Wonderful

Within the next twenty minutes Stevie learns that Hugh is from Queens and even attended Queens College for about a semester until he scrounged enough money to transfer to Parsons. She also learns that he’d worked at a deli, a mini mart, a hardware store, and, finally, the book shop, beginning at the age of fifteen. She learns that during high school, he created an entire club dedicated to architecture. He’d been the only member, but she assured him that it was still pretty impressive.

The fact that all these things are so totally endearing and attractive does nothing to help this growing feeling of... Stevie doesn’t know what to call it, because she’s never had it before. It’s like her stomach has been replaced by the monster from Alien and is now trying to jump out of her body. It’s weird and new and not at all a thing that she wants at this time or, well, any. She doesn’t know what to do about the feeling, or what it even is, and it’s incredibly frustrating. The only thing she does know is that it spikes up every time Hugh smiles a bit and his dimples become visible. It’s awfully distracting.

Nevertheless, they have the page filled up by the time Mel tapped her in the shoulder with her now-wrapped sandwich and pointed to the clock above the counter.

“How did you-” Stevie begins, not sure how Mel knows that it’s her time to go back to school.

“You come here everyday, love,” he says, handing her the sandwich. “It’s hard not to see a pattern.”

“I - Thank you...”

“Seymour,” he says, smiling and putting up his hand for her to shake.

She shakes it. “Stevie.” She lets go of his hand, and he makes his way back behind the counter. “I thought your name was Mel,” Stevie says thoughtfully.

“Well, Seymour’s Diner doesn’t have the ring that Mel’s does. And Mel was my father’s name, so I thought it’d be a nice thing to do, you know?”

Stevie makes a “hmm” sound and stands up to the table where her stuff still is. She begins to put on her coat when she hears Hugh speak for the first time in a little while. "I really do appreciate your help, you know.” She hears him, yeah, but doesn’t say anything; she flips her hair over her coat and picks up her bag instead.

“I mean, you didn’t have to -” he continues, but Stevie cuts him off, one hand on the door.

“Sure I did,” she says. “I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I didn’t at least try to help your sorry self.”

He snorts out a laugh. “Well, thanks.”

She pauses for a second, but then mumbles a “You’re welcome” as she walks out the door.

Stevie walks down the street as fast as she can, but the weird feeling does not subside. It’s totally inconvenient and annoying and is only worsened by the fact that Hugh is calling her name behind her just as she’s about to cross the street.

“Hey,” he huffs, catching up with her. The light turns red and Stevie is forced to stop. “Kind of in a rush, huh?”

“I have school,” she says simply. Hopefully her disinterested tone will finally dissuade him from talking to her. It’s worked for the past eighteen years, after all.

“Yeah, I see that.” He’s trying to catch his breath.

“You’re really out of shape,” she says, right up front. “For someone so thin. You only ran half a block.” This is rude enough, right? This will surely stop him from interacting with her further and, therefore, stop the damn butterflies in her stomach.

“I have asthma,” Hugh explains. “I would’ve power-walked, but you’re surprisingly fast for someone wearing such high shoes.”

Just as the light turns green again, Stevie shrugs and says, “I’m good in heels.”

“I see that,” Hugh says, crossing the street along with her. “It’s quite impressive. I mean, you’re so much taller than me with those things on. I’m not very tall to begin with, but -”

“You’re not obligated to exchange niceties with me just because I helped you,” Stevie finally blurts out, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. “I did you a favor because I wanted to, but you don’t have to strike up a conversation. I’m not one of those people who expects something in return of - “

“You’re really weird,” he says.

And, okay, this is not an unexpected comment, but, again, there’s something about the delivery of that sentence. He doesn’t say it with a sneer or even an incredulous tone. It’s amused and a smile plays on the edge of his lips. It’s catches her off guard, which -

“It wasn’t an insult,” he says, putting his hands up as if she’s suddenly going to pounce, which she has half a mind to do right about now.

“Then why would you say it?” she snaps, hoping her aggressiveness will mask her honest (and a little hysterical) curiosity.

