Pop said, “That’s a good likeness,” which felt like a perfect summation of my feelings at that point. “You should ask him out.”

“You should probably stay out of my love life,” I said.

“Fair enough.” We dropped the subject until it came up again, naturally, a few weeks later when we were in SF at a Giants game. I was just sitting there watching the game, minding my own business, when suddenly Pop poked me in the shoulder.

“Look over there,” he said, and gestured very subtly with his head to two rows ahead of us, where Darius was sitting with his family. “Now’s your moment, Ada. You could go over and talk to him.”

But that was impossible. “What would I even say?”

“You’d say, ‘Hi, I’m Ada. I live next door.’”

I shook my head. “He knows I live next door.”

“You’d go from there,” Pop said.

But go from there to what?I think you’re cute? Nice weather we’re having?

“Now you have something in common to talk about,” Pop said.

I stared at him blankly.

“You both like baseball,” Pop explained.

Oh.

“So go talk to him,” Pop said. “Carpe diem. You go, girl.”

I shook my head again. “I . . . I can’t.”

Pop shrugged. “Your call. I guess everybody has to go through unrequited love at some point. I get that. If you don’t even try, that’s safer. And that way he doesn’t get messed up by, you know, reality—people can stay perfect if you never get to know who they are. But it’s not very satisfying. I’d want something better for you. Something real.”

“You’ve got to be the first dad in history who wants his teenage daughter to talk to boys,” I pointed out. Then, out of the blue, I pictured Darius and me standing in my room, Darius turning to look at my art on the walls.

“These are great,” he’d say in his deep voice.

And then he’d be startled, because he would have spotted a drawing of himself. And I’d be embarrassed, because I’d essentially been creeping on him, I guess, but then I could tell that he was flattered. He liked it.

“You’re really talented,” he would say, and I’d breathe, “Thanks,” and then who knows what would happen, in my room, with the door shut and Darius whispering that he liked my work.

“I’m not saying you should make out with the guy,” Pop said loudly. “I just don’t want you to miss out on the best parts of life because you’re afraid of getting hurt.”

Essentially Pop was calling me a coward. I knew that. And I also knew that my daydream would never happen if I didn’t start by actually talking to Darius. So I stood up.

“You got this,” Pop said.