by Beth Reekles
I mean, I must’ve done something right since I met him at the beach, given that he seems to like me.
The girls must see I don’t want to talk about it anymore—or maybe they just give up when I start eating and ignoring their prompting sentences.
We get the check and leave. I go to hand it to the guy who served us and tell the others to head on out, I’ll meet them in a minute.
“You just want an excuse to talk to the cute waiter,” Summer teases, laughing.
“Why are you after the waiter? You have Bryce now to keep you warm at night,” Tiffany joins in, hugging herself and giggling.
I laugh too, and roll my eyes at them. The guy who served us was kind of cute, I guess. He looked like he was in college, but couldn’t have been much older than us. I didn’t think he was really anything special—but hey, what do I know?
I clear my throat slightly to get his attention. He looks over and I smile, holding out the check with our wad of crumpled bills.
“Everything okay with the meal?” he asks.
“Yes, thanks.”
“Good.” He prints a receipt, and then scribbles on the back of it before handing it over—signing it off, I assume. “Come again.”
“Uh, thanks,” I mumble. I’ve always found it awkward talking to waiters and salespeople. I only offered to handle the check because it didn’t look like the others were going to, and I don’t like to leave it on the table—a pet peeve of my dad’s I inherited.
“Flirt with the waiter?” Summer asks jokingly, elbowing me lightly in the ribs when I finally emerge from the restaurant.
“Hardly,” I reply. I realize I’m still holding the receipt. As I turn it over, I see the scribble on the back. Then I laugh.
“Anyone want his number?” I say, completely shocked. He gave me his number; I’m flattered, but at the same time I know I’m not going to call him—I’m just not interested.
“He gave you his number?” Tiffany looks at the scrawled digits, and shakes her head. “Hold on two secs.”
“What’re you doing?” Melissa asks as we watch her take out her cell phone.
“Posting on Facebook that Madison just got a cute waiter’s number.” She looks up at me with a wicked grin. “Bryce is definitely going to see it. He’ll be so jealous. This is, like, perfect. Ah, thank God for social networking. It makes the whole dating game so much more fun.”
“He might not believe it,” I point out. I barely believe it. I’m still a little stunned, actually.
“Why wouldn’t he?” Melissa asks. “Besides, he’s bound to ask you out even sooner if he knows you’re in demand.”
“But I’m not in demand.”
“Some random waiter has just given you his phone number,” Tiffany tells me.
“Well, yeah, but—”
“Madison, chill, it’s all part of the master plan.” Melissa shoots me an encouraging smile.
“What master plan is this, exactly?”
“The master plan to get you and Bryce together, duh.”
“Oh, right, okay …” I say hesitantly. I shake my head, deciding to simply go with the flow and leave them to their “master plan.” I just doubt it’ll work.
“Was he a good kisser?” Jenna asks, grinning into the webcam. She’s so excited about me getting my first kiss. “I remember my first kiss—it was Hank Phillips, at the dance at the end of middle school. He was such a sloppy kisser, it was totally gross. I kind of avoided him after that … Never mind about me, though—tell me all the details.”
“He was a good kisser, I guess. I don’t know. It’s not like I have anyone to compare him to, is it?”
“Mm, I guess. But hey, you’ve had your first kiss! You’re getting yourself out there a little more! You’ve made friends and you have a maybe boyfriend! I wish I was down there right now so I could give you a big old hug, Mads.”
I smile wryly. “How is college? So far we’ve only talked about me.”
“And we’re not done talking about you, so don’t you dare try to change the subject! College is college, New York is New York—but, Maddie, you’re no longer the same old you! So we’re still talking about you, and if you don’t like that, tough shit.”
“What if I just hang up, huh?”
“Then I will call you back and call you back and call you back until you answer, and then we’ll keep on talking about you.”
“Oh …” Then I laugh. “Well, I don’t know how much more there is to say.”
“Has he texted you or anything since lunch?”
