And then there’s Chris. He’s been great. We’ve had four dates so far, and I see him every week at vampire class. He walks me home after class, and sometimes comes up to hang with me and Marissa for awhile. He seems to really get me, because he’s taking things nice and slow, and I’m very grateful for that. I think he can sense I’m a flight risk. My paranoid thinking is become rarer and rarer, though, which is definitely nice. I hope he doesn’t go too slowly, though—we haven’t had our first real kiss yet. I’m definitely ready. I think. At least I am every time I read some hot part of Interview with the Vampire. If Chris doesn’t make a move soon, my “maybe he doesn’t like me enough” thinking is liable to come back.
Maybe he’ll do it tonight. He’s taking me to a place on campus called The Joint where they have open mic night on Fridays. Kids get up and sing or tell jokes. Chris says it’s pretty funny sometimes, and that some of the kids are pretty talented. He still doesn’t know I play guitar. Nobody but Marissa does. She’s good at keeping secrets, which is a really nice quality in a best friend. I’ve played for her a couple of times now, and she keeps telling me I’m really good. I’m still not ready to play for anyone else, though. Not even Katie and Beth. How these other kids are able to get up in front of a bunch of strangers and sing I’ll never know.
Marissa and I are trying to figure out what I should wear to open mic night. Chris says it’s really casual and I should wear something funky—like I even know what that means.
“I told you we should have bought you something with skulls on it,” Marissa says, grinning. “When you want something a bit ‘out there’ you can never go wrong with skulls. Too bad none of my stuff will fit you.”
“Yeah, because I’ve been just lusting after that skulls and hearts shirt of yours,” I reply sarcastically, but with a smile. “No skulls for this girl, thank you.”
But it actually is too bad Marissa and I are so different in size. She has a couple of things I think would be perfect. I wish I knew I was going to need something “funky” when we made our second trip to The Buff.
“We’ll just have to get creative,” Marissa says. “Mix and mismatch a little. But not too much. We want you looking good. It’s a date, after all.”
She starts fingering through my closet again, but then stops abruptly.
“Hey, wait a minute,” she says excitedly. “I do have something I think you can use.”
She races to her dresser and pulls open the bottom drawer. She starts rummaging through it, tossing stuff haphazardly onto the floor until she finds what she’s looking for.
“Here it is.”
She holds up a band of black cloth about six inches wide. I have no idea what it is. It looks like an oversized headband. She puts her hands inside it and pulls them apart. The material stretches.
“One size fits all,” she says. “Well, maybe not all, but it’ll fit you fine.”
Fit me fine? What is she talking about? I have no idea how I’m supposed to wear that thing. It’s not really a headband, that much I know. And no way am I wearing it like a tube top. And if she’s thinking mini-skirt, she must be on drugs.
Marissa bursts out laughing. “You should see the look on your face, Heather. I can just imagine what’s going through your head. Don’t worry. It’s an accessory, not a top or a bottom.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m still not sure how I’m supposed to wear it, but it seems a lot safer now.
“Go get that sweater we bought,” Marissa says.
I pull the ivory cable knit sweater I got on my first trip to The Buff out of my dresser and slip it on over my head. It’s pretty light, so I think it will be comfortable inside The Joint.
Marissa hands me the black band. “Now put this on over it, like a belt, right above your hips.”
I stare down at the band for a moment, trying to decide if I should step into it or pull it on over my head. It doesn’t really matter, I guess, so I step into it and pull it up around my waist. Marissa reaches over and adjusts it a bit, then pulls the hem of my sweater down so it’s not baggy above the band.
“Perfect,” she says. “Take a look.”
I step over in front of the mirror. It does look good. The tight band accentuates what little difference I have between my waist and hips—almost like I have a real shape!
“I like it,” I say.
“You can wear it with those jeans, but if you want to be a little bolder, put on your black yoga pants.”
I spin around once in front of the mirror. I think this look is already bold enough for me.
