He Loves Me Not by Caroline B. Cooney Page A

to drive me. I raced over to our neighbor’s and pleaded and begged and made all sorts of foolish promises about raking his yard and fixing his roof, so he drove me to the fire and we got there while it was still blazing.”
    I wondered what a fire had to do with anything. Did Ted just like the sound of his own voice or was he just trying to fill up an awkward space or was he going to tell me something?
    “If,” said Ted, “I had remembered to put film in my camera, I’d have had some good photographs, too.”
    We hung on to each other, laughing.
    For me it was a moment of complete relief. Ted did understand. He was the same kind of person I was. He tried hard and sometimes he lost. He knew pain and embarrassment. He cared about whatever was bothering me. He was willing to tell me a crazy story about himself so we’d have, something to share.
    Ted handed me an enormous Kleenex and I mopped up my cheeks. “You look lovely,” he said. “Listen, how long can you break?”
    “Five more minutes, I guess.”
    Five crumby minutes. What we needed right now was five hours. I pictured myself going to the organ man and telling him I couldn’t finish up my obligations to him this afternoon because this neat boy and I wanted to do some sharing. Somehow I did not think that would do a lot for my musical reputation.
    “How about a frozen yogurt?” said Ted.
    It sounded repulsive to me. But I did not think it would be good tactics to reject Ted’s first offer. “I’ve never had one,” I said cautiously.
    He put an arm around me and began leading me toward the stairs. His arm was wonderfully warm and solid, and somehow it protected me completely from the bored and the headachy camellia patrons.
    “You have missed out, lady,” said Ted. “I love frozen yogurt. You know what I spend my income on? Cameras, film, developing, gas for my car—and frozen yogurt.”
    “I guess I know your priorities now,” I said, laughing. It was easy to laugh with Ted. In fact, we seemed to make a good couple to laugh at, as well. I in my flashy scarlet number and Ted in an old army jacket and faded jeans over work boots. The princess and the farmhand, as it were.
    “What are yours?” said Ted.
    “Mostly I save my money for college.”
    “I am impressed!” said Ted. He actually stopped me mid-stride, took both my arms, and stared down at me to verify that I actually did that sort of thing with my money. “My parents opened a savings account for me,” he said, nodding over and over again. “They put twenty-five dollars in it when I was ten years old.”
    “Oh, really? How much is in it now?”
    “Twenty-five dollars. I withdrew the interest.”
    We cracked up laughing.
    “You’re very thrifty,” I complimented him.
    “Look at it this way. If I saved everything, I couldn’t afford to take your picture and buy you a yogurt.”
    We took the stairs up to the yogurt shop because Ted said the escalator was too slow and we didn’t have enough time to glide around. However, we walked up the stairs so slowly and stopped so often to giggle that the escalator would probably have been ten times as fast. Once when Ted touched me he said, “You must be freezing. Look at those goosebumps. Don’t you ever wear anything practical?” He ran his hand down my bare arm and my thoughts were anything but practical. “Not a dress to eat frozen yogurt in,” said Ted firmly. He peeled off his scruffy jacket and draped it over my shoulders. The lining was warm from Ted’s body. I shivered inside it though, and when I began eating the frozen yogurt—which was unexpectedly yummy—I shivered even more.
    “Maybe you have malaria,” suggested Ted.
    We laughed even more. We walked to the rail of the second floor concourse and looked down on the egg stage. The camellias were dots of dark red and deep pink, and the organ was just a wooden box with wires.
    “Do you write your articles using your own name?” I asked him.
    “Yep. Townsend H.