“The whole weekend?” I groan, “Why can’t this be Amanda’s job?”
“Amanda’s going to Baylor for student visitation.”
I roll my eyes. Of course she’s already pledged to Baylor. “All weekend?”
“It’s a two hour drive, Del,” Michael argues. “She and some of the girls on the cheer squad are going down to Galveston after the student sit in on Saturday for a beach trip.”
“Oh yeah.” She mentioned it, like, a week ago. In fact, she invited me but I declined on account of how much I hate sand. And water. And the sun. “What about Trent?”
Speak of the devil. Shirtless and messy, Trent enters the kitchen like he’s been asleep since this morning. Probably has, by the looks of it. “Pardon, little sister, but Kat and I have been getting pretty serious and she invited me to meet her parents Friday night, which could potentially become a whole weekend thing. It’s on you to protect the casa.”
“Gross.” I lean against the archway, wanting nothing more than to leave this situation and call Rhett, but now there’s no way out. I’ve been ambushed into spending a weekend alone and there’s no escape, so I toss out a bargaining chip. “Will there be money involved?”
“Definitely not.”
A plan formulated in my head and I reply, “Fine.”
I retreat upstairs, flop on my bed, and pick up my phone. While it’s ringing, I change into a tank top and shorts too big for me. He picks up, voice quiet, on the third ring.
“Hey gorgeous, what’s up?”
“Are we on for the poetry reading Friday night?”
“As usual,” he agrees. “Why, is there a change in plans?”
“Well, I’ve recently come into some covert information.” Trying to be sexy. Okay. My face flushes slightly pink even as the words slip out, “I have the house to myself this weekend and, ah, I was wondering if you wanted to come over?”
“Oh my god, Cordelia Kane, are you trying to seduce me over the phone?”
I laugh, feeling better about what I’m saying with his attitude. “Not a chance. I was hoping you could join me in a nice, nonsexual round of Monopoly followed by cuddling and tea.”
“My ideal night,” he chuckles. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. As for tomorrow, I would like to take you on a real date. Sort of.”
I twirl some hair between my fingers and turn my lights off, lay down in my bed. “Our previous romantic rendezvous haven’t counted as dates? And what does ‘sort of’ mean?”
“Here’s the thing.” Rhett’s voice is apologetic and I can see him running his fingers through his hair nervously. “Earlier, Brian was freaking out about how to ask Sky on a date and I mentioned your obviously genius theory that roller skating is the ultimate first date-”
“I appreciate the credit.”
“-and I basically agreed to double date with them.”
I slap my hand to my forehead in the dark and sit up right. “Are you serious? Rhett, that is a horrible idea. It may be the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
He’s so confused it’s laughable and adorable. “Why?”
“I’ve been on double dates with Sky before.”
“And?”
“Whoever she’s with – there was Kyle and Jake and Chaz and Aaron – will try to be super romantic and win her over. And she’ll get weird about it because that’s not what she wants. Sky doesn’t want some guy to sweep her off her feet with roses and kisses at New Years, she wants a guy who’ll take charge and not be afraid of hurting her like every girl wants. I don’t want to be on emergency watch during a date.” I pause, uncomfortable with how much rambling I’m doing. “Plus, I’m a terrible roller skater.”
“That means I’ll have to stay very close to you while we’re there.” His voice drops lower in a way that makes my toes curl under the covers. I settle back against my pillow and shut my eyes. “If you agree, you might even run the risk of having my hands on your hips, kissing your across your collarbone and down your neck. Have I ever mentioned how much I love the way your skin tastes?”
“Ugh, fine.” I turn over and press my cheek to the cool pillow. “I’ll go out on a stupid double date with you, but only if you swear not to laugh when I fall on my ass.”
“Never,” he promises. “See you at school?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” He pauses and I imagine him biting his lip the way I sometime’s catch him. It’s one of my mannerisms he’s picked up out of being around me so much. “And Cordelia?”
There’s something I love about the way he’s says my name, like I know it’s safe in his mouth.“Yes?”
