Stuck in the 70's (11 page)

The Gap is our first stop at the mall. I pick out 501 jeans for him, a flannel shirt, and brown corduroy pants. The corduroy kills me, but I have to go with what’s in now.

He points to a rack of polyester pants.

I shake my head. “Even I have my limits. I know polyester is in style now for some insane reason, but, like, gross. Let’s get you some surfer clothes.”

“But I don’t surf.”

“That’s irreverent, Tyler. Or however you say that word.”

“Irrelevant.”

“Whatever. You d on’t need to surf to buy the clothes.” I walk into Ocean Pacific, pull out a ruddy Hawaiian shirt, and put it up to Tyler.

He gives me the hang ten sign. “An excellent choice. You’re a positive fountain of knowledge.”

“ Don’t talk so fancy. Just say, like, ‘you rock’ or ‘thanks.’”

“ You’re a rock. Thanks. To show my gratitude, let me use the coins you d idn’t steal from me to buy you lunch.”

“Just say, ‘Buy you lunch?’”

He points to me. “Lunch?”

“Much better. And, yeah, lunch would be great. But I can pay for myself, at least. I still have six dollars left from what I took from you.”

Tyler rolls his eyes. “ You’re paying with my money.” “But you realize this is not a date, right?”

“ You’ve said that twice today. I realize.”

We go to an Italian place inside the mall. I get a side of spaghetti, salad, and a Tab. They d on’t have lite dressing. I d on’t know if it’s been invented yet.

As we sit across from each other, twirling our pasta, making each other laugh, I’m not sure why this is not a date and why I didn’t want it to be one. Tyler keeps putting his fingers through his hair, like he’s not used to the new ’do. I’m tempted to smooth out his hair myself.
This is not a date,
I remind myself and look away.

At the next table, two of Rick’s skinny b lond-g irl friends are sipping sodas. “Look to your left real fast, but d on’t stare,” I tell Tyler. “Two popular girls from school are sitting right next to you.”

He whips his head around and then back to me. “Wow. I hope they d on’t see me.”

“Are you crazy? I thought you wanted to be popular.”

“They call me and Evie ‘Dip’ and ‘Drip.’”

“That was before your brow tweeze and haircut. I bet you were wearing dorky clothes then too.”

He shrugs. “I guess.”

“Ask them if they want to sit with us.”

“Me?”

“No, your invisible friend next to you. Of course you.”

“I . . . I c an’t.”

“Listen. I didn’t tweeze your eyebrows, research the perfect 1978 haircut for you, and spend the last hour and a half with you at the mall to hear you say you c an’t.”

He sighs. “I guess I have to, huh?”

“Move it. Oh, wait. Hold on.” I adjust his feathered hair around his face. Touching him does nothing for me. This is definitely not a date. “Okay, ask them.”

Tyler clears his throat, then reaches over and taps the girl next to him on her bony shoulder.“I’d be honored if you charming ladies here—”

I kick his foot.

“I meant to say: Sit with us?”

The girl looks him over so long and so carefully, I half expect her to pull open his mouth to inspect his teeth. “Who are you?” she finally asks.

“Far-out,” says her friend. “It’s Tyler Gray. He looks totally different.” She talks about him as if he’s not, like, two feet away from her. “Did he get a haircut or something?”

“I like it,” says the first girl.

“It’s like Shaun Cassidy’s hair without highlights,” says the other girl. They both laugh at the same time and in the same way, little head bobs and quiet giggles with their lotioned, manicured hands over, but not touching their mouths. Just like my 2006 friends.

“Hey, Shay Saunders,” the girl near me says. “Bitchin’ dress.”

“Thanks.” It’s Mrs. Gray’s castoff, which I dyed in a huge pot of tea and shrank in the dryer.

“Let’s sit with them,” her friend says.

As they slide into our booth, they introduce themselves. T hey’re Debbie M. and Debbie P. “We call ourselves the Double Ds,” Debbie M says.

Double D my ass. More like a generous C. But Tyler’s gaze goes right to her chest and dawdles there.

“You want to get some ice cream, Ty Ty?” Debbie M. tongues her upper lip almost as if she’s flirting with him.

