Our Demented Play Date

by Kat Fletcher

  Rachel’s mom. Just thinking about the name Rachel sends this nervous feeling through my entire body. Then I remember I’m not in her league and it’s depressing.

  My mom drives us around sightseeing. It’s boring. I mean, it’s beautiful and all, but there’s only so much you can say about a mansion or a park with a windmill. The beach is beautiful, but you can swim at it. Eventually, we get hungry and Mom stops for lunch at this little sandwich place. It’s pretty nice, and overlooks this river right where it flows into the ocean. You can watch the boats going in and out of the marina. The only problem is there’s a long line of people waiting for a seat. Beautiful as the spot is, I’m not sure it’s worth waiting an hour for a table sort of beautiful.

  Mom thinks it is though, so we wait and after fifteen minutes, we’re able to get a nice spot and sit down. I order a Diet Coke and this weird vegetarian thing with cheese and hummus. It’s really good, and eating it while watching this incredible yacht go out of the channel, I begin to consider my mother may not have been crazy making us wait in line.

  For her part, she gets something weird with turkey and cranberry sauce named after a dead pilgrim and I mentally cringe. She’s so doing the Cape Cod thing. I remember this from our last vacation here a few years ago. Suddenly she pulls out of her phone and I start to roll my eyes because I’m certain she’s going to take some kind of horrible Cape Cod Vacation Mother and Daughter selfie. She wonders why I don’t use Facebook anymore.

  Thankfully, I’m wrong and she’s checking voicemail. “That was your dad. We’re going out with the Gills for dinner,” she announces. “I guess they stopped by last night. You should have told us.”

  “Sorry, I spaced out,” I say trying to kind of avoid thinking about the real reasons I didn’t mention it.

  “Did you meet their daughter?”

  I’m in the middle of a sip and almost choke on the Diet Coke. Do we have to talk about this? It was bad enough when I thought she’d be someone at least something like me, but now I don’t know what to think.

  “Yeah, I met her,” I say, trying to sound casual.

  “We were hoping you girls would get along and the vacation wouldn’t be quite as dull. She’s your age?”

  “Yeah, but she’s different.” I silently smirk thinking about it. She’s different in some ways, but in some of the others, we have a whole lot in common. Unfortunately, the things we share are probably going to freak my parents out completely.

  “Different?” my mother asks with a leading tone.

  Oh God, Mom. Why do you need to drag this out? Can’t she tell I don’t want to talk about it? Of course, that’s exactly what’s going on. She’s latched onto my discomfort and wants to know what the deal is, so obviously it’s the thing we absolutely have to talk about. Because: Parents.

  “She dresses different than my friends. Kind of punky. She’s just…different.”

  “Well, different doesn’t mean you can’t get along.”

  “She’s gay,” I blurt out.

  My mother looks thoughtful for a moment. “I think your father mentioned that. How do you feel about that?”

  “It’s cool,” I say, trying to keep the answer as short as possible.

  “Justin’s gay and he’s your best friend.”

  “It’s cool,” I repeat, hoping she’ll figure out it’s something I don’t want to get into and let me not talk about it.

  “Good, you won’t have to be dragged around by me and be bored to death.”

  “Today wasn’t boring.” I try to make it sound sincere, but it’s one of the least convincing lies I’ve ever told. I’m nearly always a terrible liar. I know that and instead I’ve practiced the advanced art of not telling a lie while avoiding the truth completely.

  Chapter 4

  The sun is starting to get lower in the sky and I spend like an hour trying things on, desperate to figure out what I’m going to wear to dinner. Sierra does this all the time. I think it’s stupid and it’s something I never ever do, but suddenly I’m doing it anyway.

  I try to tell myself it’s not because I want Rachel to think I’m cool, but like I’ve said, I’m a terrible liar and I’m no better at lying to myself. I want her to like me, but I finally realize I’m never going to be cool like her and nothing I own is going to suddenly change who I am. Why should I care anyway? I put back on the same things I was already wearing: jeans and this nice T-shirt with a flower pattern on it. There’s nothing wrong with it. I got it at the mall.