“I think I’ll stick with the jeans,” I say.
Marissa grins. “Yeah, I figured you’d say that. At least wear your boots. They’ll give your look a little more of an edge.”
I put on my gray suede boots and decide I can handle that much of an “edge.” Now that the problem of what to wear is out of the way, I start putting on my makeup.
Chris arrives right on time, at seven o’clock. His punctuality is just another thing I like about him. His outfit is a total surprise. He’s wearing a tight black T-shirt with a big gray screaming skull on the front—Marissa is already giving me an “I told you so” look—and black jeans. But it’s what he’s wearing on his head and on his feet that really catches my attention. He’s sporting a rakish black beret, slanted jauntily to one side. His shoes are the real eye-catchers, though—he’s wearing a mismatched pair of brightly colored canvas sneakers. The one on his right foot is orange, while the one on his left is green.
The outfit seems totally ridiculous, but it actually looks pretty good on him. The hat looks sexy, and the tight shirt and jeans fit his slender form perfectly. A slightly less bright pair of sneakers would be more to my taste, though—especially if they matched!
“Wow. You weren’t kidding when you said dress funky,” I say, smiling.
He does a quick pirouette. “You like?”
“Surprisingly, yeah,” I say. “If you’d told me on the phone you’d be wearing this, I’d probably have said ‘oh, no’.” I look down at his feet. “Those sneaks are a bit much, though.”
“I know,” he says. “That’s why I got ‘em. Gotta look extra sharp in case I decide to get up on stage.”
Get up on stage? What is he talking about? He never said anything about getting up on stage. I thought we were going just to watch.
“You’re going to perform?”
“You never know,” he says.
Well I know. No way in hell is this girl getting up on stage. No way, no how.
“What do you do?” I ask. “Sing? Tell jokes?”
“Nothing so boring,” he says. “I recite poetry.”
He’s got to be kidding. I’ve never been to the place, but I’m pretty sure the crowd will kill him if he tries to recite poetry.
“Please tell me you’re kidding,” I say. I definitely don’t want to be known as the girl with the guy who recited poems.
“What, you don’t like poetry?” he asks. He’s grinning, so I’m pretty sure he’s playing me. “I think I’ll start with something like this,” he continues. His voice turns deep and dramatic. “One…fishhh…twooo…fishhh……red fishhh….”
I roll my eyes. Yep, he’s playing me. Marissa is laughing.
“That’ll knock ‘em dead, for sure,” I say. “Seriously, though. What do you do?”
He smiles. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
I decide it’s time to give him a little poke back. “Okay, but just so you know, if you bomb up there, doing whatever it is you do, I’m going to pretend I don’t know you.”
“Fair enough,” he says, laughing. “By the way, you look great. Sexy, but a little edgy, too. Perfect for The Joint.” He turns to Marissa. “Do I detect your hand in this outfit?”
Marissa grins. “Just a little,” she says.
I pull the top of the black band an inch or so away from my waist with my thumbs. “This is hers,” I say. “I hate to admit it, but I didn’t even know what it
was when she showed it to me. I had some pretty scary thoughts, though,” I add with a smile.
Chris laughs. “I think I can imagine at least one of them. Might not be a bad idea.”
“Bite your tongue,” I tell him, laughing.
“We’d better get going,” Chris says. “Open mic doesn’t start ‘til eight, but sometimes it gets crowded.”
“I’m ready,” I say. I turn to Marissa. “See you later.”
“Have fun, kids,” she says. She grins at me. “You behave yourself, Heather.”
“Yes, Mom,” I say. “I’ll try.”
“You sure you don’t want to join us?” Chris asks her. “It’s usually pretty fun.”
“No thanks, I’m good,” she replies. “It’s nice to have a night off for a change.”
