The Wild One (16 page)

“But we can be friends,” he murmurs.

“Friends…”

“Best friends,” he says. “Best friends who get to see each other naked and have fun. Your place or mine?”

“Mine.”

 

CHAPTER
17

I've been illicitly attending comparative literature classes with Topher for weeks now. Frankly, I'm starting to get pretty blasé about the whole thing. No one seems to care. No one even seems to notice.

It's just like my regular nighttime hookups with Joe.

It's totally my choice.

I don't even feel guilty, even though I know my dad would disapprove of just about everything I'm doing. He keeps e-mailing me links to preschool jobs in Rochester, like a helpful little career counselor … But I'm an adult, I can do whatever I want, and I don't want to move home to Rochester. I know it won't make me happy.

In fact right now, with the classes, the hookups, and the bar work and Potstill, I think I'm the happiest I've ever been.

A small part of me is niggling that this isn't enough. That I need …
more.
But I don't know what that “more” is. So what can I do about it? It's just a feeling. And maybe that feeling is one of those things my dad would call “endemic of my generation.” The feeling that we should be totally happy, all the time.

Urgh. I don't know.

Topher and I are walking out of today's class when Professor Guffey stops me.

“Hello,” she says, staring at me intently, her ice-blue eyes cold and steady.

Oh, my God, I'm busted.

I glance around for Topher in panic, but he's already out the door.

“Hello…”

“I really liked your thoughts about determinism and free will,” she says. “I think you're getting a lot out of this class.”

“I am.” My voice is a whisper.

“Have you read any Flaubert? Sartre? I think you'd enjoy them.”

“Umm…” My heart is beating wildly in my chest. Should I have read Flaubert and Sartre? Aren't they French? “No…”

Professor Guffey gazes at me for a second. “What's your name again?”

“Coco Russotti.” The words are out before I can stop them. Crap.

“Coco.” Professor Guffey frowns, as if trying to remember me from a course list. My heart speeds up frantically. Could I get arrested for attending class illegally? “Well, I'm teaching Contemporary Literary Theory in the fall. I think you'd enjoy it.”

“I'm sure I would!” I say. “Sounds … so interesting.”

“Wonderful.”

She turns away. I am dismissed.

I run out of the building as fast as I can and see Topher waiting for me outside.

“Dude, I thought you were busted for sure,” he says. “For stealing education.”

“So did I.” I feel giddy with relief and then start to laugh. “Stealing education. That's the first thing I've ever stolen.”

“You're such a good girl,” says Topher. I flinch at the words, but he doesn't notice. “Come on. My brain is hurting.”

We settle down under our usual tree in the southeast corner, the same place we've been sitting after every class every day for the past few weeks. I've come to think of it as “our” place. And try not to pinch myself that I get to have an “our” with Topher Amies. We text every day. We e-mail and he comments on my Instagrams.

We're really truly friends.

Maybe more.

Maybe I'm about to achieve one of the three things on my Happy List.

Topher looks at me and grins. “So, I have a surprise for you.” He passes me a brown paper bag.

I open the bag. There's a sandwich inside.

“Coco, meet my favorite sandwich in the world,” says Topher seriously. “Peanut butter and cucumber.”

I gasp. “That was
my
favorite sandwich in grade school! My mom always made it.” I unwrap the sandwich. “Thank you. Really, thank you so much.”

We both take a bite and chew in silence a moment.

“This is delicious,” I say.

“Shh,” he says. “Just chew. Honor the sandwich.”

Giggling, I take another bite and chew away.

My God, Topher made me a sandwich. Julia keeps telling me how much he must like me, that Topher is totally the kind of guy's guy who only ever makes friends with guys, so if he's hanging out with me, it's because he's got a thing for me.

Maybe she's just telling me that to get me away from Joe. She still seems to dislike him, totally irrationally. Or maybe Topher really does have a thing for me.

I sure as hell have a thing for him.

So what now?

