Our Demented Play Date

by Kat Fletcher

  “How about you?” I ask. “Are there lots of gay girls at your school? Anyone you’re seeing?”

  She gives me a look again and takes another sip from her root beer before answering. “There’s a few of us.”

  “And anyone you’re with?”

  “Nobody in particular.” She studies me again, as if she’s thinking about something. “Not right now at least. Like I said, there’s a bunch of us. You know. We all hang out together.”

  “Good,” I say and pause. “Good that you have friends.” Well, if she was flirting with me, I figure I’ll flirt right back.

  Unfortunately, that’s when the server arrives with our food. It’s this huge portion and it brings with it that terrible yet wonderful aroma of fried everything. My fish is great and I love the onion rings. They’re not the usual puffy ones, instead they’re thin and crispy like the tempura I get at the Japanese place at the mall. I don’t really believe in God, but I thank Him that she suggested getting something fried anyway. I’m starving, but I probably would have done the girl thing and gotten something light. I don’t think I will ever do the salad thing, but also not a huge pile of fried fish on top of a mountain of french fries.

  I wonder. Do lesbians get an exemption from the whole “eat a salad when you’re on a date” thing? I don’t know, but I kind of hope so. Of course, I’m painfully aware this isn’t a date, but I have a feeling that if Rachel were my date, she wouldn’t care if I ate like a normal human being.

  “So,” I point at one of the clams on her plate, “what are those things like?”

  “Fan-fucking-tastic tasting,” she says with real enthusiasm, then looks curiously at me. “You’ve never had real fried clams?”

  “Like frozen from a bag at my grandmother’s. They just taste like batter.”

  “Those are clam strips; these are the real thing. Try.” She spears one on her fork and dangles it across the table in a slow circle. If we were a couple of years younger, the gesture would be silly, but at our age, and with the way she’s smiling at me, it’s flirty. Even I can’t explain it as anything else. I reach my head forward to grab it and she pulls the fork away with a smirk and then expertly puts it in my mouth.

  I only wish the experience of the clam lived up to how I was fed it. I manage to get it down, but it really is gross and worse, leaves a weird taste in my entire mouth.

  “Not exactly your thing?” she asks, laughing.

  Shaking my head, I smile and laugh with her. “Those must be what they call an acquired taste.”

  * * *

  It’s almost nine when we get back to the cottages. Rachel and I don’t talk on the ride back, but I don’t hide in my music either. I’m feeling like we might be able to be friends. She doesn’t act like a cool girl, even though she obviously is one.

  There’s still a few nagging doubts. Emily. I haven’t thought of her in years, but back when I was little, I used to spend Saturday afternoons with her. Our moms were good friends, so for most of first and second grade they’d set up play dates on almost every Saturday. Emily would always be so friendly and we’d have what I thought was a great time and then on Monday, back at school, she’d act like I didn’t exist.

  I never told my mom about how Emily treated me. I told myself that it was because her mom and my mom were friends and I didn’t want to mess up her Saturdays, but I know it wasn’t that. I was so excited to be able to play with one of the popular girls that I convinced myself every week that this time would be different. Of course it never was. I think she eventually talked to her mom because one weekend the playdates disappeared.

  No. I don’t think that’s it. There’s something about Rachel that’s different. There’s this real quality. Like when she realized I wasn’t being homophobic—LOL if only she knew— she was relieved. It was as if she wanted my approval. I’m drawn back out of my thoughts when she holds her hand out and says very officiously, “Phone please,” as my mom pulls the SUV into the driveway of their cottage.

  “Huh?” Smooth Sarah. Very smooth. Maybe I could toss in a “golly” or a “gee willickers.”

  “Your phone?” she waggles her fingers. “I require it. Come on. Give it over.”

  I’m confused and it’s only when I see what she’s typing that I figure out she’s giving me her number. A girl is giving me her number. No. My parents’ friend’s daughter is giving me her number. It doesn’t mean anything.

  A girl is giving me her number!