Marissa isn’t kidding. She has no problem finding dates—she just hasn’t found a guy she’s wanted to see more than once yet. A couple of the guys she’s gone out with are still pestering her for second dates, but she says she can tell from one date whether a guy is a keeper or not. So far, I’ve been afraid to ask her what the qualifications are.
Chapter 14
Outside, the sun is vanishing behind the deep green hills to the west of campus, leaving behind a blazing palette of pinks, golds, oranges and purples. It’s literally breathtaking.
“Wow! How nice is that?” Chris says.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Just beautiful.”
“Yes,” Chris says. “Very beautiful.”
I turn my head and see he’s looking at me now, not the sky. Here comes the blushing again. I’m afraid to meet his eyes, so I look back at the sunset. I’ve never been very comfortable with flattery.
“It’s so nice out, how about we walk to The Joint?” Chris asks.
It really is nice out. The air is pleasantly warm, with just the barest hint of a breeze. Birds are chirping their merry evening songs, and I can smell fresh cut grass from somewhere. The Joint is less than a mile from my dorm, so walking is a great idea.
“Yeah, let’s walk. That’ll be great.”
Chris takes my hand, and we head down the street to the west, directly into the sunset. It’s so gorgeous, it’s almost like walking into a painting. Chris and I reached the hand holding stage over a week ago, but I still get a little thrill every time his fingers touch mine, especially when he gives me that quick squeeze he always does when our hands first touch. If this were a movie, this would be the closing shot—two young lovers strolling off into the sunset, hand in hand. Remember, I believe in fairy tales—I’m just really careful about letting myself think I’ll ever be part of one. But who knows?
Walking with Chris like this is so awesome I wish The Joint were farther away, but we’re there in less than twenty minutes. The bright colors of the sunset are now only a narrow band above the horizon, with the rest of the sky a mixture of dark grays and purples. The smell of hamburgers and grilled onions has replaced the fragrance of cut grass—still appealing, but in a less romantic way.
The Joint is a small, very casual restaurant that has operated on campus for decades. It’s one of the few places to eat on campus not run by the college. It has no liquor license, but since most students aren’t old enough to legally drink, that’s not a problem. Besides, there are plenty of places for kids to drink illegally, if they want. The Joint serves a simple menu of hamburgers and hot dogs, as well as hot and cold sandwiches. Along with soft drinks, you can get energy drinks, several different coffees and fruit smoothies. Chris tells me that a few years ago, someone had the idea to host an open mic night, and the place has become more popular than ever.
There’s no line outside, so after Chris pays the cover charge to a good-looking blond guy seated on a wooden stool next to the door, we’re able to go right in.
We step through the double glass doorway into a single, nearly square room. It’s not all that big, but it’s crowded with tables. Even so, I doubt the place holds much more than a hundred people. It’s about three-quarters full now. The smell of grilling beef is stronger here, reminding me I haven’t eaten since lunch, and the chattering conversations are a bit louder than I would have expected. I’m guessing that at least some of the kids have had a few drinks before coming to watch the festivities.
I slide my arm inside the crook of Chris’s elbow. “You take me to all the nicest places,” I tease.
He laughs. “What, you don’t like plain and crowded?” He leans over and kisses my hair. “It’ll be fun, I promise. And the food is surprisingly decent.”
The hostess guides us to a small round table on the far side of the room, closer to the back than the front, but as I said, the place isn’t very big, so there really isn’t a bad seat in the house. I take the chair facing the makeshift stage—a raised square platform no more than ten feet across covered with black felt—and Chris sits down opposite me. There’s an old acoustic guitar leaning against the wall at the rear of the stage and a beat up piano to the right. I’m glad we’re far enough from the front that no one will see which table Chris came from if he gets up onstage and bombs. The hostess hands us each a plastic menu and scurries away.
I look around at the people near us. All college kids, of course. I spot a couple of fedora hats, some pink and green streaked hair, and a bright green, blue and yellow plaid sports jacket the guy must be wearing as joke. He has to be a comedian. If not, I feel really sorry for the girl sitting next to him, who is actually kind of cute. I take that back—I feel sorry for her even if he is a comedian.
