steps forward in line, proud of myself.
“The wraparound . . . oh my God, are you . . . are youtalking about Bono ?” Noah’s looking at me like his head might explode.
“No,” I scoff, even though now I realize I totally am. And Bono’s in U2. That much I know. U2 has some very good Sebastian-was-making-out-with-someone-else-and-now-I’m-lying-here-depressed-and-feeling-sorry-for-myself music.
“Oh, geez.” Noah feigns that I’ve shot an arrow into his chest and falls to the ground. “You’re killing me, Hannah, you’re killllllinnngg mmmee.” A few kids around us turn and look, and then giggle.
“Get up,” I say, but I’m laughing.
“Only if you promise to let me introduce you to some real music.”
“Fine,” I say. “But only if you promise to tell me what you were doing on your laptop.” I say it in a teasing voice, but he stands up immediately, the smile dropping off of his face.
“It’s nothing,” he says.
“Well, it’s not nothing , obviously, since I saw something on there, and then you freaked out and slammed the computer shut.”
“I didn’t freak out.”
“Okay,” I say, shrugging. I know I should drop it. I mean, whatever he’s doing on his computer is his business. I don’t really have any right to know. Although, he has kind of been all up in my business. I
“Crunch coat,” Noah says, “is delicious. And besides, I’m supposed to be taking advice from you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You listen to Lady Gaga.”
I gasp. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve heard it pounding out of your iPod when me, you, and Ava hang out.”
I consider telling him that I only listen to Lady Gaga because she’s on my workout mix or something, but then I think better of it. I mean, I’m not embarrassed. “Lady Gaga is fast-becoming a cultural icon, the likes of which we haven’t seen since Madonna,” I report.
“Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right.” The line moves forward again, and I move with it, enjoying the last few minutes of sun on my face. “And besides, the fact that I listen to Lady Gaga has nothing to do with my knowledge of ice cream.”
“What about the Jonas Brothers? Does the fact that you listen to them have anything to do with your knowledge of ice cream?”
“I don’t listen to the Jonas Brothers!” This one, I definitely have to lie about. Lady Gaga is one thing, but Joe, Kevin, and Nick are another altogether. “And even if I did, they’re very popular with the kids. And they wear purity rings.”
“My ten-year-old cousin thinks the Jonas Brothers are over.”
“All right, smart ass,” I say. “What should I be listening to?” I bend down to scratch my newly formed mosquito bite.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious.”
“You could be listening to Paramore, or The Beatles, or Sting.”
“Sting? Isn’t he, like, old?”
Noah blinks his blue eyes at me, then shakes his head and buries it in his hands. He peeks at me between two fingers. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Of course.” I roll my eyes and take a step forward. A little girl comes walking back from the order window holding a huge cone with two scoops of butter pecan, one of which promptly falls onto the concrete. She reaches down and picks it up, plops it back on her cone, and keeps walking.
“Wow,” I say. “Did you see that? That girl just—”
“Oh my God,” Noah says. “You’re not kidding. You’re not kidding at all! You don’t know who Sting is.” He’s staring at me like I’m the eighth Wonder of the World or something.
“I know who Sting is,” I say. Which isn’t really true. I mean, obviously I’ve heard of Sting, he’s a rock star. I’m just not completely familiar with his music. “He’s the one with the wraparound sunglasses.” I shuffle a few more steps forward in line, proud of myself.
“The wraparound . . . oh my God, are you . . . are youtalking about Bono ?” Noah’s looking at me like his head might explode.
“No,” I scoff, even though now I realize I totally am. And Bono’s in U2. That much I know. U2 has some very good Sebastian-was-making-out-with-someone-else-and-now-I’m-lying-here-depressed-and-feeling-sorry-for-myself music.
“Oh, geez.” Noah feigns that I’ve shot an arrow into his chest and falls to the ground. “You’re killing me, Hannah, you’re killllllinnngg mmmee.” A few kids around us turn and look, and then giggle.
“Get up,” I say, but I’m laughing.
“Only if you promise to let me introduce you to some real music.”
“Fine,” I say. “But only if you promise to tell me what you were doing on your laptop.” I say it in a teasing voice, but he stands up immediately, the smile dropping off of his face.
“It’s nothing,” he says.
“Well, it’s not nothing , obviously, since I saw something on there, and then you freaked out and slammed the computer shut.”
“I didn’t freak out.”
“Okay,” I say, shrugging. I know I should drop it. I mean, whatever he’s doing on his computer is his business. I don’t really have any right to know. Although, he has kind of been all up in my business. I
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