It's Kind of a Cheesy Love Story

by Lauren Morrill

  “What in god’s name is that?” I ask, unable to tear my eyes away. The repeating images are almost mesmerizing. The man’s beady eyes, even behind his glasses, seem to follow me.

  “It’s the Wall of Justice,” Greg says.

  “It’s Ken Lunn,” Frank says.

  “It’s the back cover of about a hundred phone books,” Julianne says.

  “Two hundred and thirty-three phone books, Julianne,” Jason says. “Have some respect.”

  And then the niggling feeling of recognition takes hold. Because, yup, that’s definitely the full-page, full-color ad on the back of every phone book distributed in town, most of which go straight to the recycle bin. Ken Lunn’s face also graces a handful of billboards around town, the side of a few buses, and a banner ad on the fence in one of the end zones at the Brook Park High football stadium. Ken Lunn is an aging personal injury lawyer who drives around town in a red convertible sports car whose license plate says JUSTCE and whose hair is for sure surgically attached to his head.

  And I swear, right now, Ken Lunn is staring deep into my soul, possibly trying to claim it as his own.

  “But … why?” is all I can say, unable to tear my eyes away from the tableau.

  “Frank lost a bet,” Greg says.

  “We found a shrink-wrapped pallet of phone books by the dumpsters behind the Shop ’n Save last summer, and Frank bet there were two thousand, and I said there were only eight hundred, and it turns out I was right, so I skinned enough of them to wallpaper his bedroom and thus the Wall of Justice was born,” Jason says.

  “I like to think he watches over me,” Frank says.

  Oh, he’s watching, all right.

  “Okay, horror movies don’t scare me, but this does,” I say, pointing at the Wall of Justice.

  “I’d worry if you weren’t scared of the Wall of Justice.” The gruff, gravelly voice has me spinning around, out of the tractor beam of Ken Lunn’s evil gaze. Tristan is just emerging down the basement steps, clad in his uniform of ratty denim jacket, holey jeans, and a T-shirt. This one is yellow and worn and reads DOGWOOD ARTS CHILDREN’S CHOIR 1994. My heart comes skidding to a stop. It’s officially the most he’s said to me since his tongue was in my mouth, and that thought kicks my heart back into gear, thudding away at triple time.

  Frank fires up the movie, but it doesn’t take long to realize that, just like at Tamsin and Colin’s house, the movie isn’t the main event. It starts out with some gentle yelling at the characters on-screen, who are making absolutely abominable decisions (as horror film characters usually do). But soon the discussion moves to other Bruce Campbell movies, then other Sam Raimi movies and their intersections (Spider-Man and the ever expanding Spiderverse). Then we take a sharp left turn into Apex Galaxy nerdery, which I am more than happy to join in on. The boys tread lightly to avoid spoilers, even though I assure them I don’t care, and we dissect ships (of both the relation and space variety), notable character deaths, and Easter eggs, which creator Ben Derreygronde loved to plant seven ways from Sunday. We’re halfway through dissecting the meaning of ACR-1559, a call sign that reappears throughout the series, when the infamous tree scene finally hits the screen.

  The whole time, Tristan lies on the carpet, a pillow tucked under his head, while he silently stares at the screen. But even though his eyes stay on the movie and he never chimes in, he somehow still feels very much a part of the action. I can’t not notice him. And I can tell that he’s listening. He always seems to stretch and angle his ear toward the person doing the talking. At least, he always does it when I’m talking. It’s the laziest active listening I’ve ever seen.

  “Oh hey, I forgot to tell you guys,” Jason says, reaching for a cold and drying pizza bagel from a plate on the coffee table. “I worked lunch on Tuesday, and Del brought a date in. Like, he actually brought a woman for a date in his own freaking restaurant!”

  “How’d it go?” Julianne asks. She’s on the couch next to Frank, who I notice keeps leaning toward her, then jerking himself back on his side of the couch like there’s an electric fence between them.

  “Well, he pulled her chair out for her and then sneezed in her hair, and I’d say that was the high point,” Jason says.