I flip open the menu. It’s pretty basic. A few appetizers and four or five kinds of hamburgers with corny names like The BuzzBurger are listed on the left side, while a bunch of sandwiches fill the right. Beverages and a couple of desserts are on the back. I settle on a chicken Dijon sandwich and a diet soda.
I drop my menu onto the table. Chris has obviously decided what he wants, because he’s already put his menu down. I’m not even sure he looked at it. He’s been here before and probably knows what he likes.
A tall waiter with short black hair threads his way over to our table. He’s wearing a loose light blue button shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black pants.
“Have you two decided what you want?” he asks, bending at the waist so he can hear our replies over the din.
I order my chicken sandwich and soda, and Chris orders a cheeseburger and a soda. We decide to split an order of fries. The waiter scribbles it down on a small pad.
“Shouldn’t be too long,” he says before spinning away and heading toward the kitchen.
“So,” I say to Chris. “You were saying you were going to do what up on stage?”
He laughs. “Nice try. But I’m pretty sure I wasn’t saying any such thing.”
I feign a pout. “Oh, my bad. I thought you were.”
“What’s the matter?” he asks. “Don’t you like surprises?”
“Sure I do. I love surprises—but only when I know what they are.”
Chris laughs again. “I’m pretty sure that’s not a surprise, then.”
“Oh.” I smile sweetly. “I guess I don’t like surprises, then.” Cautious girls usually don’t. I change the subject. “So, how many times have you been here for this open mic thing?”
“Just a couple of times near the end of last semester,” he says. “This is the first time this year. And before you ask, no, I didn’t sing, or tell jokes, or recite poetry.”
So much for changing the subject. I decide I may as well go with the flow.
“Pole dance?” I ask.
“Ha, ha! You wish.” He puts an exaggerated thinking expression on his face. “You know, maybe that’s not such a bad idea,” he says. “No one’s done that here yet.”
I’m spared from having to come up with some smart retort by the arrival of our food.
“You two need anything else?” our waiter asks after putting our food, drinks and a bottle of ketchup on the table.
Chris looks at me, and I shake my head. “We’re
good,” he says.
He picks up the ketchup and mimes pouring some onto the fries, which are the thick, plump kind I like, looking for my approval. I nod my head yes, so he shakes a couple of big blobs of ketchup onto the fries and then some more onto his burger.
I spear a fry with my fork and take a bite. It’s warm and crispy, with just the right amount of salt. Very good, really. Chris picks up his burger in both hands and takes a big bite, his blue eyes smiling at me over the top of the burger. I smile back and bite into my sandwich. It’s also very tasty. The Dijon sauce is just right and the chicken is nice and tender.
We don’t talk too much while we’re eating, which is fine with me. I hate having to worry about whether I’ve got food stuck in my teeth when I’m talking and eating at the same time.
“Did milady enjoy her dinner?” Chris asks when I finally shove my plate to the side.
“Immensely,” I reply, making a show of delicately dabbing my lips with the paper napkin. “The cuisine was superb, the atmosphere enchanting, the service exceptional. I can’t wait for the entertainment.”
Our waiter comes over and grabs our plates. Did I mention he’s pretty cute? Not that I noticed, of course.
Chris scoots his chair around the table so that he’s next to me, facing the stage. Our timing is perfect, because some guy in the same blue shirt, black pants outfit as our waiter has just stepped up onto the stage and grabbed the microphone. He taps the mic with his fingers a couple of times, testing it, and then waits for the crowd to quiet.
“Welcome, everyone, to open mic night at The Joint,” he says. Cheers and whistles erupt from the crowd. “We’re going to start with our traditional opening act,” he continues when the noise subsides. “Let’s hear it for one of your favorite performers, Anthony Tomaso!”
Mine: A Love Story Page 8
