Boy Minus Girl (6 page)

Seduction Tip Number 5:

Lip Service

The next twenty-four hours are a blur. I’m too ecstatic to concentrate on anything. When people speak to me, their words sound like the
wha-wha
speak of adults in a
Peanuts
cartoon. I feel utterly validated. I have a date. I’m someone. I float through the halls of my school with a grin that won’t leave. When I pass Charity, I say, “See you tonight,” and she smiles and nods. I imagine my life with her as my girlfriend. Oh, the places we’ll go. . . . The stuff we’ll do to each other.

But as the day wears on, I melt into fear. How am I supposed to behave on a date? What do I talk about? Am I expected to kiss her? I don’t know how to kiss a real girl. I suddenly want to cancel and stay home and practice magic tricks until it’s time to watch Johnny Carson with my mom.

“Eckhardt, you look like you swallowed a toad,” Howard says to me at the lunch table. “You okay?”

I push my untouched plate of Salisbury steak away and glance at Charity, who is lunching at a table with two other girls. Coach Turkle appears in the doorway behind her and motions me into the gym with a jerk of his buzz-cut, anvil-shaped head. I shake my head. He motions again, turns, and walks out.

“Not today, Coach,” I say as I shuffle into the gym, my Nikes squeaking on the rubbery floor. “I don’t feel so hot.”

He pulls on the rope. “Unless you got somethin’ fatal, hop to it!” His voice echoes in the cavernous space.

I stop about five feet from the rope and say, “I’m going to level with you, Coach. It’s very nice you’re trying to help me and all, but I just don’t want to do this anymore. So, thanks anyway.”

“Son, I know damn well you weren’t trying to exercise when I came in here that first day and caught you on the rope,” he says. “I’ve been teaching phys ed for fifteen years. I know all about boys and ropes.”

I shake my head, even as my flaming face betrays me.

“You’re all revved up like an eight-cylinder Chevy on high-octane with no place to burn rubber,” he says. “Testosterone can drive a boy insane—I’ve seen it. ’Course there’s no replacement for self-gratification, but you can’t exactly do that at school, now can ya?”

Coach Turkle, who never seems to care about anything but his beloved football players, is talking to me about jerking off. This is simply unbelievable.

“Way I see it, working out channels that energy,” he says. “Takes the edge off, clears the mind. Now, you give me fifteen minutes every day till the end of the school year, and I guarantee you’ll feel a helluva lot more relaxed, and that’ll make you more confident with the girls. That’s what you want, right?”

Not only do I climb the rope to the Monkey Club three times, I do twenty push-ups and forty sit-ups. Thanks, Coach!

***

“Think of the first date as a reconnaissance mission,” Uncle Ray says. Seated in my desk chair, in nothing but his black silk boxer shorts, he curls a barbell in his right hand. “Don’t plan on getting lucky tonight. On this date you just want to gather information.”

Okay, I can do that. I’ll be like a detective. I’ll be Magnum, P.I.

“Where you taking her?” he asks.

“Bowling.”

He shakes his head as he switches the weight to his left hand.

“What!” I say. “This is Harker City. I’m limited.”

“A bowling alley is not romantic. What’s this chick like?”

“Well, she’s tall, with short black hair—”

“No, I mean, what’s she
like
? A cheerleader? Bookish?”

“I guess you’d say she’s the artistic type.”

“Artistic type? In Harker City? Kid, you’re striking out left and right. Okay. So, wear black and take her for a walk in a cemetery. And don’t wear cologne. And don’t comb your hair! Freak chicks go for the messy-haired type.

“Then, when you first see her tonight, tell her how good she looks,” he continues, and switches hands again. “Even the freaky ones love to hear that.”

“What do we talk about?”

“Too many guys waste the first date on chitchat or trying to be funny. And don’t—I repeat, don’t—talk about yourself! Remember, your objective is to find out what turns
her
on. So, first you’ll need to know if she’s a milk-chocolate type or a dark-chocolate type.”

“Huh?”

“Ask her if she prefers milk chocolate or dark chocolate. Have both on hand.”

“How will that help?”

“If she goes for the milk chocolate, then she’s the old-fashioned romantic type,” he explains. “She’ll require flowers and love notes before you’ll get her bra off. The dark-chocolate types are more aggressive and edgy. They like guys who will challenge them in some way. Be prepared to have some deep, passionate conversations about life and death with the dark-chocolate kind.”