“I love you.” I smile and he goes on into my ear, “Seriously. People are always ragging on teenagers for thinking they know about love, but… I know what love is, and it’s because of you.”
Chapter Sixteen – The Double Date
My text alert goes off as I arrive home from a shift at Ebony’s, an hour and a half before Sky’s going to pick me up for the dreaded double date. I begged her to let me drive Amanda’s Audi, but she insisted on driving the four of us to the skating rink. Now Brian’s going to have to pretend his future girlfriend’s driving isn’t painful and slightly sickening.
I pull out my phone and check it, shutting my bathroom door and turning on the shower.
ur on the pill right
yeah…why?
dr love might be sitting in my living room
what the hell are you talking about?
ur boyfriend is in my house asking for sex advice ;)
are you serious?
y didnt u tell me dr loves a virgin, skank
he told u that??
no but im a sexpert. i could tell. duh.
sexpert?
;) gtg. dr loves suspicious. tell me: u into bdsm?
SKY
ill take that as a yes. pick u up soon!
SKY DONT TELL HIM THAT
SKYLAR
ANSWER ME
Eventually I give up and decide not to think about it, though the mere idea of Rhett asking my best friend for advice on sex makes me simultaneously uncomfortable and excited. He’s thinking about it, which makes me less embarrassed for thinking about it.
I shake my hair out of its ponytail, shower quickly, and dash to my closet. For the first time, I think about my bra choice as I’m getting dressed. It occurs to me, primarily, that I only own four bras. And they’re classics, designed for support and nothing else. Beige and white and black and one gray that I haven’t worn in recent memory. No variety. I bought them at fifteen and they’re small in weird places and saggy in weirder places. They don’t make me feel sexy or feminine or any of the things a good bra should. Which means I will have to endure one more hardship before tomorrow night (that’s what I’ve decide on: tomorrow is the big night). I will go shopping for bras and probably matching underwear. For the first time in three years, I will leave school and go to the mall instead of work (I’ve been given the night of a poetry reading off for the first time in recorded history) and most likely enter a Victoria’s Secret, as much as the notion abhors me.
Glancing briefly at the clock as my time runs out, I wrestle on a beige bra and put on my one and only date dress, since Rhett decided this is a real date. It’s a flowing pinkish dress once described by Sky as ‘ultra femme date chic with a twist of hooker hooch’ for its see-through black lace hemming and straps. Under it, I wear a pair of black spandex biker shorts so when I inevitably fall, there will be no misplaced glances of my department store underwear. Keeping it classy.
Sky rings my doorbell at six thirty exactly and I dash down the steps wearing only socks. The vital decision of shoe choice has not yet been made because I haven’t been to a roller rink recently enough to remember what shoes to where.
I throw open the door, my hair in a slightly damp bun, and Sky’s eyes pop open. “Nice look, you dirty ho. You planning on doing the four-legged-frolic with Dr. Love?”
I roll my eyes, reminding myself once agai
n on buying the female equivalent of a douchebag jar for when she says things like that. Instead of reprimanding her, I ask, “What shoes should I go with?”
“Easy.” She clicks her tongue. “The psuedo-leather combat boots. Sexy and commanding. The perfect offset for your choice of dress.”
I nod and forage through the hall closet until I find them. Then I spend a good minute lacing the boots up to my shins before we slip out the door and into her car. Rhett’s in the back seat waiting for me, his long legs cramped behind Sky’s seat. He wears the black tee shirt I love him in because his muscles barely show through under the navy blazer, a fashion choice Sky would reprimand him for.
For the first time since she’s owned the thing, Sky has cleaned the car, inside and out, and the music she’s playing is a tasteful blend of soft and classic rock. She must have it bad for this Brian kid.
“What did you do this afternoon?” I ask lightly, hoping he’ll get flustered.
“Well, ah.” He shuffles uncomfortably and replies, “Sky and I had a rousing conversation on the way over here.”
“I bet.” I slide to the middle seat so my bare thigh touches his jeans. “What about?”