  “Poor Del. He’s so nice!” Julianne laments.

  “And completely hapless,” Greg adds.

  “We should help him,” I find myself saying before I can think through it. Because surely I don’t want to help Del date successfully. Do I?

  “What, you want to Parent Trap Del?” Greg asks.

  “After what I witnessed yesterday, I’m not confident he can be movie montaged into a good date,” Jason says. “I heard him tell an honest-to-god knock-knock joke. And then he laughed at it. Hard. Like, my god, man. Have some dignity.”

  “He just needs to meet the right person. Someone who gets him. She’ll put him at ease, and then it’ll be cake,” I say, wondering who that person might be. Not that I want to set Del up. But I mean, if the opportunity presented itself …

  “No, what he needs is someone to tell him to take it down a notch or five. Del needs a strong woman,” Frank says.

  “The problem is a strong woman doesn’t need Del,” Greg replies.

  The movie ends, and the boys resume their video game. Greg offers the fourth controller to Tristan, who shakes his head, and I wave it off, too. I pull my phone out of my pocket and check my texts. There aren’t any, which oddly doesn’t bother me like it once would. Then I start to mindlessly scroll SocialSquare. I haven’t pulled my phone out once since arriving at Frank’s. The conversation was just too good (plus Jason demands that we not scour IMDb for trivia, because he claims it’s cheating the spirit of film criticism).

  Tristan grabs a nearby trash can and starts sweeping crumpled paper towels and soda cans into it. Then he gets to the empty pizza bagel plate, now topped with only dried grease and a few stray crumbs. He picks it up, then nods down at my phone.

  “Are your real friends back from vacation yet?”

  The words feel like a slap.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m just surprised to see you hanging here for geek night. I figure the only reason you’re not splitting avocado toast at the coffee shop right now is because the Brook Park royalty is out of town?” He arches an eyebrow at me, so smug it makes me want to slap his stupid face.

  I can feel my blood boiling, pulsing hot beneath my skin. I clench my teeth, angry because he’s partly right, and also angry that he’s dissing my friends. No, not Tamsin and Natalie and everyone else. I’m pissed that he’s dissing Julianne and Frank and Jason and Greg. He’s acting like I wouldn’t want to be hanging out with them if I had other options. Like I didn’t have an awesome time nerding out with them. Like I didn’t feel so myself tonight. These are my friends, too, and they’re not runners-up. And how dare he imply that, even if I’m only just right this moment figuring it out?

  “You’re an asshole,” I finally snap, then snatch the empty plate from his hand and stomp up the stairs to the kitchen. When I get there, I find Julianne pulling some sodas out of the fridge.

  “You want anything?” she asks. “Frank’s mom buys Fresca, which I thought would be disgusting, because grapefruit soda? Ick. But it’s honestly pretty good.”

  “No, I’m fine,” I say, but I sound like I’m spitting nails.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Someone should ask Tristan that question,” I say.

  “Okay, then what’s going on with you two?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you get in a fight or something? You’re always glaring at each other or acting like one another is radioactive.”

  “No. I just think we don’t mesh well together.”

  “Or maybe you mesh too well together?” She nudges my shoulder with hers. I temporarily forget my anger at Tristan, because it’s a move Natalie has done to me a million times. It feels like friendship. I think Julianne might finally be my friend. Or on h
er way to it. But I’m too scared to ask her, or acknowledge it in any way, like when you catch a hummingbird in your yard and you go stock-still, afraid the slightest movement will scare it away. I don’t want Julianne to revert to her scowly self with me.

  “Ew. No,” I reply. Because I don’t want to date Tristan. I just want him to go back to how it was before. Which, okay, involved him being an enormous grouch, but at least I knew where I stood then.

  “Look, Tristan’s always been sort of … aloof. Distant, you know? He acts like he doesn’t need or even like anyone, but clearly that’s just some try-hard James Dean act. You seem to get him, and maybe that’s not a bad thing.”

  “You mean like he’s pulling my pigtails, recess-style?”

