Christine Riccio

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 catches my 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 together so my smile isn’t as toothy. His smile is toothy.
He shrugs, nonchalant. “Okay. French Watermelon Nineteen. What’s so weird about that? It’s so normal. Practically boring. I know, like, five other people who go by French Watermelon Nineteen on the internet. Are you French?”
“Nope.” I feel sheepish. I try to make my face look sheepish.
He raises his eyebrows.
I drop my gaze to his shoes. “I’m … a big fan of French toast.”
He answers immediately. “Oh, me too. Who isn’t?”
I look up again, and he’s closer. How did he get closer? I think I’m shaking. Anxiety springs up through my legs. I’m all unsteady, like I could be blown over by the next gust of wind. I’m not sure what happens now. Eye contact game is strong. My words come out quiet. “Also I love watermelons and the number nineteen, and so, I did what any rational human would have done—smashed them together into a weird blob of a word that would follow me around for the rest of my life.”
He nods. “So, French Watermelon.”
Is he closer?
“Nineteen,” I finish.

“Your hair felt really nice,” I add.
“Thanks. I grew it myself.”
“I grew mine too!”

“Shane. Interesting name for a girl,” he teases.
I narrow my eyes. “Pilot. Interesting name for a human.”

It’s weird how we have to get a little older to realize that people are just people. It should be obvious, but it’s not.

“It’s called ‘All Too Well.’ And it’s beautiful. I love the words and the pictures they paint and the way it always tears at my heart. Do you know it?”

The young women in all the YA books I loved were high-school age. By eighteen, the majority of them had saved the world, not to mention: kissed people, traveled, been in a relationship, had sex. At twenty I felt like a pathetic, unaccomplished, uncultured, virgin grandma. It sounds like a joke now, but at the time, around all these people my age casually discussing all of the above, I felt so small.

This is for all the teens/young adults/adults who feel like they’ve been left behind. You’re not behind. You have time to find yourself and love and adventure. It’s all out there, and when you’re ready to push yourself out of your comfort zone and look for it, you’ll find it.

“So—why didn’t something happen?”

Because of me. Because I let fear make decisions for me. Because I’ve chosen to let the world push me around instead of pushing my way through the world.

“I’ve been trying to make you happy for six years now, hoping somehow that would make me happy too, but I don’t think it’s working. You’re not really happy with me because I’m not happy with you because I’m not happy with me.”

My heart slunk further down into its metaphorical chair.