Off the Record by Camryn Garrett (read more books TXT) 📕

“What’ll it be?” he asks. “Hot chocolate?”

I glance up at the chalkboard menu hanging above us. Most of it is written in bright blue cursive. It strains my eyes.

“I usually get hot chocolate,” Marius says, voice a warm wind next to my ear. “Always have. It’s really good.”

“Oh, um,” I say. “Sure.”

After we pay for the drinks, Marius asks, “Do you wanna look for a place to sit?”

I maneuver around haphazardly placed tables and chairs. There’s an empty chair in the corner and I dump my bag on top, dragging another chair over in front of it. Perfect. I barely have enough time to pull out my notebook before Marius comes over with two mugs. The snow has melted in his hair, making it a little curlier. I bite my lip and stare down at the table as he pushes the mug in front of me.

Outside, snow is coming down even heavier than before. I should probably say something, but commenting on the weather is too awkward. Marius is already slurping from his mug. There’s steam rising from mine.

“I like what you’re reading,” I say after a few beats of silence, gesturing toward the green cover. “My grandma gave me a copy when I was, like, fourteen. She used to teach it in college.”

“Wow.” He glances down at it. “I don’t actually like reading. I just carry books around to look more serious than I really am.”

I smirk. He smiles. I don’t even remember what questions I was going to ask. It feels like I asked them all the first time we met.

“So how long have you been coming here?” I ask. “It’s nice.”

“Ever since I was little,” he says. “My parents live a few blocks away. I used to come in after school.”

“Oh.” I hold up my recorder. “Do you mind?”

He shakes his head, sipping again from the mug.

“How did you like school?” I ask.

“A lot,” he says, something faint about his smile. “I went to a performing arts high school, so it was sort of the first place where I met people who were interested in the same things as me.”

“That sounds really cool,” I say, writing it down in my notebook. “Do you think you’ll be able to have similar experiences at college?”

“I honestly don’t know.” He traces the rim of his mug. “All my friends say it’s so different. And Brown did seem different when I visited. At my high school, everyone was focused on the arts. Everyone at Brown was interested in so many different things. It just— Everything feels so vast, you know?”

“Yeah.” My voice is soft. That’s how this trip has felt at times—like hidden parts of the world are opening up. “I know what you mean.”

I’m not sure how long we talk—about favorite movies, about the plays he was in when he was a kid (not many that I recognize). He finishes his hot chocolate before me.

“So were your parents, like, strict?” I ask, pulling my mug toward me. My jacket has melted off and so has his. “Did they make you do all your homework before you went to rehearsal?”

“No.” He snorts. “I usually did my homework there, at the theater. They’re strict about other things, like keeping in touch with family from France and speaking French when I’m at home and keeping them in the loop about what’s going on. They don’t like that I’ve been in L.A. so much lately.”

“Because it’s L.A. or because you’re far away?”

“My mother says it’s because L.A. is affreux,” he says, rolling his eyes. “My father says it’s because they miss me. I guess it’s because I’m their only kid. But I’m not staying there forever, you know? I’ll be back.”

“Is it ever lonely? Being an only child?” I glance down at my notebook. There are short notes that make no sense, a lot of drawings. I don’t think I’ll be able to understand what I mean until I’m listening to the recording. “I get lonely in my house, and I have two sisters.”

“Sometimes,” he admits, tracing the rim of his mug again. “But we’re close. I spend a lot of time with them—or I used to, anyway. When I wasn’t with them, I was with Wes and my friends, so I didn’t really feel alone.”

Right. That’s the difference between us. He has friends and I don’t.

I clear my throat. “So when you go back to France in the summer, what’s that like?”

“We don’t go to Paris or anything,” he says. “All our family is in Bordeaux, so that’s where we go, to see the cousins and the rest of the family. My nickname is the American.”

“Wow.” I shake my head. “Kids can be so cruel.”

He grins, glancing out the window. The snow is still swirling, and I start to drift. I feel warm and happy and safe. Like I belong, without having to try.

“Hey.”

I startle, head snapping over to him. There’s something daring in his eyes.

“Do you wanna come home with me?”

@JosieTheJournalist: other people’s parents are always scary. it’s been scientifically proven

“Technically, I’m not supposed to bring a journalist home. So, uh, maybe you shouldn’t touch anything.”

I nod, eyes wide, as I scrunch into the corner of our taxi. It’s the first real New York taxi I’ve ever been in. It’s cleaner than I expected it to be. And more cramped.

“Sorry,” Marius says, shifting his body away from me. “I’m not trying to take up your space. I just have long legs.”

And he does. It’s like he’s Slender Man or a cartoon character.

“It’s fine,” I say, holding my bag close to my chest. We really don’t need to take a taxi if his parents are just a few blocks away, but I’m grateful he hailed one anyway. I’d rather not walk in the snow anymore. “You’re so skinny, you barely take up any space.”

It’s silent for a second. I can tell he’s staring at me, and I pray he doesn’t say anything