God is in the Pancakes Read Online Free Page A

not at all offended by how excited you seem to hang out with me.”
    â€œYou know me, Grace. I’m all about the enthusiasm. In fact, if the whole basketball thing doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll try out for cheerleading!”
    â€œIf anybody can rock the pom-poms and hoochie skirt, it’s you.”
    He clapped me on the shoulder. “I’ll meet you at Milk Bar at four on Wednesday unless I need to report to practice. And if that’s the case, trust me, I’ll text.”

    At 3:45 Wednesday afternoon, my phone’s in-box is empty. When still nothing appears at 3:50, I hop on Big Blue, my aqua-colored mountain bike, and head for the coffee shop.
    I love my bike. I don’t even care that Eric thinks it’s an embarrassment—he says I defiled it by swapping out its narrow, racing style seat for a fat, glittery banana seat. I tell him the new seat adds comfort and style. He says it made me look like a Mickey Mouse Club reject. It’s one of those topics on which we’ve agreed to disagree . . .
    I see Eric through the café’s plate glass window as I lock Big Blue to a parking meter across the street. It’s hard to gauge how upset he is because his head’s down and his nose is in his magazine. He’s never been a crier, so aside from yelling (which he does occasionally) and cursing (which, when provoked, he shows real talent for), I can’t quite picture how he would react when he saw that his name wasn’t on that list.
    I want to do something to cheer him up, and since I can’t think of anything better, I grab a handful of Haribo gummi bears from the package in my coat pocket. Then I creep toward him and at close range begin pelting bear after gummi bear.
    â€œWhat the—” Eric laughs, his hands going up in a frenzied effort to swat back the bear bombs. “Oh, you are so dead,” he says. Eric scoops up several bears from the table and fires them back at me. Every one that Eric lobs is a direct hit, mostly bouncing off my forehead.
    â€œYou throw pretty well for a girl,” I say, both of us now laughing as I rub my face and sit down next to him.
    â€œI’d say ‘you do too,’ but since that’s totally sexist, I could never repeat something like that,” he cracks. “Especially not in a hippie coffee shop like this, where, if the counter girls heard me, they’d probably start spitting in my chai.”
    â€œThe counter women , Eric. The counter women would start spitting in your chai , ” I correct.
    â€œRiiiight.” Eric takes a sip of his drink from one of Milk Bar’s oversized mugs and the bottom half of his face disappears in the cup. I want to bring up the subject of the basketball team and the list, but I’m guessing if he wants to talk about it, he’ll say something. Plus, I’m not sure what to say except “Damn, that sucks.”
    I motion to the counter. “Want anything?” When all else fails, a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin tends to make me feel better, so I’m hoping the same will be true for Eric.
    â€œNah, I’m good, thanks,” Eric replies, holding up his mug.
    I return to the table a moment later balancing my wallet and the “bonbon du jour,” a chocolate-dipped Rice Krispies treat in one hand, my cappuccino in the other.
    â€œOh, and Grace, in case you were wondering, only two sophomores made the varsity basketball team.” Eric nods glumly as I return and am about to set the goodies down.
    â€œOnly two,” I reply, giving him one of those what can you do? expressions.
    â€œYeah,” he replies. “Just Mike Richter, who’s six foot five . . . and me!”
    â€œYou?” I’m so surprised, my arm jolts and cappuccino froth spills onto my hand. “No way! So why are you here?”
    â€œWhy are any of us here?” replies my philosopher friend. Then, with a big smile Eric adds,