Tweet Cute: A Novel

I miss my mom when she’s gone, but it is perhaps the biggest mercy the universe has ever bestowed upon me when she calls to let me know she’ll be extending her time in California, where she’s overseeing new BLBs opening in Los Angeles and San Francisco.

“Listen,” she says, “I’m sorry things have been so … tense lately.”

I don’t say anything, aching at the sound of her forgiveness, not understanding just how badly I wanted it until she is giving it.

“I’m sorry too,” I say. I don’t elaborate—I figure if she’s letting the whole Hub Seed article thing fly, then there’s no reason for me to bring it up so she can be annoyed about it all over again.

“When I get back, let’s … have a weekend. Just for us. We’ll go upstate. Hang out on a lake.”

I open my mouth to tell her that’s basically impossible—I have swim meets every Saturday, and she’s always catching up on emails and taking calls on Sunday. And even if we could steal away for a weekend, I don’t want to go upstate. I want to see Dad and Paige.

But Thanksgiving is right around the corner. At least I have that to look forward to, even if it’s bound to be so tense when Mom and Paige finally end up in the same room that three kinds of pie won’t be enough to ease it.

“Yeah,” I say instead. “That sounds good to me.”

I don’t hear from her much for the rest of the week, which isn’t all that surprising. When Mom gets engrossed in a project, she’s like me—she’s all in and can’t split her focus. But I am surprised I haven’t heard a word about the latest Twitter debacle, especially when a final tally of the retweets declares Girl Cheesing the winner, with a whopping twenty thousand more retweets than ours.

Jack’s waiting for me Thursday morning, earlier than he usually is. There’s a to-go box propped on his desk, a sight I’m not unused to seeing—he and his brother are constantly bringing sandwiches and leftover salad they podged together from the deli. Only this time when he opens it, it looks like the candy aisle of Duane Reade threw up into it.

“What … is that?”

“Kitchen Sink Macaroons,” says Jack.

They’re crumbled either from getting roughed up on the way here or because of their very makeup, but I have to admit—however begrudgingly—they look delicious. Like the Monster Cake version of macaroons. He holds out the box to offer me some.

“Oh, man. Are these Feel Sorry for the Loser Macaroons?”

“More like Waving the White Flag Macaroons. Also Sorry I Got You Banned From Baking Macaroons.”

I take one. “Well, you did win.”

“Unfairly.” He scratches the back of his neck. “So, listen—you don’t have to … send a tweet acknowledging it. I mean, we already won. No point in rubbing anyone’s face in it.”

I take a bite of the macaroon, studying him carefully. It’s good. And I am a person with extremely high baking standards. It’s just the right amount of crunch, balanced with just enough gooeyness, courtesy of the chocolate and the caramel and a whole host of other flavors I’m still trying to identify.

“Are you sure?”

Jack shrugs. “I supposedly call the shots on our account, so yeah, I’m sure.”

He’s not finished, though. I pause mid-chew, waiting for whatever is about to bloom on his face to take shape. Sure enough, he’s smirking into his desk before he finally looks up and aims it at me in full force.

“But if you think I’m letting you off the hook about the high dive…”

I swallow, hard.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, that old thing?” I say, dusting a few crumbs off of my skirt.

“Yeah.” His eyes are suddenly focused on mine. I can’t look away. “Don’t tell me you’re still scared.”

I lean in close to his desk, propping my palms on it. “Jack, last night I went on the Tumblr tags for Big League Burger and Girl Cheesing. If that didn’t scare the ever-loving crap out of me, nothing will.”

Jack blanches. “We’re on Tumblr tags?”

I lower my voice. “I’ve seen things I can never unsee.”

“God, I wish this were not my legacy.”

I doubt he really means that, though. While I got a few weird looks in the hall and during study group and a ton of jokes from Pooja about the shipping, our classmates are weirdly into Jack being the underdog of Twitter. Yesterday at practice, a group of freshmen on the swim team practically cornered him in the pool, asking for his “real life” Twitter handle. I nearly choked on chlorinated water when he had to confess that, despite our shenanigans, neither of us has one.

I pop another bite of macaroon into my mouth. “This is actually delicious.”

“Why the surprise?” And then, before I can answer: “You know, you’ve never tried any of our stuff.”

“Pretty sure I would burst into flames if I tried to walk through the door at this point. Especially now that my face is plastered on those tweets, and I’ve basically become public enemy number one.”

The smile drops on Jack’s face so fast, I almost turn around, wondering if something happened behind me.

“Nobody’s actually bothering you about that, are they?”

“What? No.” The article, at least, didn’t use our last names, and didn’t mention I’m related to my mom. Taffy didn’t throw me under the bus so much as she lovingly, with the best of intentions, nudged me under one. “I’m so far off the grid even Jasmine Yang couldn’t fully blow up my spot. Nobody could find me if they wanted to.”

Jack relaxes, marginally. I can still see his foot tapping under the desk. “Yeah, well. Be careful, I guess.”

“You too. You have quite the fan club now.”

Jack shakes his head. “I’m a flash in the pan.”

“In the grilled cheese pan, maybe. In real life…”

Jack’s cheeks redden. There’s a beat where I think maybe I’ve gone too far, or that my face has given away something my words didn’t quite mean to. But then he punctures the moment, pointing a finger at me.

“If you think you can sweet talk your way out of the high dive, think again. You’re in for a reckoning, Pepperoni. Five o’clock. Bleachers.”

I roll my eyes. “We’ll see.”