by Sara Ney
I wave a hand in front of her face to check for vitals.
She finally blinks. Satisfied, I shrug and turn to walk away. I am mere seconds away from being sated by as much government regulation pizza and accordion fries that I can eat...
I guess being a guy, I'm not particularly observant.
Especially being as hungry as I am. If I was even a tiny bit observant, I would have seen Alexis stiffen and her small fists clench at her sides. And I definitely would have been prepared for what came next.
"You what?!" Alexis screeches from somewhere behind me.
She sounds like a banshee.
Dude, there is no way in hell I'm turning around, even though everyone within fifty yards turns to gawk. That chick is obviously batshit crazy, and clearly there's a reason I had the good sense not to hook up with her. Instead, I book it to my regular lunch table and dump my backpack before making a beeline for the food.
***
"What the hell was up with Alexis Peterson?" someone asks me a few minutes later as I'm dunking five fries at once into the sea of ketchup at the edge of my tray.
I stuff my mouth. "Batshit crazy," I mumble somewhat audibly.
"Well. I'd still bang her." Erik Gunderson practically shouts, and a chorus of raucous laughter erupts.
"Gunderson, you'd bang your own sister for a slice of pie." Rick hollers in his loud ass voice. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the cafeteria attendant taking notice of us and change direction, heading right for our table.
"Dude, shut the fuck up. Keep your voice down," I hiss. I swear, my friends are freaking idiots...and I, unfortunately, am their leader.
"What the hell was Alexis blabbering about anyway? I saw Kristy Rose haul her off into the bathroom." This observation is from Rick. He's sitting across from me eyeing up the last slice of pizza on my plate.
I cover it with my free hand.
"I don't know man, I wasn't listening to a thing she was saying. Something about me going to her house this weekend and mess around, I guess." As I'm saying this I arrange the last of my fries onto my pizza, fold it in half like a sandwich, dip it in ketchup and bite down.
"That is fucking disgusting," Rick says.
I shrug, chewing. "It all ends up in the same place anyways..."
Rick leans his arm over across the table and his index finger lingers near the corner my mouth. "Dude, you have a little ketchup right....here...."
I slap his arm away. "Get the fuck away from me you idiot." But I laugh, because sometimes he can be funny, even if he is a complete and total dick.
From where I'm sitting I have a clear view of the entire area. On the opposite side of the cafeteria is a long bank of windows that someone has painted an advertisement for the upcoming football game and Fall Formal dance, and if you want my opinion whoever painted them did a shitty job; as in, my half blind cousin Stuart could have done a better job with if both his eyes were bad (oh, and by the way - in case you're at all interested - this year before Homecoming we're playing the Clarksville Panthers and... I'm pretty sure we'll get our asses kicked since all the "real" athletes play hockey).
Obviously there are also vending machines in the cafeteria, located right in the corner of the room... which just happens to be the place where Molly Wakefield, as I've recently discovered, eats her lunch.
Yeah, discovering that little tid-bit was exciting for me too.
I crack open a carton of cold chocolate milk and zero in on my target while I chug it.
Today, she's had her back to me the whole time, but I watch her just the same from under the rim of my cap like I did in the library the other day. I lean back and stretch, flexing my back as Molly's friend gestures wildly beside her. Her friends brightly colored tee shirt looks splattered with paint, and her long silver earrings catch the sun from outside with every shake of her head.
I rack my brain for the friends' name. Jane. No, wait. Jennifer. Janna? Whatever. It happens to be the same blonde chick that has a small seizure every time I walk by.
No lie.
Someone steps in the way and blocks my view so I have to crane my neck a little to the left. The voices beside me are gradually getting louder as they reenter my stream of consciousness.
"....no freaking way..."
"...Wes... date this weekend ..."
"...she is so full of shit...Tell him you don't have a date McGrath..."
"McGrath? Are you listening?"
Someone hits my arm. "Huh? What."
