“He’s just always mouthing off in class, you know?” I say. “What’s the point of criticizing Aldous Huxley for not knowing that genetic manipulation of zygotes was a thing back then. What can we get out of it now? Come on you insufferable and arrogant first year trash, tell me!”
“He’s coming over,” says Nate, adjusting the strap of his pack nervously.
I whip around, and sure enough there he is with that ratty Superman shirt, inky black hair, and a few extra pounds of attitude he could stand to lose. God, I hate him. I hate him for making a class about something I love a chore.
“Hey,” he says.
“What?” I respond.
“Well… actually I was wondering if you wanted to go on a date.”
I hear Nate blink.
“Huh,” I say.
I turn to Nate and we share a glance. My friend’s eyes are wide, and I see anticipation in one and confusion in the other.
I look intently into that two-pronged sentiment, communicating silently in a way only me and Nate can, and I know he doesn’t believe what I’m telling him. Desperate times.
“Welp,” I say. “Surely I’m not above it, ahem.” I clear my throat. “What I mean is: yes.”