Amanda and I had decided to undo her obnoxious flirting with our casually-uninterested-coming-to-Pizza-Shack-late-act. But we ended up arriving too late to fit at the large, rowdy table. We claimed the closest possible booth, and it wasn’t so horrible until Stu and his cute brunette showed up and sat with us. Stu is more involved in his teammates’ conversation than ours, but his cute brunette keeps a hand perched on his arm at all times. She seems to be reveling in Amanda’s beams of hatred.
At least Mark smiles over at me from time to time. Forty minutes into our “date,” he calls out, “Hey, Stu, how’d you end up with all the pretty girls?” Which inspires his cute brunette girlfriend to launch herself onto Stu’s back and hold firm like a darling little backpack. Stu opens his arms and leans back as if all three of us belong to him.
“Don’t get any ideas, Buddy,” Mark says. “Blaze is coming home with me.” His public acknowledgement of our date feels like a radioactive nip of happiness. The only thing that keeps me from flying to him is Amanda’s crestfallen face. I doubt I’d look like a sweet backpack on Mark, anyway. More like a gangly alien attacking an unfortunate host.
I lean toward Amanda. “Don’t any of them catch your eye?” I whisper. “If Tony stopped shaving his head he’d actually be kind of cute.”
She squints at the brutish-looking junior. “I don’t know,” she says. “It’s hard to picture him with hair. Besides I don’t date younger men.”
“I’m not saying you should date him,” I soothe. “Just that he could be someone interesting to talk to tonight.” So I can start enjoying my date.
I finally convince Amanda she needs a diversion from Stu and his gloating brunette appendage. The two of us migrate over to the main table, where we squat and kneel until Amanda finally pulls a chair next to Tony. I work my way over to where Mark is giving a play-by-play account of the victory goal. “So I’m looking around and Stu is, I don’t know, waving to the stands or something.” He pauses to pull me casually onto his lap and continues his story over my left shoulder. “So, I see it’s up to me to move the ball downfield.” I shift on Mark’s lap, before my wicked wedgie becomes permanent. I feel embarrassed and thrilled at the same time and I don’t know where to look. It would be weird for me to twist my head to watch Mark talking, since he’s only two inches from my face, so I’m stuck looking out toward Mark’s staring audience. Everyone’s undivided attention is making me nervous, so I reach for the glass of water in front of me just for the sake of something to do.
The water goes down the wrong pipe, which always happens when I’m nervous, but I don’t want to start coughing and choking with everyone watching me. I’m nearly crying from the growing tickle intensity, but refuse to give a single cough. If I start I won’t be able to stop.
As I struggle to breathe, I notice Amanda palming Tony’s shoulder. It looks unnatural, like she’s trying to absorb his life-force through her hand, and I wonder if Tony is going to reject her too. As hot as she is, most of the guys at school have become just a little terrified of her clear commitment needs. Her reputation for being high-maintenance seems to have diluted the potency of her flirting.
Mark’s story ends with him shouting, “…so I caught the ball with the back of my heel, and SCORE!” As everyone cheers and claps, I finally cough until I can breathe again. A Pizza Shack drone comes over to ask if we mind keeping it down. To my mortification, the gang laughs, completely unfazed. They continue on loudly until the middle-aged manager has to come over to kick us out.
The table starts grumbling, and I get nervous that we’re about to stage a huge protest scene right here in Pizza Shack, but Mark gives my waist a firm squeeze. “I’ve gotta get on with my date, anyway, guys. Let’s call this thing done.” At his command, everyone starts throwing wadded-up bills on the table and giving high-five-good-byes. Chairs scrape tile as we stand up, and I see Tony turn his back toward Amanda, openly dissing her. Ouch. She gives me a sad nod, and I wave back empathetically.
Getting turned down by a junior who shaves his head cannot be a good experience. As Amanda turns and flees to her car, I feel a pang of guilt, followed by a shiver of certainty that she will be taking this out on me later.