I ’ve eaten at least 500 calories at lunch. “How about frozen yogurt instead?” I suggest.

The girls do their identical giggles again.

“Gross,” Debbie M. says.

“Grody,” Debbie P. says.

“What’s the point of freezing yogurt?” Tyler asks.

“Good one, Ty Ty,” Debbie M. says. She actually bats her eyelashes at him.

Gawd. “Well, I d on’t want ice cream.”

“That’s okay,” Tyler says like I don’t matter.

As soon as we get to Swensen’s at the food court, Debbie M. says, “Ooh, w ouldn’t it be awesome to share a cone? We could each pick a flavor and get a triple scoop.”

“ I’ll buy!” Tyler yelps before I even have time to roll my eyes.

He pays for the ice cream and holds it up like a trophy. “Who wants the first lick of my cone?”

I’m not sure whether his double tundra or whatever is on purpose.

Debbie M. grabs his ice cream cone, keeps it an inch from her mouth, sticks her tongue out, and slowly licks it.

“You should get paid for that,” I mutter.

Tyler’s mouth is open so wide, I’m tempted to smash the entire damn cone into it.

“Mom, I’m at a
pay phone at Valley Mall,” I tell her. “Can I please use your car a little longer than I’d asked for? Shopping is taking more time than expected.” I don’t tell her that I just made a movie date with three pretty girls and that I’m hoping to hold Shay’s hand in the theater.

“Ty Ty.” Debbie M. walks into the phone booth.

I back away to the rear wall of the booth, but she follows me.

“How much time, dear?” Mom asks.

“Uh . . .”

Debbie M. keeps pressing forward. She has a spot of ice cream on her nose. It’s either wild cherry or chocolate. “Like what you see, Ty Ty?”

“Tyler, are you there?” Mom asks.

I step to the side. “Uh, I’ll be home around five o’clock, okay?”

Debbie M. steps to the side too and moves in even closer to me.

“I suppose that’s all right,” Mom says.

“Great. Thanks.” I hang up the phone.

“Shay said you two aren’t on a date,” Debbie M. says.

“You asked?”

“She told us. Twice.” She holds two fingers up, then puts them on my chest.

Is Debbie M. actually coming on to me? She’s standing so close now, I can tell it’s wild cherry ice cream on her nose.

She leans her head into my chest, right above her fingers. “Did you hear me and Mike broke up last night at John’s party?”

Holy smoke, I definitely think Debbie M. is coming on to me.

“We need to go if we want to see the movie.” Shay walks toward us. Her arms are crossed and she’s frowning. If I didn’t know her better, I’d say she was jealous.

I make sure to sit next to Shay in the mall theater. I ignore the smell of popcorn around me so I can take in her warm cinnamon aroma. We share a box of Raisinets and our hands accidentally touch. It feels perfect. If I believed in that stuff, I’d call it karma.

As soon as the first preview airs, for
Rocky II,
Shay says, “They don’t show ads?”

“Advertisements in movie theaters?” I ask. “That makes no sense. No one would pay two dollars for a ticket if they had to watch commercials first.”

“You’re right,” Shay says. “A lot of people would stop going to theaters if they pulled crap like that.”

“It also makes no sense that they’re doing a sequel to
Rocky,”
I tell her. “The first one was good, but no one will watch another
Rocky
movie.”

“You’d be surprised.” She laughs. It’s sexy.

I’m so close to taking her hand. I just need half an ounce more nerve.

When the preview for
Superman the Movie
comes on, showing Superman carrying Lois Lane through the night sky, I get up a quarter ounce of nerve and whisper, “Maybe we can see that together.”

She sniffs, not a haughty sniff, but one sounding like she’s holding back tears.

I wonder if this is the time to take her hand. But I don’t want it to seem like a mercy hold. “What’s the matter?” I ask her.

“Superman. Christopher Reeve.”

On the other side of me, Debbie P. says, “What a hunk,” and Debbie M. says, “Love those tights,” and both of them giggle again.

“You don’t understand. The poor guy was in such good shape. I can’t watch him.” Shay gets up, passes me and the Double Ds, and walks up the aisle. The girls follow her.

