Spencer Cohen, Book One

“Actually, can I call you back in like ten minutes?” I asked. “I need my hands free for when Lola pulls up out the front of my place because she only slows down to thirty miles per hour and I have to commando-roll out of the car.” She whacked my arm, and Andrew laughed in my ear. “Okay. Good luck,” he said. “And remember, keep your chin in and both arms up to protect your face. Avoid the kerb.”

“Andrew, that was incredible. What song was it?” “Just something I wrote.” I scoffed. “Are you kidding me? You wrote that?” He nodded. “Just something I wrote.” I mimicked his voice. “No, a grocery list is just something you write, that—that”—I waved my hand at his piano,—“was, my God, Andrew, that was so… incredible.”

He threw a dishtowel at me. “They’re hot, so be careful.” I snorted out a laugh. “Is that how you ask someone to take food to the table?”