Rick and Derek exchange looks than Derek, who is also sitting across from me, swivels in his seat to survey the room. He even shields his eyes with his palm, like he's saluting the sea of students. What a wise-ass. "Okay, so who were you just checking out?"
"No one." The lie rolls off my tongue, and I crack open another carton of milk and guzzle it down, crushing the carton on the table with my palm when I'm done. No way in hell am I going to tell these douchebags I have a date with Molly Wakefield. The one highlight of my dismally social-life free senior year. I would never hear the end of it.
"Bullshit dude. You spaced out."
"That's because nothing you say interests me. In fact, I'm done here." I grab the edge of my tray before collecting my backpack, and rise from my seat at the same time Molly is rising from her table across the room.
I stand unmoving and watch her instead of walking away.
She's facing me, and our eyes connect. Finally, Molly gives me a small self-conscious wave, and if the Three Assholes of the Apocalypse weren't sitting in front of me, I'd probably wave back. Her long hair is in a braid that's cascading over her shoulder and she's wearing this cute pink dress
Man she's pretty.
My lips curl slightly into a small smile.
"Are you fucking kidding me Weston? Molly Wakefield?" Rich picks up his tray and then instantly slams it back onto the table in a rage, sending a few fries scattering across its surface. "You asshole."
His pronouncement doesn't surprise me and quite honestly, I don't give a crap if he's upset. You're probably wondering if there's such a thing as "Guy Code" - the answer is yes - but in my opinion it doesn't apply in this case. Why? Well for starters:
1. Rick is my teammate, but he is not my friend. He's thrown me under the bus so many times I've lost count.
2. He once tried to sleep with my cousin, Tracy.
3. Lastly - Oh, that's right. I don't give a shit about his feelings.
I blow out a puff of air so I don't lose my temper, but to be honest I can already feel my nostrils flaring, a telltale sign that I'm about to. As calmly as I can, I set my backpack and tray down, and rest my palms against the edge of the table, leaning over so that my face is inches from Ricks. The brim of my hat almost touches his forehead.
I am aware of hundreds of watchful eyes boring into me.
"Is there a problem?" This voice does not sound like my own; this voice is low and menacing.
"Yeah, you're my goddamn problem." Rick's eyes dart over to where the lunch attendant is standing and he stays imbedded to his seat. But he's itching for a fight.
"Why is that," I probe.
"You know I asked her out." He says through gritted teeth, drawing his sentence slowly out. "You were standing right there."
I frown at him through narrowed eyes, leaning closer. "And what was her answer?"
Rick shrugs coolly but his demeanor is anything but. "She'll come around."
I laugh right then and I have to admit, even to my own ears it sounds slightly maniacal.
"Yeah? Well you...scare the shit out of her." I quietly snarl, suddenly realizing it as the awful truth. That day in the hallway when Rick was harassing Molly for a date, I should have shoved his punk ass up against my locker. She'd looked so scared. Shit, the more I remember it the more pissed off I become. "Do yourself a favor Rick," I spit out his name sarcastically. "Don't talk to her. Don't talk about her. Hell, don't even look at her. Because if you do, I will find out, and then I will beat the shit out of you
." My triceps flex and my shoulders drawn taunt. "Do we have an understanding?"
Faintly, I hear Erik Gunderson in the background say "Dayyuumm...."
I stay rooted to the spot waiting on his answer. We're both breathing heavy, and I know from past experience what Rick looks like when he wants to punch someone in the face. It's the same look he's giving me now.
"Why do you even care?" He finally asks with a snort. "If you're trying to get in her pants, you're wasting your time. That chick ain't given it up for nobody." He looks around for support, trying to make our friends laugh but failing miserably.
"I'm sorry, but it seems like you're not hearing me. Stay. Away. From. Molly."
Finally, he gives a barely imperceptible nod.
I collect my stuff and strut away, conceited ass that I am.
***
"Mom, I have to talk to you about something," I mumble gruffly as I pull out the bar stool at the kitchen counter. My mom is standing at the stove with her back to me, stirring what smells like vegetable stir fry. She taps the wooden spoon on the pan and turns to face me, laying the spoon down. Wiping her hands on a towel, she comes over and leans her elbows on the counter.