  I don’t think Rachel shops at the mall. I’m not sure she’d be caught dead in a mall. She’s going to think I’m a complete idiot.

  My parents call me down and again I go through the ritual of asking to drive and being refused. We drive the whole thousand feet from our rental to theirs and stop to pick them up.

  I look out the window and Rachel is as amazing as I remembered. She’s wearing this short black denim jacket, narrowly tailored and with a zipper instead of buttons. Her jeans are just as skinny as yesterday, but instead of the Chucks she’s got these incredibly cute ankle-length boots. And another weird touch: when she turns the right way, I can see something glowing under her jacket. A pendant or something, but it’s actually glowing faintly blue.

  The two of us are exiled to the way-back third seat of the SUV where the groceries and whatever usually live. Unfortunately, those seats are folded down and I didn’t think to put them up before we left. So, I’m kneeling on the car floor between the middle seats with everyone looking at my butt while I try to get them back up. Of course, the longer it takes, the more I’m self-conscious about looking like an idiot because I can’t get a car seat up and that makes it even harder to concentrate and that means it takes even longer and longer.

  Finally, I get them back in place and slump into the leather seat, wishing I would keep sinking straight through the floor.

  “Hey,” Rachel says as she slides in next to me.

  I mouth “hey” and wave, feeling stupid even while I do it. I stuff my earbuds in and try to act as if I’m not paying attention, but her presence is palpable. No matter how I try to play it cool, I can’t help myself and keep trying to steal glances. Of course, if you’re trying to look without anyone noticing, it’s absolutely certain that’s exactly the second they’re going to glance back at you and, sure enough, Rachel catches me. She throws me a glance as if to ask what I’m looking at and I busy myself rearranging the playlist on my phone.

  My parents picked the restaurant and it’s like a clam shack sort of place that’s grown up. There’s a line out the door. My mom gives me a little sign that I need to take the earbuds out and I know she’s right, but I want to retreat from this whole thing because it’s too surreal. The line to the hostess takes forever and the whole time Rachel and her parents are behind me. I feel like she’s watching me, judging me, and I’m sure I’m not going to come up to standard somehow.

  When the line moves, I take a step, and want to turn around and say something to her. Then, I think I’ll look stupid if I do, so I wait and keep ignoring her. It’s awful. Thankfully, before I completely collapse in a nervous heap, we get to the hostess and my father holds up the requisite number of fingers, using both hands, and says firmly, “Table for six.”

  The woman looks at her computer and back at us. “Let me see.” She taps her fingers against the register. “I’m sorry, we just seated two larger parties and I can’t do six for at least forty-five minutes, but…” she casts a glance at the adults, then at me and Rachel, “if you don’t mind sitting apart, there’s an open four and a double, and I could seat you right now.”

  “That’ll be fine,” my father says and turns to me. “You two girls can sit together and you won’t need to listen to our boring conversation.”

  Rachel shrugs and nods and I do the same. Way to go, Dad. Dinner with someone who thinks I’m a dork and with whom I’ve exchanged exactly two words, both of them being “hey.” Not awkward at all.

  We wait while she seats o
ur parents, then Rachel and I follow her to a small table in the corner. I sit down and feel awkward as I try to get my jacket off without standing up again. She has no such troubles. Before sitting, she takes hers off with a flourish and effortlessly swings it so it’s hanging on the chair. I know absolutely and categorically that it will still be hanging there when we finish dinner. Me? I’m already reaching down to find mine where it slipped off and fell on the floor.

  “Well, since our dear old moms and dads abandoned us, maybe we should do a reintroduction. I’m Rachel,” she extends her hand.

  “Sarah,” I smile at her, taking her hand for a second and pulling away nervously.

  Out of the blue, she asks in this confident, but slightly annoyed voice, “Am I that scary?”

  She pauses and I answer with a shrug, looking around the restaurant rather than at her face. I pick up a menu, trying to avoid the whole thing, but as I scan the offerings, the silence slowly goes from merely awkward to outright rude. I sneak a look at her and she has a completely disgusted face.