“What if she doesn’t like any kind of chocolate?”

“What woman doesn’t like chocolate? Next, you gotta find out her other interests. What’s her favorite food? Does she like Sting or Billy Joel? Try to be casual and romantic in your questioning. Remember, you’ll use all this information on setting up the next date.”

“This is a lot to remember.”

“Right. So, Les, keep the date short. Always leave ’em wanting more.” He smiles at me and sets the barbell on the floor. “You’ll do fine, kid.”

Will I?

***

“You’re awfully dressed up for going over to Howard’s,” Mom says as she places the IGA circular and scissors on the kitchen table. From down the hall I hear the crackle of Dad’s ham radio.

“Well, I, uh, got to thinking,” I say. “The parsonage is an extension of the church, so I should look more formal when I go over there, right?”

“I suppose so, but black is so, well, morbid. Anyway, tell the reverend hello and be home by nine, dear.”

On my bike ride to Charity’s my heart keeps flip-flopping and I’m sweating so profusely that my shirt sticks to my chest and back like plastic wrap. My carefully sculpted hair is a punctured soufflé by the time I turn onto her street. Charity is sitting on the front porch, petting a cat curled around her left ankle. I hear the organ music coming from inside the house.

“Hi there,” I say as I hop off and put down the kickstand.

She looks up, smiling her stellar smile. “Booger!”

I
really
wish she’d stop calling me that.

“You look great,” I say.

She stands. “Thanks.”

The truth is she looks exactly as she did in school today, and I’m a little let down she hasn’t dressed up, changed, or something. Suddenly I feel overdressed, a little too eager-looking. She turns and yells through the screen door, “I’m going out for a while, Grandma!”

“Bye, dear.”

She bounces down the steps as I reach into my shirt pocket and remove the two Hershey bars, which I’m alarmed to discover have become quite soft. I hold up the sagging bars. “Would you like dark or milk chocolate?”

“Neither, thanks.”

“What?”

“I’m not a chocolate fan.”

Great. Now what?

She smiles. “Shall we hit the lanes?”

“I, uh, was thinking, seeing it’s such a nice evening out, how about we go for a walk in the cemetery instead?”

“Oh. Well, I was really looking forward to bowling.”

“It’s just so noisy and smoky in there.”

“I don’t mind,” she says. “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

Hmm . . . maybe Uncle Ray isn’t the expert on
all
women.

We start walking in the direction of downtown. A light breeze rustles the elms hovering above us.

“I haven’t bowled since I moved here,” she says. “You any good?”

“I’m okay, I guess.”

“Gee, you’re sure sweating a lot.”

To deflect from my dampness I ask, “Which do you like better, Sting or Billy Joel?”

She looks at me funny. “Duh,” she says, and throws up her hands. “Sting.”

“Really? Me too.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

In the distance a train engine moans its minor chord.

“What’s your favorite food?”

“Feel like I’m on a quiz show,” she says. “What’s with all the questions?”

“Sorry.”

“Booger?”

“Yeah?”

“You okay? You seem a little wound up.”

I force a grin. “Never been more relaxed. Really.”

Dear Jesus . . . it’s been four days since the Skin So Soft bottle. Help me! Amen.

We continue walking in silence, and I stare down at my feet.
Why did I get myself into this?

After about a minute she says, “Your dad delivered me.”

“Oh, really?”

She nods. “And your grandfather delivered my dad. Isn’t that wild?”

“Just don’t expect me to deliver your kids.”

“You don’t want to be a doctor?” she asks.

“No and no. My interests lie elsewhere.”
Quick, come up with some interests.

“Actually, I think I’d like to be a pediatrician. I love kids and I’m pretty good with science.”

“I’m not sure what I want to be.”

“Does your dad want you to be a doctor?”

“Definitely.”

“You shouldn’t be anything you don’t want to be,” she says. “That would be a huge mistake.”

We cross Arnold Street and start south on Broadway. My hometown’s main drag is devoid of cars.

“I forgot how quiet this town is,” she says.

