Page 28 of Meet Me on Love Street
“Oh, you know. Gender double standards. Dad was the upstanding member of the community, and Mom’s always been…” I sit up straight. I don’t want to say “a free spirit,” because whenever someone calls Mom that, they mean it as an insult.
“What?”
I exhale. “Mom’sunconventional. She was a wild child when she was young, and people called her a bad seed.” I shrug. “And I guess she passed on herhippie-dippieways to me.”
“Who calls her that?” he asks.
“My stepmother. She says we’re both hippie-dippie and thinks Mom should stop wearing overalls and I should getnewclothes instead of only buying used ones.”
“The fashion industry is terrible for the environment,” he says. “We shouldallbe buying secondhand.”
“Exactly. Noureen also thinks I should work in my dad’s real estate office even though I hate real estate agents, that I should go to a regular university instead of an art college, that I should straighten my hair, and that I should spend more time with my stepsister, probably because she hopesher daughter’s perfection is contagious and fixes me.”
Miles cringes. “That’s ridiculous. You’re great the way you are. Does your father think these things?”
I look at Miles quickly. Did he mean to call megreat? He’s still leaning back looking in front of him. “Um, I don’t know,” I say. “My relationship with my dad isn’t the best. He doesn’t have my back.” I sigh. “Family is complicated.”
Miles doesn’t say anything.
I take a strawberry from the container. It’s red and juicy and bursting with flavor.
“What are you studying next year?” he asks, taking a strawberry himself.
“Digital arts. But my stepmother thinks I should study accounting or business.”
He chuckles. “I can’t imagine you as an accountant.”
I throw my strawberry stem into a napkin. “Yeah, no one can. I don’t actually mind numbers—I’ve always been good at math. But I like art more. Fine arts would be adreamcareer for me. I adore sketching and painting, but I know digital art and design is more practical. I want to be an illustrator or graphic designer, hopefully with my own firm supporting small businesses.” I tell him about the work I’ve done for Jenn and my mom on their websites and promotional material.
“That’s really cool,” Miles says. “I’ve always admired people with artistic ability. Probably because I have none. Even musicians—there was this girl at my high school who got all these scholarships for violin. Watching her play was mesmerizing.”
I smile knowingly at Miles. Maybe I should track down this violin player for him. “Did you have athingfor her?” I ask teasingly.
He shakes his head. “When she wasn’t playing violin, she was the nastiest bully in the school. She made the mean girls in that movie seem like saints.”
I file away that information. No mean girls, but musicians are good.
“I should get you to do some mock-up sketches of the festival for the proposal,” Miles says. He takes a bite of a soft ginger cookie. “Oh, these are good!”
“Of course they’re good. I’m an excellent picnic packer.”
“They remind me of these chocolate-covered gingerbread cookies my mom used to buy.”
“Yum. And yes, I can absolutely do some mock-up illustrations for the proposal,” I say. We discuss the visuals for the festival, and if we’ll need a logo yet. He knows his stuff, and it’s clear that he’s done a fair bit of research on neighborhood festivals on his own. I’m a little surprised at that since he was so against the festival idea in the first place. But I’m learning that Miles is a little like me. When we decide to do something, we never do it halfway.
“This is when it’s the prettiest,” I say, taking a picture of the sky. The sun is peeking out between the buildings, and the whole sky is a glorious shade of orange. The CN Tower stands high, watching over the other buildings like a sentinel. It’s all breathtaking. I turn so I can get a selfie with the sunset behind me. “Get in the shot,” I say, motioning him to get closer.
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind for a moment. “It’s just a picture,” I say. “C’mon, Miles, we’re friends, aren’t we?”
He finally leans in close to my head, and I snap the shot. He’s smiling in it.
“Can I post to my grid?” I ask.
He nods and tells me his Instagram handle so I can tag him. I post the shot with the captionGlorious sunset picnic with @milesaway.
Itisglorious. And actually, so is this night, despite the disastrous start. It’s weird—seeing Miles like this, all loose and chill, has pretty much squashed my dislike of him. He doesn’t always say something when I expect him to, and he may have a slight case of resting grumpy face. But he’s funny, and nice, and really is so much less awkward when he’s comfortable with someone. I’m starting to think Miles and I will work really well together on this festival project. And I guess he’s right. Icanmake friends with just about anyone.
Mom’s doing a Zumba class on YouTube when I get home.