  “Come on Sarah,” she laughs, “They’re going to stick us together for the next two weeks. If we have to serve time together, let’s have some fun. Orange is the New Black after all? Or maybe you don’t have Netflix?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say and shrug again. I know I’m totally blowing this and I don’t want to, but I can’t think of anything better. In addition to how stunning I find her looks, the fact she’s being so nice to me leaves me unable to piece together more than a couple of words.

  “Or is it you don’t like gay people?” she asks in an icy voice.

  “No!” I object, shocked out of my nervousness.

  “So that’s it? You don’t like me because I’m gay? Or you’ve never met a lesbian before?”

  “No,” I insist, “I don’t have a problem with gay people. Why would you even ask that?”

  “You were staring at my necklace yesterday like you were utterly freaked out and, sorry, but you’re sort of being rude tonight. I thought you had problems with us.”

  “You thought wrong,” I snap.

  Great, first she thought I was this little twit and now she thinks I’m a homophobic bitch. I’m winning hearts and minds. Worse, while I think about it, the horrible silence is back and we’re carefully studying our menus. I’m not even reading it, just trying to hide and compose myself.

  The waitress arrives at the table. “Can I get you two ladies anything to drink?”

  “Diet Coke?” I say, glad for the respite.

  “Sure thing. And you?” she looks at Rachel.

  “Root beer,” she says with confidence.

  I don’t think I’ve had root beer since I was twelve, but the minute she says it, I can’t believe how good it sounds and I must have one now.

  “Wait,” I blurt out. I know she’s going to think I’m imitating her and possibly she’d be right about that, but I’m already committed. “Can I get a root beer instead of the Diet Coke?”

  “Sure, hun. I’ll get you those right away and take your order,” she says and heads back to the kitchen.

  As soon as the server leaves, I tilt the menu down. “My best friend Justin is gay. He came out a little before prom this year and we went together. I don’t have problems with gay people.”

  “Really?” her whole voice has changed. The practiced arrogance is broken and she sounds surprised and even enthusiastic. The thought drifts through my head that maybe, just maybe, I’m going to survive dinner. “I mean, that’s cool,” she says. “I’m sorry, if I thought you were homophobic.”

  At this point she leans her head forward. “You are acting weird though. I’m just trying to figure it out.”

  I shake my head. “I’m tired and…”

  “And didn’t want to get dragged to Cape Cod for two weeks? I hear that.”

  “And be forced to hang out with you.” The instant the words leave my mouth, I’m horrified. Why can’t life be like texting where you can edit something before you press send?

  “Gee, thanks,” she replies dryly. I look at her, but she’s not upset. Instead she’s got a little smirk on her face.

  I lick my lips to give myself a moment to figure out what to say. “It’s not you,” I start. “It’s the whole ‘go hang around with this person you don’t know because it’s convenient.’ It’s like some kind of demented play date.”

  My joke is rewarded with a smile. I think it’s the first smile I’ve seen from her. It changes her whole appearance and I think I like Smiling Rachel more than Disaffected Rachel.

  “A demented play date?” She nods her head in approval. “Good way of putting it. I like your shirt,” she says matter-of-factly. “It’s pretty.”

  OMG. Is she flirting with me?

  I’ve read novels where someone’s heart skips a beat and I swear it actually happens when she says this. I’m pretty? Or my clothes are pretty? Perhaps trying on so many things was only mildly instead of completely stupid. Except I hadn’t actually worn anything I’ve tried on.

  My logical mind remembers the millions of times Sierra and I told each other something looked cute. It doesn’t have to be flirting, no matter how much I’d like it to be. I still think it sounded like flirting though—something in her voice and how she said it. I’m going to go with that because it makes me happy even if it’s not very likely.

  I think about complementing her, but I can’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound pathetic. Instead, I purse my lips and wave the menu. “Do you have any idea what’s good here?”

  “Are you asking me to order for you?” she asks. I think it’s a joke. I’m sure it’s a joke. I laugh. She smiles. So I was right!