  “I sent myself a text so I have yours,” she says and climbs out of the SUV.

  “Sure,” I wonder if she realizes exactly how delighted I am.

  “Send you a text tomorrow? We can hit up the beach?”

  “All right,” I say, trying not to sound amazed. “Sounds great.”

  We get inside and I make the usual “nice dinner” chatter with my parents, head up to my room, and sprawl on the bed. Our dinner together has left me with this wonderful feeling that’s so intense I can sense myself smiling, the muscles in my face straining to make it a little broader, a little more full. I go over the evening in my mind again and again. The way her lips looked when she leaned over the table and suggested we get the “fried.” The way she said my shirt was pretty. I shiver, suddenly aware of the cool breeze through the window. Or maybe it’s something else.

  Chapter 5

  When I wake up, Rachel’s left a text telling me she and her dad are going out for the morning, but she’ll get in touch. It’s signed with emojis for two girls and a beach. I can’t quite tell, but I think the girls are holding hands in the tiny graphic. Does it mean anything? Or is it just the only one she saw with two girls, instead of whatever?

  Like a total loser, I look through my tablet trying to figure out if there would be other options that didn’t have hand holding. It’s not really productive either way.

  Three hours of trying to read and watch stuff on the net and whatever and just before noon, she suddenly blips me that she’ll be here in ten minutes and is bringing a picnic lunch to eat on the beach. Ten minutes is not long enough. Not nearly. I start digging through my suitcase. I have two bathing suits and after a short internal debate, I opt for the practical navy blue one-piece and a gauzy white shirt to keep the sun off.

  I hear the doorbell, grab my sunglasses, and race downstairs, almost tripping in the unfamiliar flip flops. “Rach and I are going down to the beach,” I call out to my mom. I don’t know why I don’t want to be around my mom and Rachel at the same time, but I don’t. Maybe I’m afraid she’ll see something in my face. Possibly I’m embarrassed. I don’t really know.

  She nods. “Have fun and be careful in the water.”

  Under a white cloth baseball hat with a rainbow swirl, Rachel’s wearing these large round sunglasses that completely change the way her face looks. Combined with the faded board shorts and a tank top over her bathing suit, it’s a different look. Kind of plain, but kind of great too. Amazing, just in a different way. Or perhaps “amazing” is just how I see her.

  She’s also got some kind of tent thing slung over a shoulder, and a heavy-looking tote bag and looks like she might use some help. “Can I take something?” I ask, holding out my hand.

  “No,” she says shuffling it on her shoulder, “I got it.”

  We follow the little path from the yard and down the stairs down to the beach itself. The day has turned hot with a bright sun and a steady, but light breeze. The beach our cottages sit on is almost empty. There’s a couple of kids and their mom frolicking in the water almost out of sight and a retired couple a few hundred feet down the beach roasting in the sun.

  “Here okay?” Rachel asks.

  “Sure,” I say.

  She dumps her load of stuff on the sand. “What a fucking great beach day. First we pitch the Sport-Brella or I’m going to burn to a crisp or go blind.”

  She shakes out the sun cover. It’s a sort-of umbrella on its side sort of thing and comes together quickly. I stand around feeling awkward while she sets i
t up, thinking I should help, but having no idea what I could do until she takes out a small bag, removes a couple of metal stakes from it, then tosses it to me. “Stake out your side so we don’t blow away.”

  I kneel, find one of the tie-down loops, and press the metal spike into the sand. By the time I’m finished, she’s fishing a huge beach blanket out of the bag and spreading it under the canopy.

  “There we are,” she says and slides in gracefully.

  I join her. It’s big enough for two, but just. The shade is welcome. There’s almost no humidity and the sun is almost ludicrously bright. As I slide in, soaking up the warmth radiating from the sand, my leg brushes up against hers. It’s smooth and warm and I withdraw my leg, embarrassed over what I’m not quite sure.

  “I have lunch,” she announces, “but I’d like to get a swim in.” She lifts her bottom, slips the shorts down, and strips off her top to reveal a simple dark blue one-piece.

  “I think we’re wearing the same suit,” I laugh.

  She slips a finger under my white cotton cover-up and lifts it. I hold my breath. The gesture is more intimate than I’m usually comfortable with, but I can make an exception. It’s still a little disconcerting, but thrilling at the same time—a feeling I’m starting to associate with anything Rachel Gill. I pull away trying to push those feelings out of my head. I need to work on the friends and not looking like an idiot thing. Thinking there could be more is only setting myself up for a huge disappointment.

  She smirks at me. “I think you’re right. Close enough anyway. Can you get my back with sunscreen?”

  I freeze with a wonderful horrible image of me rubbing lotion into her back until she hands me a spray bottle. I’m relieved that she turns away and doesn’t see the embarrassed grin on my face.

  “You sunscreened up?” she asks, accepting the spray back.

  I shake my head and she slides out of the shade and stands up, gesturing to me. I scoot out, strip off the cotton cover-up, and raise my arms like a little girl. She laughs in that knowing way she has and sprays me all over, then tosses the bottle back under the tent and nods toward the water.

  The water’s freezing, and I take one step into the surf and stop in my tracks. Rach is apparently undeterred and wades straight in, then, realizing I’m not following, turns around and beckons me. “Come on chicken, it’s great,” she says and falls backward.

  She’s got her legs tucked up under her, treading water with her arms and keeping her body underneath the surface. I know that’s the best way to get in, but I can’t bring myself to take the plunge. I start wading in slowly, taking one slow cold step after another. I do okay until it starts getting to my upper thighs, then a wave comes in and soaks my crotch and it is OMG cold.

  It’s obvious Rachel knows exactly what just happened because she starts to crack up.

  “Shut up!” I say and splash at her. The last thing I need is discussing my lower bits with Rachel.

  “That’s why you get it over with quick.” She laughs and starts swimming out, giving a big kick that sends a small but equally cold splash of water across my chest.

  “I’m going to kill you!” I scream and jump toward her, diving fully under the water. I bob up a few feet from her and shake my hair out, trying my best to get some on her face.

  “See, isn’t that better?” she asks. “Once you know you’re going to do something, just jump in.”

  “Some of us don’t jump as fast,” I reply. I’m not really good at the bantering back and forth, so I’m pretty proud of my response. I wonder for a moment if we’re both talking about something other than the surf, but she splashes out farther into the water and I swim after her trying to catch up.

  Finally, we get out to where it’s not quite over our heads and we can float more comfortably. “I love this feeling,” I say. “The waves bobbing you up and down? It’s so relaxing.”

  “I kind of wish they were a little stronger,” she says. “I love playing in the surf. You know. Where the waves really break on the beach?”

  “At least you can swim here,” I say, defending my nice gentle waves. “I could get my mom to drop us off at the public beach if you want. It’s on the ocean side and there are lots of waves.”

  “This is cool,” she admits. “At least for now, I like having space to ourselves.”

  We swim out to where it’s deeper and suddenly there’s some kind of warm layer in the water. “Wow, that’s freaky,” I say to her.

  “What?” she paddles over, so close we can almost touch. “Oh!”

  “Yeah, warm on that side, freezing on this side,” I shiver. We swim back and forth between the layers until I can feel goosebumps forming on my arms.

  “I brought lunch if you want to get out for a while,” she says, apparently reading my mind. All sorts of talents.

  We swim in, towel off, and head back to our tent umbrella thing. She opens a brown paper bag and starts pulling out little packages, but I’m sort of lost in looking at the way her hair falls on her face now that it’s wet.

  “Sorry,” she says, “I have no idea what you eat.”

  When she says that, I’m channeling my inner twelve-year-old and trying desperately, but unsuccessfully, to suppress a laugh.

  “I said what, not who,” her voice is all serious and that pushes me over the edge into a giggle fit. She holds out for a few moments and then lets herself crack up with me. Her laugh is a contrast to my girlish giggle: hearty and full. It fits her and I like it. She’s really not what I thought when I first saw her.