  She wrinkles her nose and shudders. “No, because that’s some bullshit patriarchy nonsense. I’m just saying he … notices you. And I don’t think it would be the worst thing to lean into it a little bit.”

  Lean in? I think about it as I take a couple of sodas from Julianne and follow her back down the basement steps. What does that even mean? And why do I suddenly feel like I swallowed bees when I look at Tristan, who is tossing popcorn into the air and catching it in his mouth effortlessly (while next to him, Frank keeps pelting himself in the eye)?

  Do I … like Tristan?

  No.

  No.

  … Maybe?

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  Natalie: Back from Florida and only managed to burn my shoulders a little bit!

  Julianne: Drive-in tonight with everybody?

  * * *

  Tristan’s attitude notwithstanding, last night was the most fun I’ve had since I started at Hot ’N Crusty. And if I’m honest with myself, maybe even longer. So as I flip back and forth between the dueling text messages, it’s Julianne’s I decide to reply to.

  Beck: Sounds good. Can I get a ride?

  Julianne: Be ready at 5

  It’s ten minutes past five when, while waiting by the front window, I hear the familiar chugga chugga. I look outside to see the van shudder to a stop at the curb.

  “What the…,” I mutter.

  “Who’s that?” Dad asks, peering over my shoulder from where he was sitting reading some book about war. “And what the hell is he driving?”

  And then Tristan honks. Because of course he can’t even drag his stubborn ass out of the car and knock on the front door.

  “A van?” I reply.

  “How old is that thing?”

  “You’re one to talk, Mr. Ancient Corolla.”

  “Hey, at least the Toyota was manufactured in your lifetime. I don’t think that thing was even made in my lifetime.”

  I sigh. I’m already on edge thinking about making the long trek out to the drive-in with Tristan, who I called an asshole the last time I spoke to him (which he definitely was). The last thing I need is the Dadish Inquisition on the front step. So I grab my purse and reply as I’m headed to the door. “I don’t know anything about cars, Dad. I’ve only known how to drive them for, like, five minutes, and I promise you I have no idea how to drive that one.”

  “Okay, but is it safe?”

  “As you pointed out, it’s survived several decades on the road, so I’m guessing it’s okay.” And before he can pester me anymore or poke enormous holes in my logic, I fling open the front door and step outside, practically bolting across the lawn to the van. I heave the door open and climb in, glancing back to see my dad’s face practically pressed to the window. I give a little wave of assurance, and then the van pulls away, thankfully not backfiring or bursting into flames on the way.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Tristan says, his eyes focused on the road. Well, hello to you, too.

  “I didn’t know you were my ride,” I reply.

  “Julianne called. Something about chicken and you needing a lift,” he says. I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I’m definitely going to have some questions for Julianne later. I can’t tell if this little setup is her warming up to me, or her punishing me. Or maybe a little of both. I’ll know more when I know how to feel about it.

  “I’m surprised you actually picked me up. I thought you’d just as soon run me over.”

  “Seriously?” He cocks an eyebrow at me, or more accurately, at the road, since he still hasn’t made eye contact with me.

  “You seem to have an awfully low opinion of me, per our last conversation.”

  “Per our last…” He trails off, huffing out a sigh. “Listen, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sort of…”

  “An asshole?”

  “Protective of my friends,” he says, gripping the steering wheel hard as he turns onto Old Covington Highway.

  “And I’m not?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs, finally glancing over to catch sight of my glare. “I’m not good with new people.”

  “Will wonders never cease,” I tell him, but I get what he’s saying. And I decide to forgive him, because frankly, being mad at Tristan is exhausting. “Speaking of new people, just be glad I saved you from my dad interrogating you over this trash heap.”

  “Hey, watch your mouth in front of Cecilia.”

  I turn around, looking for this Cecilia, wondering how I could have missed a grandmother or an elderly neighbor hiding in the back of the van.

  “Who’s Cecilia?” I ask.

  He reaches forward and pats the dashboard affectionately.

  “You named your car? And you chose Cecilia?”