Rhett turns the table on me. “We talked about sex and, more specifically, how to prepare for such things.” My face flushes red despite my best wishes otherwise. He continues casually, “I learned, for example, that your mom put you on birth control at fourteen because she was afraid you would, and I quote directly here, ‘profane Jesus and all the angels in heaven by shamelessly advertising the fact that you have had intercourse.’”
Sky slams on the breaks in shock that he’d admit this to me. Exasperated, I exclaim, “I cannot believe you told him that story! I swear to god, I’d smack you on the back of the head right now if you weren’t directly responsible for my life.”
She shrugs modestly. “It’s a good story.”
“I also learned-”
“God no,” I protest, fearful of where this could go. Sky, being my best friend, has heard stories about me nobody else has. She has some hardcore blackmail material locked away in the vault of our friendship and would easily give that away to a well-meaning boyfriend.
He laughs and puts an arm around me. “She told me an obviously falsified story including you, a boy in my calculus class, excessive amounts of alcohol, and a badly timed sneeze.”
I shoot Sky a death glare in the mirror and confess sheepishly, “That one’s true, actually.”
“Seriously?” His eyes widen as he looks me over as if seeing me for the first time. “I hadn’t exactly pegged you as the type for…”
“Worshipping at the downstairs altar? Playing the skin flute?” As Rhett trails off, Sky jumps in with a well-placed euphemism as usual.
I groan and put my head in my hands and Rhett cracks up laughing at her stereotypically boyish humor. Then, he tilts my head up to his and kisses me softly. “You’re adorable when you’re embarrassed, you know that?”
“I’m not adorable,” I argue.
“Prove it,” he mumbles against my lips.
Sky protests loudly as we pull up in front of Brian’s average suburban household. “No sexual activity in the back of my car!”
Rhett mutters, “No promises.”
I giggle, kiss Rhett one more time, and return to the middle, my head on his shoulder and his hand on my cold thigh. When Brian slides in to the front seat, we greet him pleasantly enough. I take immediate notice of three things. 1) He hasn’t worn anything formal, thank god, 2) he doesn’t carry any gifts, flowers or jewelry or otherwise, and 3) he doesn’t try to kiss her when she smiles hello. Good.
“So,” he says awkwardly, folding his long limbs against the dashboard, “roller skating. Fair warning, I’m terrible. I’ll fall at least a dozen times before the night is over.”
“I’ll be there to help you up,” Sky assures him.
This is the brilliance of the roller skating first date. I figured out very early on in Sky’s lengthy dating career that the best place to get to know one another is at the local rink. First of all, it’s romantic. Cute music plays the whole time, the lights are dim, and there’s ample opportunity for innocent contact such as hand holding. Secondly, it opens you up. Nothing quite like falling on your butt and watching the guy you’re interested fall on his butt to break the ice. And potentially a tailbone. Third, both parties will be hungry by the end of a good skating session, so dinner is encouraged if not mandatory. Added bonuses to the base genius: it isn’t expensive, there are always machines to win each other stuffed animals and such, and the DJ generally demands a couple’s skate.
Personally, I’ve never been able to use the rink date tactic until now, and I’m excited to make sure it works not only for Sky but for me and Rhett. Then, maybe I can have the theory published in a dating advice column and hit it big. You never know.
Brian and Sky chat aimlessly and I turn my attention to Rhett. His index finger is tracing small figure eights over the skin above my knee, leaving tingling circles in its wake. The motion is distracting and captivating to the point where I barely notice the car stop outside the roller rink. Rhett kisses me head to catch my attention and we slip out the side door. The low-lying gray cement building disguises the rink in a perfect act of deception.
Rhett’s hand cradles mine as Brian holds the door open for the three of us. We’re suddenly immersed under the glow of black lights and standing on the swirling space pattern of the carpet.
“Your hair is amazing,” Rhett laughs like a child as he runs a hand through it and down my neck.