"This sounds serious, is everything okay?"
Let's see, how do I put this...
"Oh man. I don't even know how to say this." I run my fingers through my shaggy hair as my mom leans over and grabs my forearm.
"Sweetheart, now you're scaring me. What is it? Tell mom."
"I don't want you to be pissed at me."
"Weston Richard McGrath, you tell me right now what is wrong or you're going to be in a shit storm of trouble young man."
I let out the long breath that I'd been holding and count to 3 before I say, "I have a date this weekend. I... I asked someone on a date."
My mom stares at me slack jawed.
Ah shit, I've rendered her speechless.
Chapter Eleven
MOLLY
"Better to arrive late, than to arrive ugly!" - Darcy Gilmore, blogger
The rest of the week has crawled by at a snail's pace, and thank God it's finally Saturday night. Unfortunately, I'm freaking out. Today was the worst: I literally could not focus the entire day because of the text I received first thing when I woke up:
Weston: i have practice but will text u after
And he did. All morning I waited for that promised text, shuffling around the house. I carried my phone around in the palm of my hand like it was my job. And when Weston's text finally came, unfortunately, I was sitting next to my mom on the couch.
Talk about embarrassing. Because you know moms want to talk about everything once they get a whiff of gossip. I ended up having to tell her every tiny detail leading up to this point.
Oh lord, I could throw up right now. I have managed to toss almost every article of clothing from my closet onto my floor in a fit of 'so many clothes and nothing to wear.'
Where is Jenna? She's supposed to be here helping me! It's 5:00 - Weston will be here in an hour. I race to the window and throw back the curtains. Great. Her car is in the driveway. Opening my bedroom door, I holler, "Jenna, get your butt up here! I need you!"
"Okay pretty girl, calm down," Jenna laughs as she trots down the hallway towards my room. She's got on bright green pants and a gray sweatshirt, and I notice she's dipped the ends of her long blonde locks in pink Kool-Aid. When the heck did she do that? I just saw her last night...
She stops in the threshold of my room eyeing the clothes that have been strewn everywhere, and her eyes get real wide. "What the...?"
I stand there helplessly, arms spread in desperation. "Help," I squeak out.
"Oh my god Molls, you have to get a grip. Let's start by putting this all away so I can at least see what you have to work with. Ugh, girl, you are crazy." Yeah, you heard right; the girl wearing neon pants is calling me crazy. She bends at the waist and starts picking up clothes, placing them back on the hangers that have been haphazardly thrown on the ground. "Hmm," She mumbles in thought. "This is kind of cute." She lays a striped navy tank top on my bed.
"Jenna, its cold out!" I whimper.
"Do you want my help or not?"
"Yes..."
"Then start helping me clean up this mess you made. Sheesh. What am I, your mother?"
"I'm sorry. I'm just so nervous." I start biting my thumb nail, and almost immediately Jenna slaps the hand out of my mouth and grabs me by the shoulders. She gives me a firm shake.
"You look at me. Look!" She points at her eyes with two fingers. "Luce, you're funny and gorgeous. That great hunk of a hockey star is lucky to be going out with you tonight. Now get it together before I slap you."
"Do I have to wear something so tight?" I start whining again as my best friend cleans my room.
"No, but you have to give him a little peek at the goods. Come on, get real. He's a guy, and you have a great rack."
"But what if we end up go-carting or something?"
Jenna turns and levels me with a stare. Okay, never mind. "Wear a turtleneck on your own time, okay Gidget?" Newsflash: for those of you not familiar, Gidget was a television character in the 60s and she was kind of a giant nerd. "Here. We'll do these for sure." Jenna pulls out a pair of dark stretch skinny jeans. "If you're lucky he'll slap your ass a few times."
I open my mouth to respond but nothing comes out.
It doesn't take her long to pick out an entire ensemble, complete with shoes, a shirt and jewelry. Motioning to the vanity, she pats my desk chair. "Come on, let's get your hair and makeup done." With the determined expression on her face, she could pass for an army drill sergeant.
