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A genius who can’t eat ramen properly
I smile. I can’t help it. I send a picture of Fork Guy waving his hands around to the professor.
I can’t wait for you to get back from Utah
Even with your busted chin
She sends a picture of her bruised and busted chin.
Shut up
That was your fault
MY fault??
you were stalking meee
remember??
If you weren't so hot in baseball pants I wouldn't have been in those bushes
just sayinnn
ahh ok so this is my fault
i seee
“And that’s why,” Fork Guy finally concludes what I realize has been a five-minute speech, “sometimes you have to ask yourself: Is the ramen worth the fork? Is the metaphorical parking meter worth the quarters? Are the emotional utensils serving their purpose, or are they just taking up space in your psychological silverware drawer?”
There’s a beat—a long, stunned silence. The air hums with fluorescent light and surprise. Then Emerald, of all people, starts clapping slowly, her silver rings glinting.
Fork Guy turns to me, beaming, sitting up so straight his patch nearly pops off. “Did you see that? She clapped! That’s basically a marriage proposal in some cultures.”
I stare at my phone. “Pretty sure it’s not.”
He leans back, folding his arms with smug satisfaction. “Just wait,” he says, adjusting his fork-covered eye patch with a flourish. “By midterms, she’ll be reading my tea leaves.”
I think Fork Guy accidentally got an A in Psych while trying to hit on Crystal Girl
Modern day Shakespeare
With utensils
FRR
“You’re texting Bush Girl, aren’t you?” Fork Guy asks, somehow managing to read my upside-down phone. “I can tell by that stupid smile. You know, that’s the same look Patricia the parking meter gives the quarter slot when?—”
“Please stop talking,” I say, trying not to laugh.
“I can’t. It’s impossible. Also, can you ask Bush Girl if she knows any good crystal puns? I’m thinking of leaving some healing stones in Emerald’s backpack. Romantically.”
“That’s called stalking.”
“No, that’s called being proactive. Stalking is hiding in bushes and face-planting into concrete.”
He’s got me there. “Says the guy who climbed three floors up a fire escape to spy on Rebecca.”
He points a crystal—definitely stolen from Emerald’s desk—at me, dead serious. “Hey, that was different. Rebecca was giving her TA private Spanish lessons at midnight. Who studies conjugation that late? Nobody, that’s who.”