Chapters (39)
- Cover
- Dedication
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
Hannah and I head up the stairs, passing a wall of framed pictures from Andrew’s childhood, pictures I’ve seen a million times and am mostly in—Andrew and me on Halloween dressed as Ghostbusters, fistfuls of candy in our tiny hands; Andrew and me in middle school, blond and skinny with braces and acne, the height of our awkward phase. Hannah taps her finger on one as we pass—Andrew’s tenth birthday, when he and I got in a mud fight. We’re smiling at the camera, completely splattered.
She grins. “Think everyone has already seen these, or is there still time to hide them?”
“It’s too late.”
“I can’t even tell which kid you are.” I know she’s joking, but she’s got a point; I look exactly like a boy here. But there’s no use hiding the past. If I can remember everyone picking their noses, chances are everyone remembers me like this too.
I spent all of elementary school with Andrew. I didn’t see the need to make any other friends, not when Andrew and I biked at the same pace and could quote all the Star Wars movies by heart—even the prequels. My mom warned me of the dreaded “cootie” phase—of the day Andrew would change and decide he couldn’t be my friend. But it didn’t happen. Puberty hit and we somehow stayed friends.
There were uncomfortable years, sure. I remember being the only girl at Andrew’s thirteenth birthday pool party and being terrified to strip down to my bathing suit, wanting desperately to join in the cannonball contest but worrying my suit would fly off or my period would start. I remember posing for pictures with him at family gatherings, our parents casually telling us to “get close together” and me not being able to breathe from the awkwardness of it. I remember the time Andrew invited me over in seventh grade and I showed up in my pajamas, not expecting a bunch of other boys to be there—cute boys from our class—and I was so mad he hadn’t warned me that I didn’t speak to him for three days.
And then there was Andrew’s first kiss, with Sophie Piznarski at the eighth-grade dance. He pulled me outside the cafeteria to tell me, his face a confusing mixture of excitement and embarrassment. Was this kind of conversation okay? Could we talk about these things? Was it too weird?