Peanut butter and cucumber sounds like a weird combo, I know, but I swear, it's so good. Fatty, salty, creamy peanut butter, cool, crisp cucumber, soft white bread … it's, like, the perfect combination. He didn't add flakes of sea salt, which I would have done, but then again, I add sea salt to everything. Seriously. If I could add sea salt to my toothpaste, I would probably do it.

“My brain hurts,” complains Topher.

“Mmm,” I say, chewing.

“I'm just … I think that I'm too stupid to get this stuff. I'm not as smart as you.”

I nearly choke on my sandwich. “What?”

“I'm never as smart as everyone else.” Topher's brow furrows adorably. “Like my brain just didn't work the way everyone else's did in high school.”

“That's how I feel!” I say, and then I try to sound all cool and nonchalant. “Um, I'm not sure if this will help, but you can borrow my notes anytime. It's not like I really need to use them for anything.”

“Really? Wow, that's a great idea!” Topher grins at me. He's so hot I have to break the gaze and look at my hands. Urgh, disgusting. My cuticles are a mess.

“If you need anything, just ask,” I say, to my nails.

“Really? Would you consider reading over my assignment? Tell me what you think?”

“Of course. Tolstoy is just so incredible. It's like he knows people, like, humanity, better than any other writer ever. And he presents them with their flaws, but it feels like he still loves them…” I trail off, realizing Topher isn't listening.

Instead, he's digging in his bag for his assignment and hands it over to me with a big grin.

I start reading. Right away I can see that he hasn't planned this paper properly. The structure is a disaster. The first paragraph lasts an entire page, and he doesn't even outline what he's going to talk about in the rest of the paper. His punctuation and grammar are a mess. And one sentence both begins and ends with “anyway.”

“Um … do you have a pen? I need to mark a few things,” I say.

“Damn. I left it in class.” He frowns.

“Well, if you like, e-mail me the assignment and I'll make notes in, you know, track changes or whatever.”

Topher grins at me. “Really? That would be incredible. I'll buy you dinner to say thanks.” He winks at me.

“Sure!” I say, my chest lifting with joy. Dinner! A date!

“You're the best, Coco.” Topher leans over and puts his hand on mine. “Thank you.”

I can't say anything. All I can do is gaze at his hand and think
DO YOU LIKE ME? AND I HOPE YOU ARE NOT LOOKING AT MY NASTY-ASS NAILS.

Instead, I nod. And, thank God, Topher just starts his usual monologue again.

“So … how about that Pushkin, huh? Is it just me, or does he sound like an asshole? He challenged everyone to duels, like all the time. He was, like, are you talking to me? You wanna fucking duel?”

“He was the Raging Bull of Russia in the 1800s?”

“Exactly.”

Then Topher starts talking about his internship at my dad's company, asking if I thought my dad would pay him even though interns don't usually get paid. His eyes are so beautiful, I have to stare at his eyebrows or else it's like staring into the sun. Or look away entirely, at Washington Square Park, where everyone is taking their little break from the New York City madness to just
be
for a few minutes … I see some pigeons flocking to some old guy throwing crumbs, and for a moment my mind skips to that pigeon lady and to my mom,
Don't think about her right now, Coco, not now, not now—

“Coco?”

I turn. It's Vic, my neighbor, and his niece Samantha.

“Hey!” I stand up and quickly hug them both, and introduce Topher. He does the standing-up-to-shake-hands thing. I love that.

“What brings you all the way over here?” I ask.

“Samantha works here, remember? We meet for lunch once a week,” says Vic.

“How's that millennial study thing going?” I ask.

Samantha sighs. “Not great. We're pushing back the interviews by a few weeks, but don't worry. I'll be in touch.”

“Millennials?” says Topher.

“Yeah. My sociology grad students are doing a study, but we're having trouble getting candidates to take part. Even though we're paying a hundred dollars per interview. It's insane.”

“Are you kidding? I'll do it!” says Topher.

“Great!” Samantha gets a card out of her bag and hands it to Topher. “E-mail me. It'll be toward the end of the summer.”

“What are you going to ask us about?” asks Topher.