As I wait for everyone to say good-bye to Mark, I gather the wadded singles and fives scattered around the table and smooth them together, glad to have a purpose. When I add everything up and glance at the bill, I see there’s a nearly seven-dollar deficit. And that’s before a tip—not that putting pizza on a table and asking us to shut up warrants a huge gratuity, but still. I’ve already put in my own five bucks, which more than covers the breadsticks I ate.
The table’s nearly empty, and it doesn’t look like anybody is adding more cash. Stu and Mark talk as the brunette glides her hands up and down Stu’s back. Stalling, I go ahead and line the bills up neatly beside Mark’s plate with the check on top. Taking a more careful sip of water from my choking glass, I glance about the Shack and try to relax about my impending date.
“Hey, Blaze,” Mark calls over, “mind bringing that up to the register?” He indicates the insufficient funds beside his plate.
He gives me a wink and goes back to talking with Stu and I’m forced to pull a ten out of my wallet to cover the difference. At least carrying the cash over to the register by the door gives me something to do. I also get to waste a pathetic amount of sweetness trying to win over the manager who rings me out. His stony expression doesn’t soften. I’m pretty sure the three-dollar tip I place back on the table won’t make the pizza drone fall in love with us either, but I’m not going any deeper than fifteen bucks for my greasy breadsticks.
I wrestle over whether to bring up my generous contribution to the pizza fund as Mark and I head toward the minivan for our date. As Mark gallantly opens my door, I decide to just let it go. If he mentions the bill I’ll let him pay me back, but I don’t want to seem cheap by bringing it up. Besides, it’s getting late, and I’m curious to see what he has planned for our date.
It really doesn’t matter what we do, as long as we’re together. Which is a good thing, since he directs, “How about we head to my house?” as soon as he climbs into Superturd.
“Yeah, sure. Let’s do that,” I say. “Sounds great.”
• • •
When we arrive at Mark’s house, his parents are in their bedroom, but we’re greeted by his big, fat tabby cat, Pelé. As soon as I reach down to give Pelé a little pat he starts purring like crazy.
“Did you know cats never purr when they’re alone?” Mark smiles. “Pele is telling you he’s happy.” Which I have to say is the sweetest bit of cat trivia I’ve ever heard.
Curled up on the couch in the basement media room, I decide it’s actually pretty cool that Mark invited me back to his house. We’re already friends and past needing a formal date at the stupid movies or something. In fact, if I could, I’d give a few purrs myself as I snuggle into him.
It doesn’t even matter that we end up watching some boring soccer movie based on what must’ve been an even more boring true story. “The Game of Their Lives?” I mock when Mark shows me the cover. “Seriously? It sounds like a bad soap opera.”
“It’s my favorite movie,” he insists as he puts it in the player. “You’ll like it.” Which I suppose is nice that he wants to share his favorite movie with me. Seeing as how I’ve reached the home stretch to becoming his girlfriend and all.
I try to focus on the film, which is about some big soccer rivalry with Britain that took place in the 1950s, but all I can think is, when will he kiss me? We fit together so close and comfortable, me leaning into him on the couch, it’s like we’re meant to be together. I try to focus on the boring sports movie, but Mark’s proximity is too much to ignore. I wonder if he’s actually absorbed in the movie or if he’s as aware of me as I am of him.
I start to grow concerned that we aren’t going to kiss at all, which will solidify us a “buds” and nullify any chance of me becoming his girlfriend. Mark must finally pic
k up on my telepathetic signals because he hits pause, turns toward me, and narrows his eyes.
I look at him expectantly, afraid he’s about to quiz me on the movie and discover I haven’t been paying attention. Then I think maybe he’s remembered to ask about the pizza bill. Without saying a word, he slowly closes the gap of space between our lips. As our mouths connect, I physically feel the sentiment, now this is more like it.
My first kiss.
His tongue gently prods my lips, and as soon as I part them slightly, the tip of it dips into my mouth. It’s warm and soft as it explores, feeling surreal in its moistness. It drives deeper. Excites me.
It’s silly that Mark asked for the power to heal, since he clearly has a super power already. It’s kissing. And I’m fully under his lips’ control. Mark’s kiss intensifies, and it’s as if I can taste how turned on he is. I feel a thrill until he leans further over me and suddenly I’m not just tasting how turned on he is—I’m feeling it too. The evidence of his swollen crotch against my wedgied one is unignorable and reminds me I have this penis-phobia that I haven’t quite worked through yet.
