Sweet Dandelion

I shrug. “The tortured artsy type who smokes behind the school and has a trashcan full of unfinished poems.”

He busts out laughing, causing a few people working on their computers to turn and look at us. “That was very specific.”

“I have a vivid imagination.” I look at the menu. “What’s good here?”

“Everything.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“It’s true.” We move up in line.

“We’re only stopping here, though. Now that I know you’re not from here, it’s time to open your eyes to what the city has to offer. Oh, and I only smoke on occasion. Don’t tell my mom.”

“I don’t know your mom.”

“Yeah, but you will.”

I shake my head at his cockiness.

It’s finally our turn to place our order. Ansel insists on paying mine even though I refuse. I’m learning he’s even more stubborn than I am.

We don’t have to wait long for our order. I take a sip of the BB-8 boba tea I ordered and exclaim, “This is the best thing ever!” A couple of laughs echo through the shop.

Ansel shakes his head, trying not to smile at my antics.

“Come on, Meadows. Much to see, much to do.”

He grabs his Tatoonie Sunrise—a frozen coffee—and leads me onto the street.

“Where are we going now?”

“Well,” he sips his coffee, “that’s my favorite coffee shop. Now we’re going to my favorite place in the city.”

“Which is?”

He wags a finger. “This is a show game, not tell.”

“Any hint?”

“It involves something you already know about me.”

My forehead wrinkles as I try to think about everything I know about him so far. “It doesn’t involve smoking does it?” I think back to his comment in the coffee shop. “My brother will kill me if I come home smelling like smoke.” I flinch

at my own words. It’s such a simple phrase of words, one I would normally use without second-thought. But now it feels crass.

“I’m wounded that you think so little of me.” Considering he’s grinning, I think his ego is hardly bruised at all. “No, it does not involve smoking. You’re such a hater.”

“Hey,” I bump his shoulder with mine, “someone has to keep you humble.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” he plays coy.

“Mhmm, Mr. Popular.”

He guffaws, throwing his head back. “I’m not popular.”

“Okay, so maybe you’re not in the jock, cheerleader crowd but you are popular. People like you. I see people stop you in the halls to talk.”

He busts out laughing, lowering his head to my ear as we walk. “That’s because I’m their dealer, Meadows.”