“You’re like,” he begins, looking at the air for something to say. “You’re an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a schoolgirl uniform.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Those shoes,” he says, stepping a bit closer to her and pointing to her blue pumps. “They’re, what, more than a hundred dollars, right?”

Yes. “What does that matter?” Stevie snaps.

“But that watch, see,” he taps her left wrist, right at the black leather band of her old watch. “It’s a little frayed at the band, and the face is a little scratched, but you’re wearing it when you could easily be wearing something from Tiffany’s.”

“Where is this going?” Stevie says, a little uneasy now. She hopes her voice doesn’t waver too much.

“The rest of your image it’s,” he gestures up and down her body, “immaculate. But that watch. It’s old and scratched but you’re still wearing it.”

“It’s just a watch,” Stevie says, feigning exasperation. It’s not just a watch, though. Mickey had given it to her at the age of ten for no other reason than he’d seen how much Stevie was fascinated by it (her own father had exclusively worn really expensive platinum watches she was never allowed to touch). It’s cheap and she’d had to get the battery changed a couple times,, but it’s basically a part of her arm now.

“I don’t understand why you’re studying me in the first place,” Stevie says, finally turning around and walking toward school.

And of course Hugh walks beside her. She chances a sidelong glance at him and sees a blush creep up his neck. “I... do that. Study people, I mean. It’s just - I tend to - I’m a bit weird myself.”

Stevie wants to retort with something like “I’ll say” but instead quickens her stride.

“I’m sorry if I’m scaring you, or something.”

“You don’t scare me,” she says, turning left.

“Well, it’s just, you know, you’re all, like, defensive,” Hugh mumbles, trying to keep up. Stevie stiffens at the shoulders a little. “And you’re all tense and from personal experience - well, not experience but that’s the way I react to strangers trying to befriend me. Or at least that’s how I used to react. Before therapy.”

Stevie doesn’t know what to say to that because the word “befriend” has stopped all thoughts dead in their tracks.

“Wait.” Stevie stops just in front of St. Augustine’s steps. “What do you mean ‘befriend’?”

“Well, if I’m not mistaken,” Hugh says, standing in front of her, “the word ‘befriend’ means to become friends with. I dunno, I should look it up. Maybe I’m using it wrong.”

“You want to be my friend?” Stevie asks, genuinely befuddled. She doesn’t try to hide anything this time.

“I admit, friendships usually develop in a more organic way, but seeing as this has been, by far, the least normal conversation I’ve had with anyone, I figure I’d take an unordinary approach.” He stretches out his hand. “Hi. I’m Hugh Braverman, and I’d very much like to be your friend.”

“Why?” Stevie blurts out, not looking at the hand still in front of her.

Hugh shrugs. “Why not?”

Because friendships involve complicated feelings, and feelings fuck things up all the time. Because having to interact with another human being in a friendly way is next to impossible for people like Stevie. Because -

“Wait, ah, no, I see those wheels turning inside your weird head and your face is all scrunched up with like, worry, which, by the way, isn’t something a sixteen-year-old’s face should be scrunched up with.”

“Eighteen,” Stevie says, without thinking. She notices that Hugh’s hand is still stretched towards her. She shakes it, firmly, once, just to make him put it down. “I’m eighteen.”

“Oh, wow, that’s even better.” Hugh grins, and his dimples become visible again and Stevie wants to die a little bit. “So...?”

“I’m...” Stevie blanches. What is there to say at a time like this anyway? “What do you want me to say?” she asks.

“‘Why, Hugh, I would very much love to be your friend’ would be a good way to start,” Hugh says, a grin playing on his lips and dimples dimples abort abort.

“I’m... not going to say that,” Stevie says slowly, a little afraid that Hugh will suddenly realize that, yeah, developing a friendship with her is a huge mistake.

“Then how about we don’t say anything? How about we just talk tomorrow? Same time, same place?”

“I... guess?” Stevie says, unsure. This isn’t the sort of appointment she’s used to making.

“Awesome,” Hugh says, walking backwards away from her. “Looking forward to this friendship already. See you later, buddy!”

And then he’s gone, around a corner and gone and Stevie doesn’t know whether to laugh or punch a freshman in the stomach.