Every Little Thing

02

He asked me for a pencil once.

It was two years ago, freshman year, and I had just sat down in World History. I didn't even realize that he was behind me until I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I turned, and of course, there he was, smiling.

"Hey," he said, like we'd talked a million times before, "Mind if I borrow a pencil? I screwed up and forgot my stuff—"

He didn't even have to finish his sentence. In an instant, I'd already given mine up, trying my hardest not to smile like a maniacal stalker. Be nonchalant, I ordered myself, but it just wasn't happening.

"Thanks," he grinned at me, and I ordered myself to speak. In my head, I was debating on whether to say It's no problem or my pleasure, but when I looked into his eyes all that came out was a sputtered,

"It's not my problem."

His eyes widened, and he held up his hands in mock surrender.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you or anything."

"No," I said, suddenly aghast. I tried for a half-hearted laugh, willing myself to ignore the wild blush that overcame my face. "No, sorry, I got mixed up. I was trying to—"

Bascially, the first time I actually held a conversation with Reed Bishop was the first time I had to wildly explain myself for accidentally mixing up two phrases to make one really mean-sounding phrase. Not to mention the fact that the phrase was delievered to a really cute guy.

Thank God, he just laughed. He laughed like he actually thought it was funny, not just the laugh you get when people are confused or don't know what else to do.

He laughed like we'd been friends for ages, and I guess that's when it started. Two years ago, with a fourteen-year-old Evelyn and a fifteen-year-old Reed and a shared pencil and sporadic hellos and goodbyes in-between classes for months to come. The beginning of a crush that would soon wreak havoc on my personal and social life. Of course, I probably could have avoided it if I'd realized it earlier, and evaded the situation as a whole.

But hey, where's the fun in that?

________

"Did you talk to him today?"

"Georgina—"

"Well, did you?"

"No."

"God, Evelyn. You're never gonna get anywhere if you don't at least make an attempt."

"Shut up! I'm trying to focus."

"On what? The number of freckles he has?"

"Jesus Christ, Georgie."

She snickers and leans back in her seat. It's the last class of the day (Study Hall, in which everyone sits around and pretends to do homework), and the girl will not leave me alone.

"He's in History now, right?" she asks, and I nodded, swallowing.

"Okay; here's what you do. Go out into the hall, find his classroom, and burst in really quickly. Act like you're about to pass out, and then faint, and next thing you know, he's giving you mouth-to-mouth."

I glare daggers at her, but she looks dead serious. I release a sigh.

"And what happens when Mr. Verano decides to take charge and help the fallen student before everyone else does? And he gives me mouth-to-mouth?"

Georgina pulls a face. "Ew. No. Never mind."

I give a half-hearted laugh, even though now I'm totally envisioning Reed giving me mouth-to-mouth. I shake the image from my mind and go back to my Triginometry homework.

After a few solid seconds of blissful silence, Georgie pipes up again.

"You're still coming to dinner tonight, right? The Zhang house is bursting at the seams with noodles and tofu, and my mom still hasn't stopped cooking."

I laugh, nodding. "I love your mom. And don't even get me started on her cooking."

"Yeah, yeah, she loves you, too." Georgie says, waving a dismissive hand. "All she's been able to talk about is Evelyn this, Evelyn that."

Snorting, I shake my head. "Whatever you say, Měilì."

At the sound of her nickname, she smiles, whipping her dark hair over to one shoulder.

"It means beautiful in Chinese," she informs me, for about the millionth time. "And what does your name mean?"

I roll my eyes, prepared to entertain her with the old joke that always seems to make her laugh.

"Evelyn means wishing for child." I deadpan, and she clasps a hand to her mouth to muffle her laughter. After she's able to pull herself together, she gasps,

"So my Chinese name describes my beauty, and yours is basically a plea for pregnancy."

"Yes," I say, swatting her arm. "Congratulations. Your name usurps mine. Happy?"

"Extremely. Now all you need to do is make out with Reed Bishop, and I'll be the happiest girl on earth."

________

In preparation for dinner with the Zhangs, I pick out a pair of nice, dark pants and a blouse. My makeup is minimal, and I'm in a pair of flats that, unlike heels, don't cause me to scream bloody murder when I walk. There are only a few minutes until I have to leave, and I'm sitting on my bed, scrolling through my phone to pass the time.

There's a soft knock on my door, and I set aside the phone, watching expectantly as my mom trudges into the room, her blonde hair tousled and mussed as she kicks the door behind her and flops onto my bed with a groan.

"No. More. Work." she says, and her voice is muffled by the pillow that she's decided to bury her face in.

I laugh in spite of myself, patting her on the shoulder. "Too many shifts?"

She sets up, rubbing a hand over her face and muttering,

"So far, I smell like fries and cheap candles. Now it's about to be both of those things and baby food. I'm a walking dump truck, Evie."

My heart lurches despite her lighthearted expression. My mother, a young woman with tons of potential, is stuck working three jobs a day and raising me at the same time. I've tried to tell her to take a break, especially now that I got a tutoring gig at the school, but she refuses every time. It's as if she thinks she'll fall apart if she's not working.

I try to keep to myself as much as possible, trying to subtract myself from the complicated equation that is her life, but these after-work visits are a daily routine in which she gets to complain and I get to listen. After all, it's the least I can do.

"Do you know how many Chicken McNuggets I had to dish out today? And honey, you do not want to know what's in them."

She motions a finger and points to her mouth, pantomiming a choking gesture. I laugh, and she sits up, rubbing her feet.

"And don't even get me started about the Candle Store. Old ladies are our only customers, and I swear to God, they only pay in change. At least Rosalie doesn't take forever at a cash register."

Rosalie is the daughter of Ms. Faye, who is always out and about, travelling due to work. Since Faye and my mom are instantly connected—both were impregnated and left by their boyfriends—she loves to take care of Rosalie, who is a four-year-old and positively adores my mother. Mom babysits her three nights a week, and it might be the only job I've seen her actually enjoy. She always tells me that it's her way of giving back. That she remembers how panicked she felt when my dad left her, and she wants to help Faye in any way possible.

I don't know much about my dad. I know that his name is Nathan and that I have his eyes, but other than that, there's nothing at all. And obviously it's a touchy subject with Mom, so I never pry. When I was younger, I would, but now I know better.

I sit on the bed for a bit longer than I should, comforting Mom and assuring her that she'll be alright, that she can just turn on the TV at Faye's house and watch Rosalie at the same time.

"But what if she picks something up from what I'm watching? I don't want her to suddenly be spitting cuss words just because I'm watching Grey's Anatomy."

"Come on, it doesn't cuss that much."

"Alright, well, what if she develops a crush on Patrick Dempsey? What am I supposed to tell her mother after that? That I exposed her once-innocent child to McDreamy in a lab coat?"

I laugh at that, and she smiles in return, patting my hand.

"I'll be alright, kid. Have fun with Georgie. Tell Mrs. Zhang I said hi."

"Will do," I promise, and she offers up a tired smile as she hoists herself up to her feet and proceeds to make her way out of my room.

"Love you, Evie." she says over her shoulder, and closes the door just before I have the chance to say it back.