Darius The Great Deserves Better

“Hey, Darius.” Chip grinned at me. Cyprian Cusumano is one of those guys who always seemed to be grinning. He wore was a pair of black Adidas joggers-the same kind I wore, with the white stripes down the sides and the tapered calves-and a plain white V-neck T-shirt.

“Hey, Chip.”

“Nice haircut.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Chip always had nice haircuts. He was a Level Eight Influencer at Chapel Hill High School: Whatever haircut he got, about half the guys in our class ended up doing some variation of it. Now that he was doing the Standard Soccer Team Fade, though, I wasn’t sure what everyone else would do.

“Oh. Chip, this is my-”

The thing is, Landon and I hadn’t talked about whether we were officially boyfriends. Even if it felt like we kind of were.

How did you ask a guy if you were officially boyfriends? “This is Landon. Landon, Chip. And that’s Trent.”

Trent was hanging back, playing with his phone. He wore a crimson sweatshirt that read PROPERTY OF CHHS VARSITY FOOTBALL-he’d finally made the varsity team this year, as a something-back-and a pair of black swishy shorts.

Chip was still grinning, but he looked Landon up and down. Almost like he was judging him. “Nice to meet you.” He held out his fist.

Landon blinked for a second and then bumped his own with Chip’s.

It was the most awkward fist bump in the history of creation. “Well,” I squeaked. I cleared my throat. “We’ve gotta catch the streetcar. See you later?” Chip bumped fists with me too. “Yeah. See you.”

I stepped to the side so he and Trent could make it past us and tightened my grip on Landon’s hand.

“Later, Dairy Queen,” Trent said.

*Great.*