I call Shay’s name, but she’s almost at the door, with the Double Ds right behind her. So I sit by myself through the previews, unsure what to do and what to make of everything going on. I lied to my mom again, Debbie M. seems to like me, and Shay is panicked about Superman.

Carpe diem
, I tell myself.
Or, as Shay says, caveat emptor. Seize the day, buyer beware, you’re going to hold Shay’s hand.

Grease
has already started by the time the girls return. I don’t hear Shay sniffling anymore, so maybe she’s okay. She smells different now, lemony. Maybe it’s from the bathroom soap.

Carpe diem,
I tell myself.
Carpe her hand.

I take a deep breath, then grab it.

Her hand seems colder and smaller and rougher than I imagined. But because I know it’s Shay’s, it feels great.

She squeezes my hand in return.

Shazam! This date, October 1, 1978, will go down in history as the best day of my life.

“Pass the Raisinets,” Shay says.

She sounds far away.

Uh-oh. I look down at the hand I’m squeezing, follow it up to a skinny arm, a short neck, and then to the horsey face of Debbie M.

Yikes! The girls switched seats!

Debbie M. passes the Raisinets box to Shay. Then she puts her hand on my knee. Her hand travels to the inside of my thigh, on a slow, exploratory trip.

Exactly how many fingers does Debbie M. have? Enough to keep my leg very happy.

Just when I’m certain my left thigh will be in a permanent state of nirvana, she moves onto my right thigh. Then her hand roams my hips, my chest, and just about everywhere else that won’t get us arrested. Though my gaze stays glued to the screen through the end of
Grease,
I have no idea what the movie is about. But I do enjoy the theatergoing experience.

When it’s over, Debbie M. takes my hand again as we walk up the aisle. This time I don’t resist. I can’t resist. In fact, I can barely move.

“Let’s go home,” Shay snaps.

Debbie M. drops my hand, blows me a kiss, and calls out, “Bye-bye, Ty Ty.”

“Later,” Shay says as she rushes out of the theater.

Shay seems jealous, I held the wrong girl’s hand, and my thighs are practically numb. What an awesome day.

17

“Thanks for an awesome
day,” Tyler gushes while he drives home.

“Yeah, whatever.” I sneak a look at his face, intent on the road ahead, the face Debbie M. obviously thinks is all cute. “You know, I’m the one who changed your look,” I blurt out.

“Should I call you Svengali?” he says.

“Seven Who?”

“Svengali,” he says again.

“Yeah, whatever,” I say again.

He laughs, almost as if I’m beneath him.

“Wow, y ou’ve changed,” I tell him like it’s not a compliment.

“Thanks.” He obviously d oesn’t understand my tone of voice. He turns up the volume of the car radio and starts singing along. “Fever nights, fever nights fevuuuur.” He bangs on the steering wheel in synch with the music. Or sort of in synch. “We have to go shopping again,” he shouts over the radio. “I need a white disco suit just like Travolta’s.”

What have I done? Any improvement in his looks is outweighed by his new, crappy personality. “You want a disco suit?” I yell over the music. “Go buy it yourself.”

He turns down the volume. “You d on’t have to be so rude.”

“I’m through giving makeovers. I just want to chill.”

“Chill? Are you hot?”

“Gawd.” I reach over and turn off the radio. “
Chill
means
relax.
Which I plan to do as soon as I’m out of this damn station wagon.”

But Heather meets me at the front door. “I need an outfit for my student council meeting tonight.”

I shake my head. “I should stop messing with you guys. You were fine before.”

“Please, Shay. I’m desperate.”

She looks desperate. She’s wearing a gray nylon dress with red heart buttons down the front. Total fashion catastrophe. So much for my chill plan.

I walk upstairs with her, search through her closet, and try not to groan. Her wardrobe looks like something worn only by Amish girl lumberjacks. I manage to find potential in a bright floral skirt. I use scissors and duct tape to make it thigh length while Heather sits on her bed with her hand over her mouth. If she gasps, I’m out of here.

She keeps her hand on her mouth, walks to the closet, and trots out a plain, s coop-c ollared, beige cotton blouse which could be part of a Girl Scout uniform. “I usually wear this with the skirt.”