  My God. She is flirting.

  Or not? Is that how girls flirt? I mean. I know how girls flirt with a boy, but not when they’re doing it with another girl. Is it the same? Different? I wish I’d gone to those Rainbow Alliance meetings after school. They must run workshops on this stuff. “How to be a lesbian” or something. The only thing I know about how lesbians act around one another is sneaking viewings of The L-Word on my tablet and somehow, that’s not really helpful in real life.

  “I’ve never been here before,” she says, then her voice drops to nearly a whisper and she leans over the table conspiratorially, “but I say we go for the fried.” She puts an emphasis on the last two words: The Fried. The look on her face is lascivious and all I can think of is how much I’d give for her to have that kind of look about me instead of deep-fried fish.

  “Okay, I’m convinced. Fish and chips,” I say. It’s a relief she’s not vegan or gluten-free or eats only radishes with cole slaw dressing or something. I love my junk food and I always end up embarrassing myself around people who have some kind of dietary thing going on.

  “Fried clams for me,” she replies, closing the menu. “With the squishy bellies. Love ‘em.”

  “Squishy?” I laugh. “Sorry, but that sounds sort of—well, disgusting.”

  “It takes some getting used to, but a lot of great things do,” she says and raises her eyebrows meaningfully.

  Okay, there’s not much room for interpretation there. That’s flirting. I just glance around the restaurant and try to think of something to keep up my half of the conversation when the waitress returns and puts down two large red plastic glasses on the table. I notice the foam from the root beer and I’m glad I changed even if I probably looked stupid.

  The server whips out her pad and we give her our order, along with a last minute addition of onion rings from Rachel, then we spend a few minutes making chit chat about the restaurant. I’m still feeling awkward, but she bravely holds up both sides of the conversation, making fun of some of the little fake-nautical touches and the tourists. I sip my root beer and laugh at her jokes, probably a little more than I should. At least, I manage not to play with my hair or something ludicrously obvious.

  “So, where do you go to school?” she asks.

  “Sumner,” I reply. “What about you?
”

  “I live in North Ridge, but I go to Valley Arts.”

  “The Charter School? That’s cool. Some kids from Sumner transferred there.”

  Her going to Arts explains a lot. I’ve always liked the kids I knew who went there, but it has the reputation for being a freak school. There’s lots of goth kids who dress in black and that kind of thing. There was even a rumor going around Sumner last year that a friend of a friend went to an Arts party and it turned into an orgy. I’m not sure why that’s worse than everyone puking beer at a keg party like we have at our school, but apparently it is.

  I don’t mention the rumors of an orgy to Rachel. “Is it a good school? Like, if you’re gay?” Oh Sarah, I think to myself, you’re being so subtle.

  “Yeah, I guess. Why are you asking about that anyway?” Her voice is all suspicious again and she’s looking at me in this weird way, like I’m a bug or something.

  “Sorry, just wondering. We have the Rainbow Alliance. It’s a GSA and stuff, but Justin’s gotten a hard time from some kids. Wondering if you had problems there or anything.”

  “Is that your gay friend?” she asks. “Justin?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Valley is chill about everything,” she says with assurance. “Everyone is weird and nobody spends a lot of time worrying about who you want to sleep with. I guess I take it for granted. It’s nice you’re supporting your friend. It’s important. So how’s Sumner? Nice people? Any boyfriends?”

  “No, Justin hasn’t dated anyone.”

  She laughs then takes a sip of her root beer. “I meant you Sarah.”

  “Oh,” I blush. “No. No boyfriend at the moment. Justin and I went to prom. As friends. You know.”

  “Good,” she says and there’s a long pause. “You know. Good you went with your friend.”

  I tense up with fear and can myself blushing. She’s absolutely flirting. What do I do? Or maybe she’s not. Maybe she’s making fun of me instead? I don’t think she is though. If she was the same Way Too Cool Girl Rachel I thought, she’d make fun of me, but she’s not what I expected. She’s actually pretty normal.