“Oh, it might seem quiet on the surface, but behind every door on this street, I guarantee the telephone lines are buzzing: ‘Did you see Doc’s son with that girl who used to live here? Bet they’re an item.’ By the time I get home, half the town will have us engaged or expecting.”

“That’s kinda creepy.”

Does she mean she finds the idea of “us” creepy?

“That’s Harker City for you,” I add. “Nothing goes unnoticed, or uncommented upon.”

“Tell me something,” Charity says. “How do you not go out of your mind here? There’s no movie theater, no bookstores, no place to buy records.”

“You’ve lived here before.”

“Yeah, but I was a fifth grader. I didn’t know I wanted an interesting life.”

“Well, it’s not easy,” I admit, “but I guess I don’t miss any of those things ’cause I’ve never had them at my disposal.”

“How do you fill your weekends?” she asks. “I’m seriously curious.”

“Well, on Friday, when I return from my fencing lessons, my folks and I usually board the family Learjet. Sometimes we fly to New York to see a serious opera, or, if my dad’s feeling lucky, we’ll seriously wing out to Vegas. Last weekend we went to Paris just for a serious dinner.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Seriously,” I say, “I watch countless hours of TV, incessantly practice magic tricks, and hang out with my friend Howard.”

She takes this all in, then says, “What do people say about me at school?”

“They think you’re kinda . . . eccentric.”

“You mean weird?”

I shrug. “Look, Harker City Junior High just isn’t used to girls who dress like you and say what they think. I wouldn’t take it personally.
I
like the way you dress and act.”

Actually, I love it.

“Y’know, I thought things would be different when I moved back. But most of my old friends act as if I think I’m better than they are because I lived in St. Louis for three and a half years. I mean, I guess I’m not the exact same person I was back then: I’m not interested in talking for hours about what guys I find cute, I don’t listen to Air Supply, and I don’t particularly like to gossip, but that doesn’t mean I look down on anybody.”

“I’ll be your friend” shoots out of my mouth—whoa!—where did that come from? “And I can’t stand Air Supply.”

She grins a little. “You’re sweet.”

Okay, so far so . . . good? But “you’re sweet” sounds like “you’re a good little boy,” not “take me now!”

We are walking through our deserted downtown. Out of the blue Charity tells me that her mother has left her dad for her boss, a well-to-do St. Louis orthodontist.

“My dad was devastated,” she says. “They’d been together since high school. He really loved her. I had a feeling my mom was screwing Dr. Kilmer. I mean, how many dental hygienists work till ten on a Saturday night?”

“Is that why you moved back?”

She hesitates. “Not the big reason.”

Oh, really?
But I don’t press.

“Do you miss your mom?”

“No, sadly. We don’t get along. She always thought I sided with my dad on everything, which is completely true. But I do miss Lauren a lot.”

“Lauren?”

“My best friend, the one with the twenty-year-old cat. We talk every night on the phone, and write each other daily, but it’s still torture being away from her.”

“Wow. That’s some deep friendship.”

“Yeah, it is.”

For the next two blocks Charity tells me about how her grandfather died last fall of a heart attack and how now her grandmother is totally depressed. “I think our moving in with her has been good for her,” she says. “She has someone to cook for and look after. She needs that right now.”

I realize I’m not sweating so much anymore. The pressure of the date seems to have suddenly evaporated. Talking to Charity is like talking to Howard in a way—the conversation is effortless. Her sentences are peppered with words not commonly uttered in Dickerson County: “phenomenal,” “epitomized,” “vapid.” I keep reminding myself about what Uncle Ray said about not allowing myself to fall into her “friend” category, about keeping it romantic. Can we be friendly
and
romantic?

After picking out our bowling balls and exchanging shoes, we settle into the far right lane. And she proceeds to kick my ass. I lob and gutter, repeatedly.

“Want some pointers?” she asks.

“Uh, okay.”

With an athlete’s grace, Charity demonstrates how I’m to swing my arms, place my feet, and make a follow-through motion once I’ve pitched the ball. Her sexy movements elevate bowling to high art. Every time she turns around to offer me another tip, my pulse speeds up—just like that first day she walked into Mrs. Crockmeister’s class. I can’t believe this beautiful girl is on a date with me, Mr. Toucan Nose. I especially love how when she bends down to pick up the bowling ball, she always hooks her hair behind her ear.