“I’d be . . . a circle,” I go. “Within a square.”
“I think you’re only supposed to pick one.”
“Well, I can’t be defined by just one shape.”
“I see.”
“I’m a very complex person,” I say, even though I’m not. But I feel daring and wild, saying it. Like I could be anybody and he wouldn’t even know the difference.
“I’m getting that,” Nash goes. He has this glint in his eyes and a smile where his mouth only turns up on one side.
Don’t let that fool you. He’s not potential boyfriend material.
Here’s why. Nash is totally geeked out. His hair is always messy, his shirts usually look like he slept in them, and he constantly has to correct people when they’re wrong, in this annoying know-it-ally way. His social skills are pathetic and I want more friends, so we don’t exactly have the same priorities. Plus, I’ve seen him lick his fingers at lunch when the napkin is like
right there
.
There’s just no way.
Nash does have some good qualities, though. I like how he’s really shy and sweet. He’s not like most other boys who are always acting all doofusy and fifth-grade about everything, where it’s like,
Hello, we’re in tenth grade now, grow up already.
Nash seems a lot more mature. He’s the type of person Aunt Katie would say has an “old soul.”
All those good things about him were enough when we were younger, catching fireflies in the summer and making snowmen in the winter. We could be friends without things getting weird. But everything has a different meaning now that we’re older. Now there are, like,
implications
.