Old Bones: A Collection of Short Stories

by Steve Campbell

Then

  IT WAS LESS than three months ago when I finally became less petrified talking to girls and asked Julie Sommers on a date. I tried so hard not to act like a jerk that I wound up acting like a jerk.

  We met for pizza at the local pizza shop. We sat at a window seat with Derek and his girlfriend where the evening sun glowed against Julie’s perfect skin. She was like an artist’s finest creation. To be in her presence made me a nervous wreck. I tried to lighten my jitters by telling jokes, but I was late with some of the punch lines, and forgot them altogether and had to start over. The best I could do was fill my mouth with pizza and be quiet, but I even failed at that. Derek had to hammer me on the back to dislodge the pepperoni wedged against my windpipe.

  When my breathing became regular again (although looking at Julie made inhaling difficult), I ended our date by reaching for a napkin and knocking over my cola, spilling it into the lap of Julie’s pretty dress.

  After that horrible event, I entered a funk and spent some time at a safe distance, dreaming of Julie and achieving the perfect date with her.

  Our next date went well. She came to a baseball game, I hit a home run, and I gave her the ball after the game. She kissed me on the cheek and made me forget my name for a moment.

  “It was the perfect hit,” I said when mind returned to reality. “It’s such a wonderful feeling when a batter connects with the ball and hits the perfect hit.”

  “What’s the perfect hit feel like?” she asked.

  “The ball feels soft against the bat. Sometimes there is barely a feeling at all.”

  “How soft? Like hitting butter?”

  Yes. Like hitting butter. She was perfect.