I look up from under my bangs and see that my hair blazes a bright, luminescent orange. Sky shrugs apologetically at my fearsome glare. I’m the only one glowing as, apparently, everyone has gone for clothing choice lacking in white or neon. Around us, though, are children twirling in quick gleams of light across the slick wooden floor.
We walk up as a group to the shoe counter, where a man with tattoos apparently made from glowing, black light-friendly ink stands handing out skates. Each of us pays separately and receives shoes. When it’s my turn, I meekly announce my shoe size and receive a standard white pair with four neon pink wheels. Rhett’s have blue wheels while Sky and Brian both got green.
Once we’re laced up (Rhett kindly helps with mine when I struggle), Brian suggests, “Why don’t we meet back here in an hour for dinner?”
“Done.”
They head off in the direction of the main rink cutely. Brian helps to stabilize Sky when she trips and I watch them until they’re out of sight and I’m left with Rhett on the glowing purple chairs. I don’t want to stand and flail across the floor while Rhett’s there. Alas.
“My lady?” Rhett offers me a hand, which I gratefully take. He pulls me to my wobbly feet and we slide-step across the floor. His laugh rumbles out the whole way and he makes a comment about how I look like a baby giraffe, the truth of which makes me smile.
As we approach the light wood oval, I appreciate it for its complex beauty. Neon lights dance around the room, bouncing off the walls and floor as they’re projected outward from the ceiling. They cast warmth over the faces of smiling children and flustering old people. At the top of the oval, there’s a black DJ booth where a petite woman jams to the bright pop music blaring from wall speakers. The chaos of the scene has a dissonant harmony that can only be seen from the outside.
Carefully, we cross the barrier between the Plexiglas half-wall and the rink and I nearly fall right then as the floor decreases any and all friction stopping me from toppling onto my butt.
“You’re pathetic,” Rhett grins. He removes his hand from mine and places it against the small of my back to stop me from colliding with the floor.
“Why are you so good at this?” I sigh as he glides effortlessly next to me.
When he smiles in reply, the lights play over his face and make his amber eyes shine breathlessly. “I have four younger siblings and I’ve had to entertain on almost no cash them for a lon
g time.”
“Ah.” I think of nodding but realize it’d throw off my equilibrium as my fingers clutch the railing. “Well, I am perhaps the clumsiest roller-skating advocate alive today.”
He chuckles, puts his other hand on my waist, and turns my body toward his. “That’s one thing about you I can fix. Do you trust me?”
Like we’re about to die and not about to leave the child rail. I tease, “Maybe a little.”
“That’s enough,” he replies, sure of himself.
Then he guides me slowly into the flow of skating traffic. Soon enough, we’re moving forward at a reasonable pace, somewhere between the speed of dragged-along soccer moms and their darting children. I’m focused on moving my legs one at a time and smoothly enough for me to glide instead of startling, as Rhett instructs. My fingers clamp over Rhett’s tightly and I worry fleetingly that I’m holding on too tight. He’ll get over it.
The DJ comes over the speakers, “Time for our Rink ‘n’ Roll’s nightly couple’s skate! Grab someone of your preferred gender and take ‘em for whirl!”
Rhett looks around as if for another partner, then turns back to me. “Guess I’ll have to settle for you.”
“Watch yourself, Tressler; I could easily find another date.”
“I have no doubt,” he replies, “considering your sparkling wit and thrillingly effulgent hair.”
I take his hands so we’re facing each other as we begin to skate slowly in circles and ask, “Effulgent?”
“Luminescent or bright.” He smiles and his teeth almost glow under the black lights. “Using my SAT vocab words for once.”
“And they said those eight hundred dollar courses wouldn’t be worth it,” I joke.
“In seriousness, you would never leave me for someone else in a couple’s skate.”
“And why is that?”
He smirks and smoothes a piece of hair behind my ears. “Because you’re romantic-comedy in love with me, obviously.”
“To the contrary,” I reply sarcastically as we lose our footing a moment, “I believe this is more of a classic film noir romance.”
Love in the Time of Cynicism Page 21