Again, but Better Read Online Free PDF Page A

me. “Did you … did you gasp because of the sauce?”
    Blood seeps into my cheeks. “Sauce is a bigdeal.”
    I flounder to grab a jar so we can move on and out of this aisle. As I snatch it off the shelf, a second jar slides to the edge along with it. My breath catches, and I lunge to snatch it out of the air, but I’m not fast enough. I leap backward as the second jar crashes to the ground. The glass shatters, and a mild splattering of sauce lands across my feet.
    I freeze, staring at the floor.I can’t believe I dropped a jar of sauce in front of Pilot. Shit. Shit, shit.
    After a second, someone takes my arm and pulls me out of the aisle, away from the destruction zone. It’s Pilot … He’s touching my arm again. He’s laughing. We turn a corner into an aisle full of alcohol.
    He lets go and looks at me pointedly. “You murdered the sauce, Shane.”
    I shake my head. “Accident,” I squeak.
    Pilot scans the shelves before reaching down to scoop up a case of English cider called Strongbow. He clucks his tongue, shakes his head, and suppresses a smile as we head toward the checkout counter. “And the violence continues.”
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    We make our way back to the Karlston at a slower pace. I’ve suddenly decided that I want to call Pilot Pies, and I don’t know if that’s okay. Pies is fun to say, andthen we’re friends, right? Or, we’re something? Where there’s a nickname, there’s a bond. That’s what I … always say.
    “Can I call you Pies?” I blurt into the night. “Sorry. I wouldn’t ask, but I really want to call you Pies,” I finish hesitantly.
    When I look over, he’s smiling. My shoulders relax a smidge.
    “Sure, you can, Sauce Killer.”
    I beam. “Oh, but I’d prefer if you didn’t call me SauceKiller,” I respond politely.
    He snorts.
    “Do a lot of people already call you Pies?”
    “Nope, that’s a new one.”
    My heart sings a tiny bit at the idea of having created a new nickname that no one else uses for him.
    “What do people call you?” I ask, curious now.
    “Pilot … or Pi.”
    “Pi? Like in math? You’re not Pi like in math, though. That feels kind of cold. You’re more of a pie-pie. Pies arewarm and wonderful and delicious—” I cut myself off. Okay, there’s outgoing and then there’s this.
    He looks at me funny. My eyes fall to the ground as a new wave of embarrassment courses through my system. We walk in silence for a few moments.
    “So, are you going to write about this grocery store adventure in your blog?” Pilot asks.
    “Oh, yeah,” I answer, grasping at the subject change. “I’mplanning a whole expos é about this pasta in bags versus boxes phenomenon.”
    “I can’t miss that,” he says seriously. I laugh. “What’s your blog called?” he continues.
    My eyelids snap up. I didn’t think about the part where I’d actually have to tell him what my blog is called. He’s smiling at me again. My heart hops around idiotically. I can’t handle all this.
    I focus on the ground again. “Um … you know what? It’s nothing. You don’t really want to know.” I pick up the pace a little. I think we’re only a block away from the Karlston now. Maybe I can deflect this question.
    “Hey, you said I could read your stuff,” he protests quietly.
    “It’s a weird name,” I confess.
    “What is it?” he asks again.
    I stay quiet, power walking.
    “Shane!” He speeds up to match my pace, laughing as he catchesmy eyes. “You have to tell me.”
    He’s full-on beaming now, and it makes me feel all floaty. Fluttery and floaty. He stops walking and I stop walking, and we smile at each other.
    “It’s FrenchWatermelonNineteen,” I mumble, the words running together.
    Pilot laughs. “I’m sorry, what was that? French. Watermelon. Nineteen?” he clarifies slowly.
    “FrenchWatermelonNineteen.” I smoosh my lips togetherso my smile isn’t as toothy. His smile is toothy.
    He shrugs, nonchalant. “Okay. French Watermelon Nineteen.