  “Okay,” she says, her voice serious again, “enough of that. I wasn’t sure so I got a spicy sausage sub and a creamy tuna taco.”

  There’s this moment where I take it at face value and think about which I want, then suddenly realize it’s a joke and start to turn red. That’s when her laugh rings out again, which only increases my mortification.

  “I don’t believe you said that,” I whisper rolling my eyes.

  “God, you’re easy to prank on,” she laughs. “For reals, I got turkey and roast beef. I figured you ate some kind of meat because you had the fish last night. You don’t seem like someone who thinks fish is a vegetable. I like both so whichever you want. There’s chips and cookies too and a couple of bottles of soda and iced tea.”

  “I feel like a turkey so why don’t you give me that one.”

  “Okay Turkey,” she says and hands me the sandwich. I realize I’m starving and we eat quickly, occasionally looking at each other and laughing for no apparent reason.

  After we finish the last cookies, she firmly announces, “No swimming for at least one hour.”

  This time I catch on right off that she’s being farcical. “Sure Mom,” I quip back. I’m more than happy not to swim. The lunch was wonderful, but heavier than I usually eat and I just want to lie there and bask. I search through my bag and pull out a book.

  “What’s that?” Rachel asks.

  “Oh, I picked it up the other day when I was shopping with my mom. Another post-apocalyptic thriller with an angsty teenage love triangle and a couple of vampires.”

  “Whatever,” she says. Her voice is a little patronizing, but in a joking way that doesn’t leave me feeling too insecure about my reading choices.

  “You have something to read?” I ask.

  She pulls out a Kindle. “If my mother asks, then it’s Henry James’s The Bostonians for my summer reading list. If she’s not around, then it’s a romance.”

  “So? Who’s in love?”

  “Well, there’s this girl and she’s a movie star and she’s in love with her best friend and they’re in love with her, but neither one of them knows the other is gay. The movie star is pretty much Jennifer Lawrence. The names are changed, but it’s easy to figure out who they mean.”

  “I wouldn’t think that’d be your kind of thing.”

  “Oh J-Law would most definitely be my type of thing,” she says in an exaggerated way, “and the best friend is a girl. So the book is als
o most definitely my thing.”

  “Ooooh,” I say, feeling a little silly for thinking when she said romance that it would automatically be a girl and a guy. “Is it good?”

  “Yeah. It’s really good.”

  “Are there a lot of romances for… you know?”

  “Lesbians? More than you’d think. Some of them aren’t great, but even if they aren’t, they’re fun to read.”

  “I didn’t think anyone as cool as you would read romance novels. It’s kind of funny.” Did I really just call her cool? Great, I’m back to being the little puppy following her around wanting attention.

  She laughs, “It’s probably not good to make assumptions.”

  “Probably not,” I say, feeling a little chastised. I try to let it go, but it seemed like things were going well and now I feel like I’m blowing it.

  “So, you think I’m cool, huh?” Rachel asks, her voice filled with amusement.

  Crap, she’s not going to let it go. “I’m sorry. What?”

  Rachel cocks her head at me and gives me a look. “Complimenting me and denying it? That’s shady.”

  My mouth drops. “I’m not shady!”

  “Sooo…” she draws the word out, “you do think I’m cool.” She smiles, looking like she’s pleased with herself.

  I’m flustered and can’t think of any comeback to that. Think, think, think. I’m not great at this ever and with her it’s even worse. There’s something about her. She always seems two steps ahead of everything.

  “I think you’re cool, too,” Rachel says casually and turns her focus back to her Kindle. I swear her cheeks are a shade redder. It could be the sun but maybe she’s blushing. No, it’s got to be a sunburn. Or not. I smile and go back to my book, but the plot is getting convoluted and I’m not concentrating on it. Not with what I have on my mind or with her sitting so close to me. I give up when I realize I don’t even know which guy the vampires are chasing and put the book back on my lap, spread open to hold my place.