Biggie by Derek E. Sullivan Page A

you live in the most interesting house in town.”
    â€œIt’s not that interesting,” I say.
    â€œWhatever, it must be the only house in Iowa with its own indoor baseball field.”
    â€œI guess.”
    â€œI would love to see your house, get a tour,” she says, still waiting for an answer.
    I’m in the middle of the best conversation I’ve ever had. Not only am I talking to her, but she wants to hang out. What do I do? Do I quit while I’m ahead and invite her over for a tour or do I push it? Should I see if she’ll agree to something else? Heck, I might have adult-onset diabetes at age seventeen, so I’m due for some good luck. Maybe, but I chicken out and say, “Sure, come over anytime.”
    â€œCool. Thanks, Biggie.”
    She heads for the door and I close my eyes, open my mouth, press the heels of my hands to the counter, clear my head, and speak. “How about Friday and we get some food first?”
    I’m not going to lie. Annabelle’s face turns pale and her freckles disappear. I wait and wonder if she’s going to yell “Gross.” Time ticks away, while Annabelle stares at my wide-open mouth and eyes. My hands clasp together, expanding veins and arteries to the point where they almost break through my skin.
    â€œI’m not going on a date with you,” she says, something I figured out a few seconds back. “I just wanted to see the indoor baseball field.”
    â€œNo, no, no,” I say. “I just have a gift certificate for two to McKellen’s and I don’t want to be a loser and take my mom. That’s all. Not a date. I won’t tell anyone, I swear. I saw you with Mike. Remember?”
    I’m relying on my email surveillance. I know she loves McKellen’s but getting caught with me would be a disaster to her reputation.
    She stands there, one hand holding open the glass door. “Well, Mike’s a cheating asshole,” she says, “so I’m not with him. But just because we broke up doesn’t mean I’m going out with you. I don’t even know you that well.”
    I nod violently. The excitement of her breakup with Mike only makes my blood race faster through my diabetes-filled body.
    â€œPick me up from Molly’s at five on Saturday,” she says.
    â€œWhat?” I say, “So you’ll go to McKellen’s?”
    â€œIt’s not a date,” she says. “I just like the popovers. Don’t tell anyone about this, you got it?”
    â€œI don’t talk,” I remind her.
    â€œAnd I swear if you tweet that we’re going out or that you’re my boyfriend, I’ll never talk to you again.”

Chapter 13
    Small-Town Hicks
    I have spent the last four years getting ready for this night. I must have read a hundred Annabelle emails and written twenty pages of notes and time lines in my green binder. I know some people would call me a stalker or a voyeur, but without that information, I have no shot with a girl like Annabelle.
    Yesterday, before I mentioned the certificates, she gave me a look that screamed, “You’re a weirdo,” but by releasing a little bit of the intel I have gathered over the years, I’m two minutes from picking her up for a date. Okay, she doesn’t think it’s a date, but I put together an online survey with some of my Reddit buddies and forty-five of the sixty-seven people I explained the situation to say it’s a date. So, I say it’s a date.
    As I park at Molly’s in my newly washed Chevy Silverado, I hope that Annabelle changes after work. I’m sure she looks cute in the navy-and-tan work outfit, but I would love her to put on something tight and short. I want to see her legs and cleavage. She has amazing legs that I can’t wait to touch.
    She bolts out of the side employee door, wearing a bulky red Iowa State T-shirt and jeans. Better than the uniform, but nothing like Mike