I realize in a panic that I’ve been holding my breath this whole time. I need to breathe. Desperately. As Mark’s tongue continues its caress, I focus on exhaling slowly through my nose without blowing a puff of nose-air onto his cheek. I’m hoping he doesn’t notice.
Mark’s hand slides down to my breast and starts moving around. It’s not unpleasant, but I’m consumed with wondering what the outside of my T-shirt and form-fitting bra feel like to his fingers. And what it means for our relationship that I’m allowing over-the-clothes caresses so soon and if this means I will have to touch his…
Without thinking, I slide my elbow up and around to block his right hand from my chest. I silently curse Su-per Virgin Girl! and her need to be in complete control of the situation. Mark counters by moving his hand to the bottom of my shirt so he can stroke my waist while our mouths remain hotly fused together. Slowly, the hand at the bottom of my shirt begins to travel underneath and upward toward my bra as the other hand gains ground, caressing my other breast from the outside.
A quick assessment determines that the hand underneath my shirt poses the greatest threat, and I quickly press my arm down to my side, effectively pinning Mark’s hand. Bra security has been enforced. Virgin Girl is happy.
We continue kissing, and I try to tell myself to relax already. There’s really no reason to block every move Mark makes, it’s just—
I clamp down on the bottom of my T-shirt a moment before Mark can raise it above chest level.
Undaunted, he shifts his weight, lets my shirt stay on, but plunges both hands underneath it, grasping my bra cups with both hands. Well played, I think as my body responds to his massages against my will. It feels so good Virgin Girl is nearly unconscious. We remain like that for a time, kissing and massaging and floating an inch above the couch.
I try to keep my body completely still and just receive the pleasure bolts coming from Mark’s touch. But then I feel a finger breach the elastic band of my bra and the next thing I know Mark is cupping my left breast underneath my bra and T-shirt. We have skin-to-skin contact. He is fondling my bare boob, and Virgin Girl is wide awake and wondering how far Mark thinks I’ll go on a first date.
The wondering is interrupted by how good it feels to have Mark’s hand on my breast, and I manage to convince Virgin Girl he won’t try to go any further. She relaxes. Right up until he starts slowly grinding his crotch into my thigh. She takes control and I sit upright, easing Mark’s hands out from underneath my shirt. I do manage to continue kissing him, but once the hand-to-hand combat has played itself out, it’s only a minute before Mark pulls away and hits play on the movie.
Both disappointed and relieved, I put my head on his shoulder and our breathing slowly returns to normal. My face feels raw from kissing, and I’m glad the lights are low so Mark can’t see what I look like. I wasn’t really watching before, but there’s no way I can focus on the movie now. I sit, daydreaming about how well our names will fit together when we get married.
At one point, the movie shows some crazy-intense game being played, which makes me think that although the Wolverines are pretty awesome, they have a long way to go. Which then makes me think of star-player-slash-little-brother-extraordinaire, Josh, who was suspicious about me going out tonight. And that thought leads to home and Mom and…
Oh, my God. Mom. Looking at my cell phone, I see it’s nearly midnight. She hasn’t called, probably because she doesn’t want to disturb my date, but she’ll be waiting up for me. “I need to call my mom and let her know I haven’t been kidnapped,” I tell Mark. He nods and continues watching until I elbow his chest. “Umph,” he grunts and holds his side, making me think I’ve hurt him until he starts laughing. He pauses the movie right on a shot of some sweaty guy head-butting a soccer ball. Mark imitates the strained look on the guy’s face with a snarl and makes me laugh.
As I dial my phone he says, “Tell her you got arrested and you need her to come and bail you out.”
“I am not telling my mother I’m in jail.” I give him a playful shove as the phone rings on the other end.
“Come on,” he urges. “It’ll be hilarious!”
I raise an eyebrow, but when I hear my mother’s sleepy voice on the other end, “Wha—? Blaze? What’s wrong?” it’s too perfect a set up to not go for it.