“Your thoughts on life, careers, love, the future—”

“The simple stuff,” interjects Vic, chuckling.

“Right.” Samantha grins.

“So I guess we'll let you get on with your, uh, your date,” says Vic.

“Oh! No, this isn't a date, ha!” I try to laugh, so Topher knows I would never think that, though obviously, I totally would. “We're just, you know, we're hanging out and stealing education,” I say quickly.

Topher laughs. Phew.

“Stealing
what
?” Vic's voice rises about two octaves.

Topher stops laughing.

“Um … education,” I say. “That's just a figure of speech. I'm not really stealing. I just come to Topher's classes with him. It's not a big deal. I'm not … hurting anyone, you know, I just have nothing better to do—”

“You think learning is for when you have nothing better to do?” Vic is incredulous.

“No! No, that's not what I meant—”

“Wait … are you enrolled?” Samantha is confused. “How are you graded?”

“I'm not writing assignments or anything. I write notes but that's just because, um…” I'm rambling now. “I mean, I just, you know, I work nights and I don't know what else to do with my time—”

“Really? You're reading all the books and taking notes and attending classes at New York University because you don't know what else to do with your time?
That's
why you're doing it? Do you have any idea how crazy that sounds?”

Vic can barely contain his disbelief.

And I don't blame him. It's so lame. Why
am
I doing this? Because I'm bored and lonely? Because I have a stupid, pointless crush on Topher? Because I'm a big fat loser who does stupid stuff like this?

Then suddenly the truth dawns on me, and tears rush to my eyes.

Because I'd never get in to NYU any other way.

I'm not as smart as everyone else. Not really.

Vic and Samantha are staring at me expectantly. But if I say anything out loud right now, I know I'll cry.

Then, unexpectedly, Topher rescues me.

“Coco is fine,” he says, and Vic and Samantha glance at him in surprise. “She's just figuring out her next move. She's not hurting anyone. She's not lying to anyone. She's just hanging out, reading books. I don't see why that's a problem.”

I smile at Topher gratefully. My crush just ratcheted up tenfold.

Vic stares at Topher. “Is she helping you study too? Taking notes for you sometimes? I thought so. Great side benefit for you, huh?”

“I'm not cheating.” My voice is tiny. “I'm just—”

“Yes you are,” Vic interrupts. “You're cheating yourself.”

There's a long pause.

“Isn't that my problem, not yours?” I say finally.

It's the rudest thing I've ever said to Vic. It's maybe the rudest thing I've ever said to anyone.

“Okay, little Coco,” Vic says sadly. “You're right. It's your life. C'mon, Sammy.”

Samantha smiles and takes Vic's arm, urging him along, and they walk away.

Topher turns to me. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I say, though I feel ice-cold inside, like I'm in trouble.

But I'm a grown-up. I mean, adult. Whatever. I haven't done anything wrong! Right? What did he mean by I'm “cheating” myself? How is that even possible?

I can't just sit here thinking about Vic, though. I have to go home and get ready for my shift at Potstill tonight.

My favorite thing about my life right now? Between days in class with Topher and nights in the bar—and bed—with Joe, I don't have much time to think about anything.

 

CHAPTER
18

Friends.

With benefits.

Best. Idea. Ever.

The bar was dead tonight, so we closed before midnight and came back to Rookhaven. (Frankly, I think both of us just wanted to get laid. Ahem.)

“Do you have any cake?” Joe whispers, cuddling into me in the dark. It's really too hot to cuddle, but I don't care. The tiny ancient air conditioner gives out more noise than air, so we usually keep it off.

“Cake?”

“Manly, postcoital cake?”

I grin into the darkness. “Alas, I do not. I haven't baked in weeks. I can offer you peanut butter on toast.”

“My dad hated peanut butter,” Joe says softly. “He was old-school Ireland, you know, thought peanut butter was newfangled American madness. So whenever I want peanut butter now I think,
Sorry, Dad
 … Is that strange?”

“No,” I say. “I get it. Random stuff always makes me think of my mom.”