He shows up on a Wednesday afternoon.
His hair is expertly cut and looks neat and stylish despite the fact that it stands up horribly on one side — did he press his head against the car window the entire ride over?
While his mom leads the movers into their house with the formality of a marching band, he lingers by the car. A backpack with more Yankee patches haphazardly sown on its front than items that lay inside it rests at his feet. He swipes at the bag unceremoniously, pulls a phone from a pocket, and begins to text.
His fingers are abusive against the keyboard and Patrice could only imagine that his words match his deep scowl.
His mom calls, "Evan!" from inside the house. He looks up and, with a pout rivaling a two-year-old's, joins the parade of boxes.
Frown aside, he's kind of cute.
By the end of the day, she knows his entire life story. A simple, "Um, hi! I'm Patrice, your neighbor?" goes a long way. His introduction is cut short to just, "Evan," before he's lost. He speaks a mile a minute about his parents' divorce and the sprawling metropolis he already misses and bar mitzvah plans put on hold. Evan talks about people she doesn't know and uses a bunch of terms that sound very funny on her tongue. She struggles to keep up and comment in the right places.
Just as the sun begins to dip below the branches of the sycamore trees that line the inside of town, he stops speaking abruptly and she hangs on the middle of his sentence.
"I'm sorry — I'm being kind of embarrassing," Evan says with a sheepish grin. "I guess I'm just tired or… something."
Patrice nods. "Oh, sure! It's completely fine. Um, why don't you get some rest, and I'll see you around?"
"Yeah, thanks." He sounds grateful and weary. "It was nice meeting you."
'Around' becomes nearly everyday for the next month, and on Monday they make the great pilgrimage to the local Dairy Queen.
"It's actually a good day for ice cream," she says, giving the door a firm shove. The refrigerators hum with life around her. "It's pretty hot out."
"Hot?" He scoffs. "It can't be more than eighty degrees flat. We're just barely approaching 'warm and toasty'."
"Well excuse me, Mr. Manhattan, but today's high is eighty-four." She jabs playfully at one of his ribs and he makes a face. "What do you consider good ice cream weather, anyway?"
"All weather is good ice cream weather," he says, "but if we're talking full appreciation in the dead of summer, it has to be at least as hot as you."
The words barely settle in before the blush creeps up the back of her neck and colors her face. She's more embarrassed with the way her freckles seem to glow like Christmas ornaments than the bluntness of his comment. "What?"
"You heard me. All ninety-eight-point-six degrees or it's just half as satisfying."
"Oh." Body temperature, right. Patrice tightens her ponytail to give her hands something to do. Not what she was thinking. "What are you gonna get?" she asks, pointing toward the menus with her chin.
"I don't know. Maybe everything," and with the way his eyes greedily sweep over the display case of cakes and tubs of hard-packed ice cream, she almost believes him.
"What do you usually get?"
He shrugs. "This is my first time in a Dairy Queen."
"No way, really? They don't have any in New York?"
"Not in the city, anyway." She would swear that something in her heart snaps with his tone and its pitiful mix of pride and dejection. Evan puts on a brave face. "What's good?"
"Get the S'mores Blizzard. It won't disappoint."
"Patrice, is the video really necessary?" She pulls the lens of the camera on her phone so close that it nearly taps the tip of his nose. She has an old Nokia with a dial pad and the beginnings of an mp3 player on the front. It looks positively shabby next to his shiny, silver Sidekick on the table. He'd tease her about it well into 2010.
Evan crosses his eyes and she giggles. "Yes!" She coos. "All firsts ought to be documented. Now try it! I pressed record like a minute ago."
"Alright, pushy," he teases, and shoves a whole mess of ice cream into his mouth with deliberate pageantry. His eyebrows lift in surprise."Wow. That's… that's really good." He gives her a smile so warm and gooey that she can't help but grin back. "From here on out, I'm trusting your tongue."
Patrice bobs her head then adds, with a shrug, "It's a natural talent."
He laughs. "Yeah, no kidding."
She works a wedge of ice cream from her cup and he scoops it straight from her spoon. "Evan!" she cries, shaking with laughter. He opens his mouth to show off the gross marinade of dissolving sprinkles and spit. Patrice covers her face.
"That's disgusting," she says. "You're gross, Evan Goldman."
His only response is a cheeky smile.
A/N: this is the first of many 13 fics! i'm hoping that the others will have more of a, you know, plot — but I'm not too sure how that'll pan out. these kids all come with their fair amount of drama and i definitely have no problems letting them take a rest. (it also helps that i'm a huuuge sucker for character development. it's a foil.)
this is mostly unedited (with only a quick, once-over by the darling deerdryad), so if you spot any errors, please contact me! c: