by Lori L. Otto
He simply shakes his head. “Are you okay?”
I put my elbow on the table and shield my face from the onlookers. “Why couldn’t they just seat us in the back? I feel like I’m on display or something.”
“We can move,” he offers, scanning the room. “Or go somewhere else, if you want.”
“No,” I tell him quickly. “I’m fine.” I take a deep breath and put my hand in my lap. When I glance around the restaurant, it looks like the only people watching me are the wait staff. We shouldn’t have to worry about poor service. “This place is beautiful. I’ve never been anywhere like it.”
“Good,” he says. “I had a hard time coming up with a place I thought you’d never been.”
“Welcome, welcome,” an older man in a pristine suit says to us quietly. He introduces himself to us as the manager of the restaurant. He gives us a brief history of the place before offering drinks.
“How about a virgin rum and Coke?” he asks me.
“What’s that?”
“Just a Coke,” Jon says with a laugh, looking at me for an answer. I shrug and nod. “Make it two.”
“Yes, sir,” the manager, Morris, says, delivering the order through his own microphone.
“Can I offer you two the chef’s special tonight?” He points to the special menu, and before I even have a chance to read it, Jon answers for me.
“She’s allergic to horseradish.”
“Of course,” Morris makes note. “We can work around that. Let us surprise you. Yes?”
“Ummm...” Jon stalls and shifts in his seat uncomfortably, looking up at me and smiling nervously. “I was thinking the prix fixe, if she sees something she likes. Would you mind if we looked over the menu?”
“Of course, Mr. Scott. Although the cost of the chef’s special is not stated on the menu, it’s the same price,” the manager speaks more quietly to Jon, but I can still hear him. I look at the price of the prix fixe menu and immediately feel guilty. Even with my allowance, I would never spend this much on a meal. I can’t imagine what Jon’s thinking.
“We can go somewhere else,” I tell him quickly. “Anywhere, it’s fine.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you see the price?”
“I don’t want to talk about how much this is going to cost, Livvy.” He shakes his head seriously. “Don’t worry about that, okay?”
“I couldn’t even afford this,” I tell him reassuringly, trying to convince him to take me somewhere else.
“Please. Let me do this for you. I’ve put money aside for this night. I want it to be something memorable for you–and for me.”
“But where did you...?” I feel rude asking, but I know he doesn’t have a job and I’m afraid we’re spending his mother’s money, which could undoubtedly be used on a million more important things than a fancy dinner.
“My mom didn’t get her degree,” he confesses quickly. “She didn’t get a better job, Livvy. When my dad died, he had an insurance policy, and he left it to me. It’s not much, but I’ve been very careful with how I spend it. I pay for my art classes, which count towards college credit. I paid for the SAT prep courses. I get groceries once a month for my family. I bought my brother’s football uniform. I got this suit, which better serve multiple purposes this year: graduation, interviews... I haven’t splurged at all, until tonight. And if this is what I want to spend it on–if you are what I choose to spend it on–please let me.”
“It’s too much, though,” I whisper to him.
“It’s not.”
“I could pay for my part.”
“Your dad already offered that, and I’ve already declined that offer. Just because you have money doesn’t mean you have to get stuck with the bill.”
“I just think there are probably better things for you to spend the money on, that’s all.”
“My dad probably wouldn’t have thought so. I guarantee you, he’s up there right now cheering me on. I’m on a date with the prettiest, smartest, most talented girl in the city. He wouldn’t want me to screw this up.”
“But–”
He presses his finger to my lips. “Shhh.” I wrap my fingers around his, eventually holding his hand in the middle of the table.
“I just want you to know that we could have gone for that four block walk and I would have been happy. I don’t need this, okay? I’m not accustomed to some privileged lifestyle. I like people who like me for who I am as a person, and not because I was adopted by some wealthy philanthropist and his wife. My life isn’t perfect. My dad isn’t perfect. I guess most people think I’m lucky that he found me, but he has a lot of flaws that people don’t see. I don’t always feel so lucky.”
“I don’t think you’re lucky. There’s nothing lucky about a little girl losing both of her biological parents before she was even old enough to retain memories of them.”
“Right,” I whisper.
“Jack and Emi, they’re the lucky ones.”
“Right,” I laugh sarcastically.
“No, you’re right. They’re not lucky, either. They were smart. They saw something special in you, and they chose you to be in their lives.”
“Choisie,” I say to him.
“Choisie,” he repeats, glancing only briefly at the necklace. “I’m the lucky one.”
“How so?”
“I’m the only guy in the city you’re on a date with tonight. That seems pretty lucky to me.”
“Well, for the record, I feel pretty lucky tonight for that, too.”
“So we can stay and have dinner?”
“Yeah, we’ll stay,” I tell him, looking back down at the prix fixe menu.
“Good.”
Morris comes back over once we’ve both set the menus in the middle of the table. We tell him our orders and our drinks arrive just as he walks away.
“Two virgin rum and cokes,” the waiter says, setting them down.
“Why do they keep calling them that?” I ask Jon.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s to elevate the ambiance. Doesn’t it make you feel older?”
