All I Need

  Vern stirs his egg cream. “I seem to remember something like that.”

  “Then you know.”

  “Don’t go breaking any hearts.”

  “No, sir.” I check the clock again. “She’ll be here soon. I better get moving.”

  “Have some extra fun for me, hear?”

  “Sure thing.”

  We shake on it.

  In the break room, I throw my paper cap in my locker. I change shirts and shove my work shirt in my bag. There’s no way I’d wear it in public. It’s a vintage-style collared white shirt with black piping that has my name embroidered above the pocket. The shirt is dorktastic in here. But out in the real world it’s just dorky.

  Skye was supposed to visit last weekend. Our original plan was to visit each other every weekend, switching back and forth. But last weekend I had to work a double. Plus I had to cram for this killer Corporate Finance exam. My classes aren’t as simple as I thought they’d be. There were only a few classes that really challenged me in high school. I was expecting college to be more of the same. But a couple of these business major classes are kicking my ass. Maybe it would be different if I found any of this crap interesting. Between studying for exams and writing papers, dedicating every weekend to Skye won’t be easy. It feels like I haven’t seen her in a million years.

  I remember last year when I couldn’t stop thinking about Skye. Wondering where she was. Wondering what she was doing. How I’d hoped she would show up and find me one night.

  Now my fantasy is reality.

  I race across the bridge back to campus. There are so many things I want to show Skye. But I didn’t want to overwhelm her by planning too much. I want her to want to come back. She told her parents she was spending the night in a girl’s room in another dorm. A girl Skye said was my friend, but doesn’t actually exist. I’m sure they suspect she’ll be staying in my room.

  In my bed.

  Grant swore he’d find somewhere else to sleep tonight. He’ll probably crash with Tim and Dorian. Now that Dorian’s on gaming hiatus, he’s turning out to be a decent guy.

  No one’s at the suite when I get back. Which is perfect. I don’t have time for distractions. I have an hour before Skye’s train gets in. That’s enough time to take a shower, clean my room, and dash back down to the station to pick her up. Barely. Good thing I washed my sheets last night.

  Someone knocks as I’m drying off after my shower. I tuck the towel around my waist and answer the door.

  Skye is here.

  “Hey!” I say. “I thought I was picking you up.”

  “I caught an earlier train. I could not wait to get here. Is that okay?”

  “Of course it’s okay! It’s more than okay.”

  “Awesome.”

  “I’m in a towel.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Come in.”

  Skye surveys the room. She puts her bag down on my bed. “This is obviously your side.”

  “Gee, how could you tell?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Absence of grossness? Does Grant ever clean?”

  “Not so much, no.”

  Skye makes a face at his side of the room. “Isn’t that a health hazard?”

  “We’re boys.” I open the window some more. “Boys are kind of health hazards in general.”

  “You’re way less hazardous.”

  “I try. So, um, let me just . . .” I grab clothes out of my dresser. “I’ll get dressed. Make yourself at home in my luxurious four square feet of space.”

  “I’ll yell if I get lost.”

  When I come out of the bathroom, Skye’s in front of my easel, looking at the collage I’m working on. I’m using a big piece of wood I found in a construction site discard pile. Construction workers are usually pretty good about letting me take whatever they’re getting rid of.

  “Is this the one you were telling me about?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s gorgeous.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I love the colors.”

  “Did you notice the blue?”

  She looks again. “Which blue?”

  I move behind her and point to the blue. “This one here.”

  “It’s pretty.”

  “Does it remind you of anything?”

  “Hmm . . .”

  “I mixed it to match the color of your eyes. Or I was trying to.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to snatch them back. Is she going to think that’s cheesy? I hold my breath.

  Skye turns around to face me. “That’s, like, the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” she says.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “I missed you.” I pull her against me. I never want to let her go.

  “I missed you more.”

  I kiss her gently. This is the way I used to imagine kissing Skye in my fantasies where she suddenly appeared after searching for me. She’d tell me how she couldn’t stop thinking about me. How she knew we were meant to be together. How I’m the one she wants to be with forever. Then we would—

  The bathroom door whips open.

  “Oh sorry, man,” Tim says. “I was looking for Grant.”

  “This is Skye.”

  “Hey.” Tim does an awkward wave thing. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “That must have been pretty boring,” Skye says, blushing from getting caught.

  “Seriously? This guy thinks you’re the bomb diggity shiznit.”

  “Um. Thanks?”

  “I’ll leave you guys alone, but do you know if Grant’s staying with us tonight?”

  “He might be. I’m not sure.”

  “No prob, I’ll catch up with him later. Good to meet you, Skye.”

  “You too.”

  The bathroom door bangs shut.

  “Want to have dinner in Center City?” I ask. “There’s tons of stuff I want to show you. But if you don’t feel like walking back down again, that’s cool.”

  “No, I took a cab here.”

  “Oh.” Must be nice. I never take cabs. They’re too expensive.