I shake my head. “No, not yet. But I don’t expect he’ll—”
That annoying chirping sound interrupts me. Jenna laughs. “Is that your cell? Christ, that’s spooky. Is it him? If it is, that’s even spookier. I’m like, psychic, huh? Is it him?”
One new message: Dwight.
“It’s not Bryce …” I shake my head at the webcam. “It’s Dwight.”
“Dwight? Nerdy Dwight from your Physics class?”
“Yeah.”
“Well?” she asks, leaning into the lens of the webcam eagerly, her blue eyes wide. It’s the same look she used to get when she heard new gossip from one of her friends. “What’s he say? Tell me, tell me!”
Laughing, I load the text message and read it out. “He says, What’s this I hear about you and a waiter? And there’s one of those smileys with a tongue out.”
Jenna laughs. “He likes you, doesn’t he?”
“Who, Dwight?” I ask doubtfully.
“Yeah.”
“He doesn’t like me.”
“Well, at least as a friend. He sounds so cute. Like, a really nice, sweet guy. Unless, of course, you like him as more than that?”
“No,” I say hastily. “No, we’re just friends.”
“Mm,” Jenna says, with that confidential kind of smile that tells me she’s in on my secret.
“I’m serious,” I reiterate. “He’s only a friend. I’m lucky he’s that. I told you—he was mad when he saw me hanging around with all the popular people. I mean, I get where he’s coming from, but they’re not that bad. They’re all pretty nice, actually. Well, Kyle, not so much, but the others … I don’t know why Carter said—”
“Hold on, which one’s Carter?”
“Carter is Dwight’s friend—the one with half an eyebrow missing. He’s in my art class. Anyway, he’d said I shouldn’t really hang around with him even in art class because Tiffany and the others might get annoyed.”
“That’s high school for ya,” Jenna says with a bitter kind of twist in her smile. “It can get pretty shitty.”
“Like I don’t already know that,” I mumble. She hears me; I can tell by the way her expression softens and turns sympathetic. But she doesn’t say anything. “Hold on a sec, let me just reply to Dwight.”
“What’re you saying?”
I tell her as I type, but I speak slowly, struggling to multitask. “It’s nothing much. Just some waiter gave me his number. Then I’ve put a laughing face at the end,” I add.
“Any kisses?”
“No. I don’t usually put any kisses to him.”
“Usually?” Jenna picks out. Then she laughs a little. “How often do you text him?”
“Not much at all. I texted him, like, Wednesday about something, I don’t remember what. It wasn’t a particularly long conversation. Then he’s just messaged me today.”
As I’m talking, a text comes through.
It’s not Dwight replying, though. This one is from Bryce.
Jenna assumes it’s Dwight, and doesn’t ask what he’s said. But I do see the expectant, slightly impatient look she’s giving me through my computer screen.
Movies tomorrow night? I’ll pick you up at six. XXXX, it reads.
“Uh, Jenna?”
“Yes?” she replies, drawing the word out.
“Bryce … Bryce just asked me on a date.”
Chapter 15
“What’re you wearing?” Tiffany asks. I’ve got her
on speaker, and my cell phone sits facedown on the bed.
“Jeans, I guess?”
“Uh!” she says, making a noise like a buzzer. “Wrong.”
“Shorts?”
“Uh! Try again.”
“What, then? What do you suggest I wear? We’re only going to the movies.”
“A skirt,” she says. “Duh. And a cute top. Make sure it’s casual.”
I know I should take her advice. Tiffany knows a heck of a lot more about what to wear on a date to the movies than I do. Jenna told me to wear a skirt too, so I know it’s legit advice.
So I say, “Okay.” And I take a pair of dark denim cutoffs out of my closet and step into them, simply because I don’t want to wear a skirt.
“You want a girly top to go with it.” Tiffany’s still talking. I’m barely listening, though. I texted her this morning to tell her I was going to the movies with Bryce, and she insisted on coming over. I managed to stop her, but she still called me.
I rifle through my closet, but I’ve already got a good idea of what I’m going to wear. I’m really worried about my first date, and I want to look good. But I know I don’t want to wear anything I feel awkward or uncomfortable in, so I have to try and find some sort of balance.