Thank god for best friends.
WESTON
I've been driving in the country for a few miles when I finally come to a really long driveway. From the road, I can make out a large stone house with a wraparound porch and a high peeked roof. The mailbox is on the opposite side of the street, and it's getting dark out already so I roll down my window to double check the house number: 932.
I let out a nervous breath.
Yup, this is definitely it.
I turn in. The whole driveway is blacktop and there are lamp posts lining the road about every seventy five feet. It's only early October, but someone has already tied corn stalks to the black light columns in preparation for fall, and a few of them have large pumpkins sitting next to them on the ground. I pull up to the turn around and sit facing a large red vinyl Wisconsin Badger flag that's flapping in the breeze off the basketball pole next to the garage: next to that hangs another red flag with a large number 19 on it.
Her brother Matthews' hockey number?
I reach forward and turn the volume down on the radio, then cut my engine. I give my legs and back a good stretch before I open the door, then stretch again once my feet hit the ground.
The walk up Molly's front door isn't long but by the time I reach it my palms are good and sweaty. I feel like I've just skated a few practice laps in the heat. Why am I so damn nervous? My hands are fidgety so I shove them inside my pockets.
Then I take them out.
Crap. What do I do while I'm standing here? I bounce a few times on the balls of my feet and loosen my shoulders like I'm preparing for a Mixed Martial Arts fight. Then I stop because shit, if someone's watching from a window they probably think I look like a complete jackass out here.
I wipe my hands on my jeans and raise my fist to knock.
Almost immediately, a dog starts barking wildly inside the house, and I can hear someone shouting for it to 'go lay down.'
The door opens.
A woman who is so obviously Molly's mom looks back at me with a pleasant smile on her face, and wow does she look like her daughter. On the taller side, and slender, with the same brownish red hair as Molly's (in a ponytail), she even has freckles on the bridge of her nose. She's very pretty. Not as pretty as Molly, obviously, but still... I would put her at MILF status for sure.
"Weston I presume?" she asks casually. T
hat small smile still pinned to her lips, Mrs. Wakefield asses me, her eyes taking me in from head to toe until I can feel her staring holes into my tattoo covered arm. I resist the instinct to cross my arms. Still, her face remains impassive and if the sight of my tats offend her, she's hiding it well.
Cool.
"Yes ma'am, pleased to meet you." I stick my hand out for her to shake (which she does) and pray to god it isn't clammy. Damn, maybe I should have wiped them on my jeans first. "Is Molly home?"
Her mom chuckles softly, giving me another once-over and shaking her head from side to side as if she can't believe I'm standing in her foyer. "As if she'd miss this. Come on in." She motions me in with her hand and the door widens as she steps aside to let me in.
"Thanks." I don't know what else to say. "Those UW Wisconsin flags outside are great."
"Ah, yes, the flags. Mr. Wakefield had those made when Matthew, our son, signed his letter of intent to play for Madison a few years ago. But let's not talk about him: I hear you're a player yourself."
Player myself...? Oh! She means that I hockey player, not I play girls. "Yes ma'am. I'm a forward."
"We haven't been to any of the games at the high school lately, but we hear you're very good. Maybe we'll have to come cheer you on. Mr. Wakefield loves hockey, as you've probably guessed."
"Yes ma'am." Shit, I sound like a freaking idiot. "Sorry I keep repeating myself. I don't do this very often." Mrs. Wakefield cocks her head and smiles like she's talking to a child.
"Don't tell me you're nervous?"
"You have no idea."
"Well I won't torture you any longer. I'll go let Molly know you're here, even though I'm sure she's listening from upstairs." She pats me on the arm.
"Thank you Mrs.Wakefield," I say as she starts walking up the beige carpeted stairs. Then, as if she just can't help herself, she turns back and glances at me standing in her foyer. I swear she mumbles 'holy crap Molly' but it's either my ego messing with my head or a case nerves.