Parallel

lamely.
    “She’s being modest,” Josh chimes in. “She’s a phenomenal writer. And she’s editor in chief of our school paper.”
    “Well, if you want to be a journalist, you should definitely apply to NYU,” Michael tells me, barely acknowledging Josh. “My best friend from high school goes there, and he interned at the Huffington Post last summer.”
    “Really? Wow.”
    “I could give you his email if you want.”
    “Yeah, that’d be great,” I tell him. “NYU is on my list, but since the deadline isn’t until January, I’m waiting to hear from Northwestern before I send in any more applications.”
    “How is Ben liking New York?” Mrs. Wagner asks Michael.
    “He loves it,” Michael replies. “He met a girl last summer that he professes to be in love with.”
    “Ben in love!” his mom exclaims, smiling at the thought. “Have you met her?”
    “Not yet,” Michael replies. “She’s in high school, in Seattle. Ben was hoping she’d end up in New York next year, but according to him she has her heart set on Yale.”
    “ ‘Here she comes again!’” Our heads swivel to Martin, who is now singing in a pretty decent falsetto. “Duh nuh nuh nuh na na nah.” Martin taps the tablecloth with his finger as he sings, “‘ She’s my best friend’s girl! ’” Anger flashes across Michael’s face, but Martin doesn’t notice. “Watch out, Ben!” Martin jokes, an oblivious smile on his face. He’s not thinking about his alleged affair with his best friend’s wife, because he doesn’t know that he should be. He chomps happily on a biscuit, waiting for the rest of us to laugh at his joke.
    I glance at Mrs. Wagner. Her eyes are glued on Michael, as if willing him not to say whatever it is he’s about to say.
    “Michael.” Josh’s voice is firm, the way a parent might speak to an insolent child. Michael’s head snaps toward Josh, but his eyes catch mine instead. Our gazes lock for half an instant. Less than a second. And then, inexplicably, he smiles. Not an icy smile, but a warm one, directed entirely at me. “I think you should reconsider Yale,” he says then, as if we’re the only two people at the table, and for a moment I forget that we aren’t. “I mean, c’mon,” he continues, “Northwestern may have a great journalism school, but how many of its graduates have won the Pulitzer for reporting?”
    “Nine,” I say, and smile. “To your four.” Michael laughs. I look around the table and realize that Josh and his parents are staring at us. Flustered, I pick up my fork and promptly drop it. And now I’m sweating profusely as everyone watches me fumble to pick it up off the floor.
    “I’ll get you another one,” Josh says, and stands up. I can feel Michael watching me from across the table, wearing a ridiculously attractive I’m-amused-by-you smile. Resolving not to make eye contact with him for the rest of the meal, I stare at my plate. My peas are shriveled and dry.
    “So how’d you and my brother meet?” I hear Michael ask.
    Josh responds before I have a chance to. “In astronomy,” he says as a fork appears in front of my face. I take it and spear a single green pea.
    “So I guess that makes you star-crossed lovers, huh?”
    The house is dark when I pull into the driveway five minutes before curfew. I’m mildly offended that no one is waiting up for me. I left twelve hours ago and haven’t answered their calls. I could be dead on the side of the road.
    I park behind my grandparents’ Buick and use my key to go in through the front door, not wanting to wake anybody up with the sound of the garage door opening. My mom is sitting at the top of the front stairs, a coffee mug between her hands, waiting for me. She looks tired.
    “How was it?” she asks when I come through the door.
    “It was . . . interesting,” I say, closing the door gently behind me. “How’d you know I was there?”
    “Josh called,” she replies. “Don’t be upset with him. He didn’t want me to worry.”
    “I’m glad that he called you.”
    “Don’t be upset with me ,” she says then, her voice even softer now. “I was only trying to help.”
    “I know.”
    “I just want you to be happy,” she tells me.
    “I know that, too.” Shrugging out of my coat, I climb the stairs and sit down next to her. “I’m sorry I yelled.”
    She puts her arm around me. “I’m sorry I didn’t have a camera to record your grandmother’s face when you did.” We both giggle, and