Meet Me After Class

Chapter 21: Pizza and Milkshake

Pete's Pizza Palace greeted me with its familiar red neon glow as I skillfully parked my bike, expertly dodging a couple of rogue autumn leaves. I ran my fingers through my hair, attempting to tame the wild strands, secretly wondering if there was a "windproof" hairstyle out there.

Note to self: Google that later.

I strolled through the entrance, and the tantalizing aroma of pizza enveloped me, wafting from the hidden corners of the kitchen. My stomach rumbled in response, betraying my hunger. Pete's at The Crest Town Center is not just known for its tasty pizza; it's a favorite among us locals. It's always been here, a familiar and nostalgic part of our memories, as long as we can remember.

As I looked around, my gaze settled on a table in the corner, which was occupied not by just two people but by four, including Adam.

Why is he here?

Why are they all here, sitting in a pizza joint with Mr. Scott?

I hesitated, contemplating an escape, but Penny's voice shattered my exit strategy. "Over here!" she called out, as if I needed a GPS to locate their booth.

Taking a deep breath, I sauntered over, feeling the collective gaze of the pizza squad on me.

"What's up?" I greeted, trying to mask my surprise with a meek smile as I squeezed into the booth beside Penny.

Mr. Scott chimed in with a pepperoni-based icebreaker. "Hope you like pepperoni."

I glanced at the two orders of pizza on the table and noticed they seemed to be already in the midst of a deep conversation.

"Yes, I love them," I breathed out, staring at a single slice on the plate in front of me.

"And your family owns that quaint little bookshop..." I looked up and saw Mr. Scott looking at Adam.

"Yeah," Adam responded in his usual succinct manner.

As they continued discussing stage jitters and how to cope with them, a waitress approached our table with five glasses of milkshake, briefly interrupting Melissa, who was in the middle of sharing how nervous she felt during the opening night of her first-ever written play.

I side-eyed Adam, who was munching on his pizza. Flashback to when he claimed Melissa's characters were all pretentious and about as relatable as a platypus trying to fit in at a penguin party. Back then, I figured he was just spouting nonsense. I mean, come on, how could he possibly get the complexities of Melissa's storytelling?

Fast forward to now, and as he silently savored that pizza slice, I had to admit, maybe he's not just shooting the breeze.

Amidst the sea of milkshakes and theatrical discussions, Mr. Scott turned the spotlight on me, asking about the inspiration behind "All's Fair in Love."

Panic set in—I hadn't realized we'd transitioned to discussing inspirations.

I nonchalantly shrugged, staring at my plate as if it held the secrets of the universe. "Every Jane Austen book I've read, I guess."

Melissa, with a teasing grin, remarked, "It's obvious in your writing." I managed a weak smile and a nod, internally cringing at the spotlight on my inspiration choices.

I smiled weakly, then nodded at her. "I guess."

She, however, took it a step further. "But no matter how much you loved her books or any book from any author that you basically worship, your work should reflect you and not some other people."