Page 5 of The Difference Between

“Well. Now you almost have.” I smile. “I’ll be loaded.”

“Where are you getting the money from?”

I haven’t figured out the specifics, but it will be in finance.

“Be the best at my job.” I give him a conspiratorial smile. “Work so hard I’m the most important person in every room so nobody can do anything without me.” I have no doubt I’ll accomplish that. I’m just a waitress at a diner now, but my boss tells me all the time that I go above and beyond, proven by me having the most tips at the end of every shift. “You’ll see.”

Davy looks up at me with wide eyes as if he’s imagining what this will look like. Finally, he asks, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

I snort. “No.”

“Why not? Greg is Amanda’s boyfriend.”

I pull at a thread on the blown knee of my jeans. “I don’t have time. And I’m leaving in a few months for college. Seems silly. And distracting.”

“I can be your boyfriend.”

I laugh fully. “You cannot.”

“Why not?”

It’s hard not to smile. Now that he’s not scowling and making me look bad, he’s cute in his little hat and squeaky voice. “The difference between our ages for one. You’re only seven and I’m seventeen. That’s a lot of years.”

He sits up a little straighter. “My dad is three years older than my mom.”

I know Mr. Nickels. He teaches social studies.

“Hm.” I squint at him. “There’s also the difference in interests. I don’t think we have much in common.”

He wiggles in his seat. “We both like glass.”

Again, I laugh. “Fine, we both like glass. But I don’t think that’s enough.”

“You can be my girlfriend even if I’m not your boyfriend.”

“I don’t know about that.” I slip the magazine into my backpack. “What do you even think a girlfriend is?”

His face turns beet red. “The girl you love and marry.”

It takes all my jaw strength to contain my laugh. “I don’t think that’s right.”

“It is,” he argues. “My mom was my dad’s girlfriend.”

“Hm.” I consider what he’s saying and if it’s worth arguing. If the kid wants to call me his girlfriend, I guess I don’t care. It’s not so different than the fact Joshua Jackson’s poster hangs over my bed, and I spend every night delusionally dreaming he’ll stroll off the set of Dawson’s Creek to come find me. Davy and I can read together once a week and—gotcha! “If I let you say I’m your girlfriend, will you read with me?”

“Like we just did?”

“Uh-uh.” I shake my head. “Next time you have to help me with the words.” I hold out my hand for him to shake. “Deal?”

He stares at it long enough I’m not sure he’s going to take it. I don’t know if bribing a seven-year-old into learning to read is the most ethical move, but compared to the recent Enron scandal, this is nothing. Plus, this kid is kind of growing on me; he should learn to read.

When he puts his little hand in mine and shakes, he says, “Deal,” and I smile wide.

“Deal,” I echo.

“You’re pretty,” he says.

I puff out a laugh. I am pretty, but a little kid saying it makes it awkward. “Okay.”