I’d have explained to Tiffany, but that would have given away too much. She and Jenna might have the confidence to wear anything at all and look good in it, but I don’t, and I know that.
“Have you found anything?” Tiffany asks. “Maybe something pink?”
“Um …” What I picked out is a long-sleeved black sweater that’s kind of baggy, with gold decoration around the neckline. “Yeah, I’ve got something. It’s … uh, it’s pink.”
I describe it to Tiffany, and leave out the fact that it’s definitely not pink; but it’s cute. And it’s what I want to wear. So who cares what Tiffany says?
“Don’t wear heels,” she says. “Wear some cute flats. Or—no, wait, you’re kinda short, aren’t you? Maybe you should wear heels. Bryce is pretty tall. You couldn’t tell so much at the party, ’cause you had heels on then. Not big fancy heels, though—you don’t want to go overboard, especially since you’re wearing a skirt … Ah, screw it, wear heels.”
While Tiffany’s talking, I’m trying to decide between my Converse and a pair of plain black flats. But I pause, because okay, she may be right on this. So I find a pair of sandals. They’re gold wedges, so they match my top perfectly, and they’re not very high, only about an inch and a half. Plus, I find wedges much easier to walk in than stilettos.
“I have shoes.”
“How high?”
“Inch and a half, I think.”
“That’s great. Okay, so protocol for the first date: he’s going to pay. This is Bryce we’re talking about, and he’s definitely going to insist on paying.”
“But I’ll offer to pay anyway,” I say, because it’s true. I’d feel bad if he paid for everything.
Tiffany seems to think I’m just finishing her sentence or something, though, because she says, “Exactly!”
I know I’m not taking Tiffany’s advice when it comes to my outfit, but I’m listening attentively now that she’s talking about what to do on this date. The beach party was bad enough, but then Dwight had asked me purely on a friendly basis, so I was more relaxed. This is different.
Plus, what if he tries to kiss me when we’re at the movies?
This is different from the usual first date, since we’ve already passed the first kiss barrier. Ugh, why does everything have to be so awkward and confusing? And why do I have to overreact to the smallest things? I’m such a dork.
I just hope Bryce hasn’t noticed.
Not long after I hang up and finish doing my makeup, I hear a car door outside, and the doorbell sounds.
Taking Tiffany’s (and Jenna’s) advice not to look too eager, I don’t hurry down, and let one of my parents get the door instead.
Then I wander down and see Bryce standing there. He’s wearing a pair of khakis and a blue button-down shirt with the Abercrombie and Fitch logo. His wavy blond hair catches the early evening sun and looks practically gold. He sees me on the stairs and smiles broadly, his dimples showing. I smile back, except I know I look awkward and self-conscious.
“I won’t have her back too late,” Bryce tells my mom. I know she wouldn’t care if I didn’t get in till midnight, because I’ve actually got a date, and with a really cute jock at that. She was beyond ecstatic when I hesitantly asked her if she minded if I went to the movies with Bryce. Even Dad didn’t have a problem with it.
Mom laughs, but says to me, “Ten o’clock curfew. Let me know if you’re going to be any later than that.”
“Okay,” I promise.
“You kids have fun!” The huge grin on her face makes me shake my head and roll my eyes.
“Bye,” I say testily, and pull the door shut behind me. Then I smile at Bryce. “Hi.”
He laughs. “Hi yourself.”
We climb into his car and I ask, “So what movie are we gonna see?”
“That new film with Bradley Cooper, I thought,” he tells me. “It’s gotten really great reviews. Is that okay with you?”
“Yeah, sure, that’s totally fine.”
“Aren’t you too hot in that?” he asks, nodding at my sweater. It is pretty warm, but I shake my head, picking at the cuffs of my sleeves, pulling them down.