  “First of all, Cecilia isn’t a car. Cecilia is a 1978 Volkswagen Westfalia, but if you must refer to her casually, she’s a bus.”

  Ah, so my dad does predate the van. I’ll have to let him know he’s the ancient one.

  “And why Cecilia? Because she’s old?”

  “Show some respect,” Tristan says. “She’s named after the Simon and Garfunkel song, ’cause she’s always breaking my heart.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about, but it feels like I should, so I just keep my mouth shut and my eyes on the road in front of me. There’s a beat of silence, and I can feel a prickle from his glance.

  “Come on, you know the song.”

  I’m sitting there trying to decide if I should just lie so I don’t look like an idiot or risk looking like an idiot if he calls me on it, when he starts tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel, his head bouncing a counterrhythm.

  “Cecilia, you’re breakin’ my heart,” he sings—actually sings, which I did not expect. His voice is good, too, carrying the tune well while still sounding soulfully ragged. “You’re shakin’ my confidence daily.”

  He sings a few more lines, drumming on the steering wheel, and I realize I do vaguely recognize the song. My dad is a major oldies fan, so his car is permanently tuned to Star 102.1.

  “I love her, but she’s always, always breaking down,” Tristan says, giving the car—sorry, bus—another affectionate pat. “She was my dad’s in college. He taught me how to keep her running before I even got my permit, and now she’s mine.”

  Tristan pulls away from the last stoplight at the edge of town, and soon we’re cruising down 411, the two-lane highway leading to the outer edges of the county. The windows are down, since the last gasp of warm fall is still hanging on, and the roar of the wind combined with the rumble of Cecilia’s ancient engine ends our conversation, though I replay it several times over in my head on the drive. It’s the first time Tristan and I have had a normal interaction that didn’t include glowering or outright hostility, and I don’t know quite what to make of it. It was almost like we were friends.

  Friends who kissed that one time.

  And then I’m spending the rest of the drive trying not to replay the kiss over and over in my head. But it’s a losing battle. Instead I focus my attention on trying not to blush like a cherry tomato at the memory of being pressed up against Tristan behind the dumpster. Every once in a while I feel that familiar prickle that comes with Tristan glancing over at me, but he nev
er says anything.

  The Mendon Drive-In is about twenty minutes outside of town. You take the Old Covington Highway out past strip malls and gas stations until you hit the woods, and then you drive until you’re sure you’re in “I’m going to be murdered” territory. Just before you start to hear the twang of banjos, there’s an old, wooden, hand-painted sign announcing you’re just a quarter of a mile from the entrance. And then it appears out of the trees, as if conjured by magic.

  You bounce down a little gravel road to the ticket booth, and there’s almost always a line. You have to get there early if you don’t want to miss the animated previews advertising the snack bar, and even earlier if you want a halfway decent parking spot. It’s twenty dollars per car for a double feature, which, if you have a full load, is a pretty good deal. But tonight it’s only Tristan and me in the bus, so I pull a ten-dollar bill from my wallet and hold it out to him to cover my share.

  “You don’t have to,” he says, trying to wave the cash away.

  “Don’t be stupid,” I say, placing the tenner on the dash. “It’s not like this is a date.”

  The word hangs there in the expanse of the van, and I feel like a giant idiot for bringing it up. Of course it’s not a date, but as soon as you drop the word date with a guy, things immediately start to feel loaded. Suddenly you’re both wondering if you should reaffirm it’s not a date, or if maybe you should be reconsidering the whole not-a-date thing altogether. It’s like the final Jeopardy! music is playing in my head, and I’m panicking, caught without the answer.

  The car ahead of us pulls away, and it’s our turn at the ticket booth. Tristan hands over his twenty to the woman in the booth, then takes the ten off the dash and shoves it into his jacket pocket.

  Okay, not a date.

  Tristan pulls through the entrance and winds down the snaking path toward the screen. He seems to have a spot in mind, eking past the cars that are turning down the first available row.

  “I got a text from Frank,” he says by way of explanation. “They saved us a spot.”