  Whenever I walk to campus from the train station, an intense feeling floods over me. It’s like this strong sense of coming home. Crossing the Walnut Street Bridge to Center City is powerful, too. If freedom, excitement, and possibility all got together and decided to become an emotion, that would be the feeling I get. By the time I hit Rittenhouse Square, I’m buzzing over the potential awesomeness of it all. Growing up in suburbia will do that to you. One whiff of city life and you’re like an uncaged animal running wild.

  Crossing the bridge with Skye is a whole different thing. That intense zing still hits me. But it means more now. I want to share this part of my life with her in a way I’ve never wanted to with anyone else. I wish I could explain exactly how this makes me feel. It’s really hard to get someone as excited about your own routine places as you are. She’ll never know exactly how much this affects me. But I still want to try to explain.

  “See down there?” I point down the steep staircase that leads from the Center City end of the bridge to my peaceful, leafy future. “That’s where I want to live next year. Around Twentieth and Pine, to be exact.”

  “Can I see?”

  “I thought we’d go by tomorrow. The place where I work is right near there. Vern wants to meet you.”

  “Who?”

  “You’ll see.”

  We turn right toward Locust Street. Showing her Rittenhouse Square is a good way to start. She’ll think it’s cute.

  “What’s Wawa?” Skye asks.

  “It’s like a 7-Eleven. Dude! Let’s go in. There’s something you have to try.”

  I hold the door open for her. Then I dart to the Tastykake rack.

  “You have to try these.” I grab a pack of Butterscotch Krimpets. “They will change your life.”

  “Before dinner?”

  “They will change your life after dinner.”

  “Sold.??
?

  “Are you thirsty?”

  She nods.

  “Water?”

  She nods again.

  I pay for our waters and the Butterscotch Krimpets. I’m a big spender like that. I’ve actually been saving up for this dinner. Skye keeps talking about these trendy restaurants she wants to go to. Of course they’re the most expensive restaurants in Center City. I don’t know how to tell her that I can’t afford them. But what I could see when I looked them up online is that Skye digs intimate restaurants with low lighting. So I came up with three places I can sort of afford that I think she’ll love. We’ll go wherever she wants.

  “Aw, this is so cute!” Skye says when we get to Rittenhouse Square. The square is this oasis surrounded by busy streets. Quaint benches line pathways that divide grassy sections. People are sitting on the grass in groups or just relaxing on their own. “Do you come here a lot?”

  “Not as much as I used to. But yeah, it’s fun to bring my sketchbook and just people watch.”

  “Can we sit for a minute?”

  “Of course. Whatever you want.”

  We grab a bench by the fountain. I put my arm around Skye. She leans against my shoulder. It’s starting to get dark. We watch the building lights come on.

  “Are you beyond excited to get an apartment next year?” Skye says.

  “You have no idea.”

  She sits up. “I’m pretty sure I do. I can’t wait to be free. You’re so lucky. I still have a whole year left.”

  “And then I can stay at your place.”

  “I’ll probably have to live in the dorms freshman year. Isn’t that standard?”

  “Yeah, but it’s better. You don’t really get the full college experience if you live off campus right away.”

  “Does it bother you that I’m still in high school?”

  “What? No. Where did that come from?”

  “You can’t sleep over in my room.”

  “So? You can sleep over here.”

  “I can’t come see you whenever I want.”

  “Neither can I. Anyway, between school and work, I’m not exactly enjoying an abundance of free time these days.”

  “All these things are happening to you that I don’t even know about yet. The ‘full college experience.’ I can’t relate to what you’re going through.”

  “Hey. Skye?”

  “Yeah?”

  I hug her close to me. “I don’t care about any of those things. I just want to be with you.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Right when I kiss her, the streetlamp above us blinks on. Skye looks up at it and laughs.

  “Of course,” she says.

  “Let’s go. We’re having appetizers.”

  “Sounds classy.”

  “Oh, it is.”

  I take her to the Palomar. The Palomar is a chic hotel near the square. Their restaurant has a lounge where you can order snacks. Karen and I discovered it one night when we were exploring. What I really wanted to do was rent a room here tonight. But then I saw the prices. There was no way.

  The hostess seats us on big, square cushions. Our little table has a candle. Mood lighting is in full effect. I remember how they keep dimming the lights as it gets later. By the time they close, you can hardly see who you’re leaving with. Which might be the idea. There’s a connecting bar.

  I order the truffle popcorn.

  “Popcorn?” Skye asks.

  “Trust me. This isn’t just any popcorn. It’s the best popcorn ever. It melts in your mouth.”

  “Wow. That’s some serious popcorn.”

  “Serious deliciousness.”

  “This place is awesome.” Skye looks around at the sleek bar, the lit mosaic, the hipster crowd. “How did you find it?”

  I was hoping she wouldn’t ask me that. Karen is the last thing I want to talk about. I’ve learned that nothing good comes from talking about ex-girlfriends with new ones. But Skye is different. Maybe she won’t care.

  “There was . . . I was with someone. This girl Karen. For a little while.”

  “For how long?”

  “A few months.”

  “Was it . . . serious?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you break up?”

  “It wasn’t fair to her. I wanted to be with you the whole time.”

  Skye smiles. “You did?”