“Maybe. Why do they call it virgin, anyway?” My voice gets softer as I say the word.
“It’s pure,” he answers. “Untouched. In this instance, by alcohol.”
“It just seems like there are better words.”
“Like?”
“Non-alcoholic,” I tell him, shrugging my shoulders at my obvious suggestion.
“Does the word virgin bother you?”
I can feel my cheeks heat up at his question, making my answer to it obvious.
“Personally,” he says before he takes a drink of his soda, “I like the word.”
“Why?”
“It’s pure,” he repeats his earlier response.
“Yes, Jon, I know the definition now, thank you very much,” I say.
“Alright, smarty, it implies purity in a woman.”
“And you like that?” I ask nervously.
“I like the idea of that, yeah. What guy doesn’t?”
I shrug my shoulders, having never had the conversation with any other guys. “So, what? You’re going to wait until your married or something?”
Morris places the plates for our first course in front of us, and I pray he hasn’t picked up on our topic of discussion. My father would freak out if he knew I was talking about sex with Jon. He’d never let me out of the house again.
I pierce a piece of a pear with my fork, waiting for the manager to leave our general vicinity so that Jon can answer my question. Would I want to wait, too? Could I, if he wanted to?
“I didn’t.”
“You didn’t what?” I ask, rethinking my question. It was a yes or no question. His answer seeps in slowly. I put my fork down on my plate and put my hands in my lap. “Oh.” I try to keep the disappointment from my face–try to act unaffected by his response–but I am.
“Yeah, I’m not... a virgin.”
“Yeah, right.” My attempt to react casually is backf
iring horribly. “Cool.”
He studies my face as I lose the battle to keep my feelings from showing.
“That upsets you?”
“What?” I laugh. “Of course not, no. I mean, I didn’t really think you were one.”
“One what?”
“A virgin,” I say, frustrated. A few nearby diners look in my direction. “I’m sorry,” I mutter to him.
“See? Look at our grown-up conversation,” he says sarcastically.
“And I’ve never felt more like a little girl. A stupid, naïve little girl.”
“Livvy–” he tries to stop me.
“No, really, Jon. I don’t really want to talk about it. I mean, I think my dad would be mortified to know we were even discussing this.”
“Honestly, yeah. I’m sure my dad’s pretty mortified for me at this point.”
“I’m mortified.”
“Don’t be,” he says. “I’m sorry. That was completely inappropriate first-date conversation.”
“Yeah,” I agree. I pick up my fork and start eating again, but I’m not able to look him in the eyes. We both sit silently while we finish our first course. Morris brings us refills when he comes to clear the plates.
“Looks like you needed this,” the manager says. I can’t look at him, either. Jon takes a drink and immediately starts coughing. He picks up my soda and takes a sip, looking at me curiously. He sets it down and pushes it back in my direction.
“Something wrong?”
“That is definitely not a virgin.” I turn my head slowly to scan the dining room, trying to not look obvious.
“Who?” I whisper.
Jon starts laughing hysterically. “Not who, Livvy. My drink,” he giggles, taking another drink. “There’s definitely rum in there.”
“Really?” I whisper.
“Yeah, really.”
“Mine, too?”
“Of course not. They know you’re only sixteen.”
“Well, you’re only seventeen.”
“They don’t know that,” he says as he leans into me. “And Morris can obviously see when a date’s going downhill, fast.” He clinks his glass against mine and sips it again slowly.
“Okay, for the record, it’s not going downhill. And will you consider what you just said? Surely they realize you’re not twenty-one, because if you are, this date just became, like, illegal or something.”
“Only if there was sex,” he says, throwing caution to the wind. I just stare at him with my mouth open. We both start laughing at the same time.
“That’s not gonna happen,” I tell him, still cracking up.
“Of course it’s not.” He gets serious quickly. “I hope you know that’s not what I was getting at.”
“No, I know.”
“Oh, hell,” he sighs as he stares intently into his glass. “Can we please start over?” When his eyes meet mine, they’re apologetic and sweet and earnest and I couldn’t say no if I wanted to.
“Okay.”
“Thank you. Good evening, Livvy, and thank you for joining me here tonight.”
“Thank you for inviting me.”
“May I be upfront with you about something?”
“I wish you would,” I tell him in mock formal speech.
“I can only blame my bad behavior on seeing you tonight–seeing you, in this dress, Livvy. I can act like it doesn’t affect me, but I would be lying. And I don’t want to lie to you. You’re a complete distraction, and you’ve completely disarmed me of all propriety and manners and good intentions.”
“Who knew I had such power?”
He exhales quickly, laughing. “You have no idea, Livvy.”
Our next course arrives, just in time to help us shift into a different conversation. I decide to take control.
“When do you find out your test scores?”
“Probably in about two weeks.”
“Are you nervous?” All exuberance is suddenly gone from his eyes.
He clears his throat. “Yeah. Very.”
“What are you worried about?”