“Hey, Mom.” I grin at Mark. “I got arrested. I need you to come and bail me out of jail.”
“YOU WHAT?” Mom shouts, suddenly awake. Mark must be able to hear her because his big grin shrinks down to a small letter O.
“Just kidding, Mom.” I suddenly remember that the two of us do not have this joking sort of relationship. “Totally kidding. I’m fine. Um… I just wanted to let you know I’ll be home late.”
“My God, Blaze!” Mom is pissed. “I have to be at the hospital early tomorrow! It’s a school night! Are you kidding me?”
“Sorry, Mom. No. I mean yes. I’m just… kidding. Sorry.” I focus on the couch’s armrest as tears threaten to well up in my eyes. I cannot believe I screwed up so bad, but Mark’s watching. I need to hold it together. “I’ll be home soon, ’kay?” I manage to end on a lightish note and hang up.
My face tingles with the combination of post-make-out skin burn and the shame of freaking my mother out. Mark gives me a squeeze. “Guess that didn’t go over so well.” He shrugs. “Parents, huh?” As if he has any clue about my parental situation. But then he leans in and kisses me with such certainty, I’m convinced Mark knows everything there is to know about everything.
We make out a little more before a stray hand inspires yet another lightning-quick block with my elbow. Make that Virgin Girl’s elbow, but Mark just laughs and restarts the movie, stroking my hair absentmindedly as we watch. By the time we get to the feel-good ending, I must say, I’m actually back to feeling pretty good.
“I’ll have to rent this for Josh,” I say.
Mark hits eject, puts the disk in the case, and hands it to me. “I think you can be trusted,” he says.
“With your favorite movie?” I feign adoration. “I’ll guard it with my life.”
We kiss on the couch a moment longer until Pelé interrupts us—leaping onto the arm of the sofa, right by our heads. After a quick scream of surprise, I say, “And now what is your cat communicating?”
“Jealousy,” says Mark, and we laugh as he scratches Pelé under his chin. Finally, I break the bad news, “I’d better head home.”
“I’ll walk you out.” Mark groans like an old man as he stands up, then leans on me so heavily we laugh as we nearly topple over. Once he’s mobile, Mark steers me into the kitchen and stops, pretending to prop me against the counter before opening the fridge. He pulls out a plastic pitcher and empties it into a tinted glass. After gulping less than half of it, he dumps the rest down the drain and gives the cup a spin before dropping it noisily into the sink.
I
wonder if the flurry of little face-kisses he gives me at the door will become our special after-date good-bye custom. On my way back to Superturd I rub my face and marvel over how well the night went. One thing’s for sure, I think as I climb into the driver’s seat, I’ve set my sights on a really super guy.
“What a giant ass,” says Terri. She and Amanda have dragged me to the mall practically against my will, and I’m resisting the urge to check my cell phone yet again for a text from Mark.
“Oh, I don’t know that he’s a giant ass,” I defend. “Maybe he just hasn’t had a chance to text me yet.” I look down at my cell phone to confirm that, no, he hasn’t had a chance to text me yet.
“God, Blaze, not everything is about Mark,” says Amanda. Ever since getting rejected by both Stu and Tony in one night, she’s quick to lash out.
“I just want to know where we stand,” I whine.
Terri shakes her head and points to the “giant ass” she’s actually referring to. It’s a two-story high, black-and-white poster in the window of Lucy’s Lucky Lingerie. The photo shows a model wearing lingerie that is so sexy-looking Dylan would probably set up a mini altar to worship in front of it. I feel a sharp pang of guilt for leaving Josh home alone on a Saturday night, but Mom will be home from work soon and promised to take him out to eat. I’ve sworn to never prank her in the middle of the night again but still didn’t get invited to dinner.
“Take my picture!” Amanda twists, mimicking the model’s pose as she gives a sultry glare over her shoulder. She is an expert at modeling, thanks to a boxed DVD set of nine seasons of the reality show Model Makers.
Terri and I laugh, and I snap Amanda’s picture with my cell phone.
“Too bad you don’t have access to that chick’s airbrusher,” says Terri. “See how smooth her elbow is? She couldn’t even bend it in real life, it would crack right open.”
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