  “Of course.”

  Our popcorn arrives.

  “You ready for this?” I warn.

  Skye takes a piece of popcorn. She’s not expecting much as she puts it in her mouth. But the truffle decadence instantly rocks her world.

  “Oh my god,” she says. “Can we just have five bowls of this for dinner?”

  “That would be badass.”

  “This is the best thing ever.”

  “I know.” And it’s only four bucks.

  We talk about classes and friends and last summer. Skye is stressed out about some drama between Kara and Jocelyn.

  “They’re acting even weirder than before,” she says. “I usually love hanging out with them. But it’s like every time we’re together, they put me in the middle of their . . . whatever it is.” Skye takes some more popcorn. “I hate that things are this awkward. Getting together used to make me so happy. I really miss that.”

  Skye tells me about this altercation yesterday where Kara said stuff and Jocelyn did stuff. The details are blurry. Catty girl drama makes me tune out. I try to focus. But my mind keeps going back to our earlier conversation. Now that Skye knows about Karen, I’m wondering if she was with anyone this past year.

  I don’t want to know.

  I have to know.

  “So . . . what about you?” I venture. “Were you seeing anyone?”

  “When?”

  “This past year.”

  Skye nods. “Ben. It wasn’t serious, either.”

  “Did you break up with him?”

  “Yeah. Right before spring break.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he wasn’t you.”

  Dude. Where has this girl been all my life?

  The restaurants I picked out for dinner are all within five blocks of one another. I take Skye to each one so she can look at their menus posted outside. She picks the one I thought she would.

  We both feel like staying out after dinner. So we go exploring Center City. She shows me things I’d never noticed before, like this desolate alleyway with little doors along the wall. I make a mental note to find out what those doors were for.

  “This is amazing,” Skye says on South Street. One wall of a building is covered with tiles in all different shapes and colors.

  “I knew you’d love it.”

  “Being out late rules. We could stay out all night if we wanted to.”

  “We could.”

  “That rules!”

  “But it probably wouldn’t be the safest.” Aaand the award for the biggest reject goes to me. Could I be any lamer? I just wouldn’t want anything to happen to Skye, wandering around some of these sketchy streets at three in the morning. I’m not exactly anyone’s first choice as a bodyguard.

  We walk back to campus after some more exploring. As we’re crossing the bridge, I’m filled with that same sensation of coming home. It would be perfect if I could do a copy/paste of this feeling into Skye’s heart. But being able to walk with her is almost as good.

  Eminem is blasting from one of the frat houses on Locust Walk. Locust Walk goes down the middle of the main campus. It’s the nicest part of campus during the day. But it’s annoying on weekends. Frat boys lug couches and lounge chairs and TVs out onto their front lawns. They kick back to watch everyone with an air of entitlement. I heard one guy actually make oinking noises when a girl passed by. We were going in opposite directions. Her eyes met mine when the oinking happened. She rushed past, staring hard at the ground. I glared at the oinking dumbass. He gave me one of those smug nods like, Yeah, I’m the man. You’re welcome.
r />   Weekend nights are even worse. Frat parties rage full force. Packs of skankily dressed girls flock to them.

  “Let’s crash that party,” Skye says.

  “What?”

  “Over there. Is that a frat?”

  “We don’t do frat parties.”

  “Which is exactly why we should. Come on!”

  Skye drags me to the frat house. Maybe she’s right. Going to this party could be fun in an ironic sort of way.

  The whole place is lit with black lights. Everyone’s wearing white shirts. It looks like they used neon paint to draw on their clothes and skin.

  “It’s a highlighter party!” Skye yells over Beyoncé.

  “What’s that?”

  “Everyone draws on each other with highlighters! Too bad we’re not wearing white!”

  Parties aren’t fun if you don’t know anyone. These two drunk guys are running around randomly graffitiing people with highlighters. We really don’t feel like getting drawn on, so we sit on the floor by the couch. It’s like having our own private mini party while the big party swells around us. There’s something about being at a cheesy frat party with the music blaring and the bass thumping and Skye crushed up against me that’s surprisingly sexy. I need to be alone with her.

  “Can we go now?” I yell over Rihanna.

  “Only because we’re not wearing white.”

  I’m hoping Grant will be out for the night. When we get to my room, he’s hastily cramming stuff in his bag.

  “Oh hey!” he says. “I was just leaving.”

  “This is Skye.”

  “Hey Skye, how are you?”

  “Good.”

  “Good, good.” The deodorant Grant tries to throw in his bag flies across the room. “I’m just—I’ll be out of here in a sec.”

  Way to be subtle, bro.

  “Are you dazzled by our fine institution of higher learning?” Grant asks Skye.

  “It’s . . . impressive,” she says, trying to avoid looking at his side of the room.

  Grant hefts his bag over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow. But, you know, not too early or anything,” he tells me with a pointed look.

  Grant’s attempts to communicate subtext are an epic fail. You’d think he was more nervous than me about a girl spending the night in my bed.

  “I’ll just let myself out,” he says.

  “Later, man.”

  We’re finally alone.