“Not realizing my dreams,” he says somberly. “Having grown up so close to Columbia, I’ve really never considered going anywhere else. I’ve held on to this dream all of my life. It’s what’s gotten me where I am today. Everything I’ve done has been to get accepted there.”
“Well, surely you’ll get in.”
“There are no guarantees, Livvy.”
“You’re at the top of your class–”
“In a public school, Livvy. That’s not as impressive as being top of my class in a prep school like yours.”
“It says a lot about you, I think. I mean, don’t they consider everything when they look at admissions?”
“What? My family’s income? My underwhelming childhood? The death of my father? The stupid decisions my mom’s made all my life?”
I swallow hard, feeling like I’ve hit a nerve. He drinks the rest of his rum and Coke.
“I guess,” he continues quietly. “But you still can’t bomb the SATs.”
“I’m sure you didn’t bomb them.”
“I’m sure I didn’t bomb them, yeah. But I know I didn’t do as well as I would have liked. My scores may get me in, but I doubt they’d be good enough to get me financial aid–which I have to have.”
“I bet you did fine,” I tell him, unsure what else I can really say to turn this into something less stressful for him. “And when you get in, and you get that scholarship, I’m going to take you out to dinner to celebrate.”
He smiles at me. “Okay,” he says simply.
“Where would you go?”
“To dinner?”
“Yeah,” I urge him on. “Anywhere in the world, where would you go?”
“Wow, anywhere in the world?”
“Why not?”
“You must not have much faith in this scholarship.”
“Of course I do!”
“Well, you can’t deliver on a dinner anywhere in the world.”
“I thought I had power.”
“Right, okay, Liv. I’ll humor you.”
“Thank you.”
“Greece.”
“Greece?”
“Yeah. Mykonos, I think.”
“What’s in Mykonos?”
“Supposedly, it’s where Zeus fought the Titans.”
“Did they open a restaurant for that or something? Titan burgers? Apple Zeussel for dessert?” I giggle at my own jokes.
He laughs, too. “You’re cute. If you’ve ever seen the pictures of the island of white buildings surrounded by the most beautiful clear, blue sea, that’s Mykonos. And that vision alone could turn the worst meal into a heavenly feast. Even Titan burgers. Are those burgers made out of the dead Titans, I wonder?”
“Ew,” I answer, crinkling my nose. “Of course not. They’re just really big.”
“Right. And the place is run by Hestia?”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Greek goddess of cooking?”
“There was no goddess of cooking,” I laugh.
“There most certainly was. She was Zeus’s sister. And she was a virgin.”
“Really?” I ask him, my tone questioning his return to the topic we’d been trying to avoid for the past ten minutes. I certainly wasn’t questioning the goddess’s purity.
“What? She was!”
“Aren’t all women virgins up to some point?”
“Well,” he considers. “I guess so. Hmmm. That fact seems irrelevant now.”
“Yeah. So hamburgers in Greece then. This might be a hard sell on my dad, but I’ll see what I can do.”
“I think hamburgers might be a hard sell to the Grecians, unless we’re just going to the local McDonald’s. Let’s call it a souvlaki sandwich and maybe the gods won’t roll over in their graves or whatever.”
“They have McDonald’s in Greece?”
“They sure do.”
“Italy?”
“Most definitely.”
>
“Morocco.”
“Yep.”
“South Africa.”
“Of course.”
“What are you, a McDonald’s expert?”
“Definitely not,” he says. “But I’ve had enough Happy Meals to learn the hard way that happiness doesn’t come from meals in paper boxes.”
“Seriously, though. How do you know so much?”
“I read everything I can get my hands on,” he tells me. “Happy Meal containers included. They used to have pretty interesting facts on them, when I was younger.”
“Wow.” I am thoroughly impressed, and by his smile, it’s obvious that he can tell. “Well, I guess that dinner in Mykonos is probably going to be a reality, huh?”
“I really hope so. You know, maybe we can wait until after I graduate from Columbia. That might give your dad a chance to get used to the idea.”
The thought that Jon still sees himself with me after his college graduation makes me utterly giddy. “Maybe just until I graduate from high school.”
“I like that idea, too.”
“Cool.”
“I’m not sure your dad will,” he adds, “but it’s a goal we can work toward.”
I nod, unable to hold back my smile. “Cool.”
After dinner, and after an hour-long conversation over dessert, Jon takes me back to my house on a city bus. It smells funny and there are a lot of people staring at my date and me, easily the best dressed people on the bus, but he seems completely comfortable and puts me at ease with little effort. What was shaping up to be a pretty disastrous date turned into one of the most eye-opening nights of my life.
I stepped outside of the little bubble my dad had created for me to live in.
I experienced mass transportation.
I ate the most amazing meal with a guy who felt lucky that I went out with him in the first place.
I wore a dress that didn’t just make me feel beautiful, it made other people forget their manners.
I have power.
I was seeing one of the most worldly, most intelligent people I’d ever met. I knew he could teach me a lot. I wanted to learn things from him. I wanted to learn everything from him.
We step off of the bus one street east of mine, noticing we have about ten minutes before my curfew. He takes my hand in his and we start our traditional slow stroll home.