There’s a silence just hanging in the air between us. I wait a few moments—but they’re long, endless moments that drag out with the silence. I don’t know what to do. I think I’m supposed to say something, but no small talk springs to mind. There’s no way I’m resorting to talking about the weather. There’s not much to say about school, since we’re only a week in and nothing’s really started up yet. Football and soccer practice has barely started, and tryouts aren’t until next week. Barely any classes have had homework.
So what do I talk about?
Around the girls, if I don’t have anything to say, I just listen to their conversation and pitch in where appropriate. But guys are different. They don’t talk about the same things as girls. I don’t even know much about Bryce. Actually, scratch that: I know next to nothing about Bryce. Sure, I know what people have told me, but I don’t know much about him personally.
And I don’t know what to ask him to find out.
It’s different with Dwight. I seem to be able to talk to him effortlessly—though admittedly half our conversations are physics-related. But things are just easy around him. I don’t feel anywhere near as uncomfortable as I do right now.
I start to wonder: what if Bryce doesn’t actually like me, the way everyone claims he does? What if the only reason he’s asking me on this date is because we kissed, and he’s being polite? Thinking that makes my palms turn clammy, and my stomach ties itself into knots.
“Can I ask you something?” I blurt.
“Uh, sure. Go ahead. Shoot.”
“Why did you ask me on a date? Is it just ’cause we kissed at Tiffany’s?”
We’re at a stop sign when I say this, so Bryce takes the opportunity to look at me. His handsome face is serious, and his brown eyes pierce into mine. I shrink a little inside, scared of his answer.
“No,” he tells me quietly. He pulls off, and after a pause, his eyes trained on the road, carries on: “When I met you at the beach I thought you were cute. Different. You weren’t like all the other girls. You’re a very interesting person, Madison—you know that? It’s like … you don’t care what people think of you.”
How wrong that is.
“But at the same time nobody knows anything about you.”
There we go—now you’re back on track, Pretty Boy.
“I don’t know,” he says. “But there’s something about you that made me want to get to know you. What happened at Tiffany’s … Well, that was just an extremely convenient coincidence.” He laughs. “But knowing Tiffany, she had something to do with that, and it wasn’t a coincidence at a
ll.”
“Mm,” I say, laughing, but then I add, “And it had absolutely nothing to do with some random waiter giving me his number?”
“Um …” He clears his throat with deliberate sheepishness that makes us both laugh. “Maybe. Okay, here’s a question for you, Mainstream. What made you say yes?”
I don’t answer him for a moment; I’ve already spoken without thinking once tonight, I don’t want to mess up my chances with Bryce. Why did I say yes?
He’s cute, and he’s nice, and he’s funny, and he’s that guy in high school who all the girls have a crush on. I like him. And it was great kissing him the other night …
Or is it just that I’m flattered?
I mean, he wouldn’t have looked twice at me if I was the old Madison. But this guy’s taken an interest in me, he’s got a nickname for me, he kissed me at a party. I don’t know if I like the idea of all that more than I actually like him.
But I tell him, “Because I wanted to say yes.”
He laughs. “That’s not much of an answer. Care to elaborate?”
“How about if tonight goes well, then I’ll elaborate?”
“And how am I going to know if you think it goes well?”
I shrug, and answer vaguely, “If it goes well, I’ll tell you why I said yes. Then you’ll know it’s gone well.”
Bryce sneaks a sideways glance at me, a smile playing on his lips, his dimples not quite showing. I smile innocently back at him, and he chuckles quietly, shaking his head. I bump up the volume on the radio, and he shoots me another look.
“What, you don’t want to talk to me?” he says. He has to raise his voice because of the level of the stereo.
I shake my head. “No. I just like this song.
“No.” Bryce puts a hand over mine and pushes my wallet back down into my purse before I can finish getting out a ten-dollar bill. “I told you, I’m paying for this. Consider it my treat.”
“And I told you, I’ll pay for myself—it’s fine.”
“Come on, Madison, you don’t really expect me not to pay on a first date?” He laughs, smiling at me, and as he does so, his eyes bore right into mine, making my cheeks warm.
“I can go on some kind of feminist rant if you like.”
