Love, Hate and Other Filters

“Hey,” I say as I approach Phil’s table for another evening of tutoring. He’s been waiting form me for thirty minutes while i finished by shift at the Idle Hour.

Phil pushes a chair forward for me.

As I sit down, I see a slice of chocolate cake with two forks resting on the plate. I smile at Phil.

“Chocolate cake is like our tradition, so…” he starts.

“So two times officially equals tradition?”

“Well, football players are superstitious creatures of habit.”

“I thought that was only for game days.”

“It is,” Phil says, dimple bared as he grins.

“Well who am I to flout tradition?” I look away. “Plus, you know, cake is pretty much my favorite thing.” I added, raising a fork to my mouth.

“Cake, not barfi?” Phil asks.

I’m gobsmacked. I look up. My eyes widen. “The barfi? You remember that?”

“Of course. The though the name is kind of unfortunate.”

I laugh. “Tell me about it. Like, every boy in the class started calling me ‘barfy’ or making barf jokes. But when you took one of the sweets and ate it. It, like, shut them up. I never forgot that.”

I’m not lying when I say this. I was seen and made the colossal mistake of asking my mom to bring my favorite Indian dessert to school for my birthday. Phil eating the barfi might not seem like a big deal, but to a quiet girl who was shrinking into herself with every “barfy” shout-out, Phil walking up and taking one little square of almond baste and sugar and popping it into his mouth was a lifeline.

Phil looks at the floor for a second and then back at me. “I think I ate, like, eight of them. Total sweet tooth.”

I smile, He smiles. There is smiling,

I know I shouldn’t read into Phil’s memory. The fact is, barfi is a pretty memorable word. Also, fact: two days ago, Violet and I spied Phil and Lisa kissing, and apparently making up, in an alcove by art class. I guess sometimes a barfi is just a barfi. Except when you have my imagination. Then it’s…more.