Film at Eleven

by Bloom, Maggie

  If Lars looked like I’d squashed his dream before, now he looked like I’d punched him in the stomach. And usually I’m okay with playing the unemotional tough girl. But after everything he’d done for me, I didn’t have the heart to upset him.

  “It’s okay. We can wait,” I backtracked, risking the Mental Hygienist’s wrath. “I should still be able to get home in time.”

  I flashed him an everything’s cool smile, which, apparently, he way misinterpreted. Because the next thing I knew, his tongue was in my mouth. No, you’re not hallucinating (though I sort of wish I had been). I actually did say the boy’s hot, wet tongue was flailing around between my teeth and threatening to gag me. And the weird thing was, kissing Lars—if you could call it that—was nothing like kissing Mick. Mick’s lips and tongue and, well, everything else just felt right. My experience with Lars, on the other hand, left me feeling like I’d just been probed by an alien.

  So given the circumstances, who could possibly blame me for what happened next? It was a reflex, I swear. On the second or third unwelcome tongue thrust, I bit down on the slimy intruder. And then I stomped on Lars’ foot.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurted. “I didn’t mean to…”

  Lars backed away in horror with his dog-bitten arm protecting his freshly injured mouth. Meanwhile, I did the only thing an embarrassed, confused girl like me could think of: I ran away. Literally.

  Ten

  NEEDLESS to say, October fifth, which technically should have been one of the happiest days of my life, had gone down in flames, big time. But as bad as it had been, it was a minor distraction compared to the earth-rattling doubt that began to plague me on October sixth. Doubt about me and Mick.

  I hate to admit it, but when Mick still hadn’t called by October twelfth—a full week after he’d gotten his license—I’d pretty much given up hope. I mean, there’s only so much disappointment and heartbreak one girl can take. Like I’d figured over the summer, Mick and I were destined for our own separate universes. Flora Fontain and Mick Donovan were never meant to be.

  Of course, when I told Jessie about Lars tonguing me and Mick ditching me on the same day, she was full of unsolicited advice and warped ideas that went something like this:

  #1 Lars is hot. You should just go out with him and forget about Mick.

  #2 Ryan the stalker Goodman likes you.

  #3 If you join a convent, you can marry Jesus.

  #4 Mr. Morrison has a twin.

  #5 I’ll go out with you, but only if Mr. Morrison doesn’t find out.

  #6 I’m sure your brother knows some frat boys by now.

  #7 My next door neighbor just got a divorce.

  #8 You’d be perfect for The Bachelorette.

  Obviously, Jessie had lost her mind. But I had to admit, her suggestions were pretty entertaining. Too bad they weren’t quite as helpful as they were funny. In a moment of weakness, though, I gave a fraction of a second of thought to one thing she’d said.

  It was Lars. He’d been so understanding about the tongue biting and the foot stomping—not to mention the dog attack—that I couldn’t help having a soft spot for him. And after everything I’d put him through, he still liked me. He wouldn’t give up. He was so convinced there was something special between us that, even though I couldn’t quite reach the same conclusion yet, I was starting to feel like he knew something I didn’t.

  Still…

  I was having trouble giving up on Mick. But the truth was, he was gone. He’d deserted me. And even though I didn’t want to accept it, it was over. My first love had broken my heart. But as they say, every cloud has a silver lining. It just so happened my silver lining came in the form of a sexy Icelandic prince who was inexplicably infatuated with me. How irrational.

  For the next two weeks, things remained stuck in neutral. But by the time the SAT finally rolled around, I had started to let go of Mick for real. The evidence was irrefutable: I’d finished every last Twinkie in my emergency stash; I’d watched all of Molly Ringwald’s ’80s hits—twice; and, in a final act of disconnection, I’d torn Mick’s letter to unrecognizable shreds. As I blew the wispy bits of paper to the wind, I cried my goodbye tears and closed the book on my sweet, sweet Mickey D for good.

  And then I faced the inevitable: the SAT.

  With more than a little hesitation, I buckled myself into the Mental Hygienist’s pickup, rested my head on the window, and promptly pretended to fall sleep. Of course, my clueless mother hardly noticed.

  “The most important thing is to stay calm,” she said, offering me some last-minute test-taking advice as we backed out of the driveway. “If you panic, your mind will go blank. And remember, this is only your first time,” she went on. “If you don’t like your score, you can take it again. Mr. Brown’s son took it four times.”

  Yeah, right. I’m going to sign up for extra tours of duty in hell? Not bloody likely.

  I gave her a weak nod, which must have encouraged her to continue, because she added, “Oh, and answer all the easy questions first.”

  “Uh-huh,” I mumbled.

  “There was one other thing…” she said tentatively. “What was it? What the heck was it?”

  I yawned and rolled over; meanwhile, my mother drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.

  “No…that’s not it,” she said. “Hmm… Okay, that’s right. The other thing is, try to finish all the questions if you can—especially if you can narrow down the answers.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  A few blissful minutes of silence passed before we swung into the clogged bus loop at school. “You can drop me here,” I blurted, hoping to avoid the mayhem of the traffic jam.

  “Here?”

  I reached for the door handle. “Yup. This is good.”

  My mother shot me a doubtful glance, but when I popped the door open a sliver, she finally took me seriously and stopped the truck.

  And just six hours later, the whole grueling ordeal was over. Fini. Kaput. I must say, it wasn’t as bad as it was cracked up to be either. I mean, maybe I had a slight advantage because of the Mental Hygienist’s sacred test prep course, but I sort of doubted it. Even without the course, I’m pretty sure I could’ve performed respectably. And that was all I was after: a decent score that would get me into art school. Otherwise, the psychos at the SAT could take their test and…well, you get the idea.

  The second the proctors set us free, I shoved my calculator and pencil into my elephant-print hobo bag and bolted. After all, I had plans. With Lars and Jessie. Sort of a trial date with my best friend along to supervise, just in case things went straight into the toilet. If the worst happened, Jessie could distract Lars while I disappeared into oblivion. It was an ingenious plan, really, and quite necessary given my history of disastrous interactions with the Icelandic prince.

  Like Jessie and I had arranged, she met up with Lars out behind Punxsy High under an ancient tree that reminded me of the Whomping Willow from Harry Potter, and I just strolled up nonchalantly.

  “So how was it?” Jessie asked me.

  I rolled my eyes. “Sucked, of course,” I said. I mean, I couldn’t risk telling her the SAT was actually okay, just in case she’d wigged out, melted down, and totally blown it.

  “No shit,” she agreed. “I doubt I broke like fifteen hundred. So should I join the Army or enroll in cosmetology school? It’s your call.”

  “Don’t take this wrong, but I think you might be setting your sights a little high,” I joked. “I mean, maybe you could look into joining the circus. I can definitely see you as a mime. You’d be fabulous.”

  Lars, Jessie, and I all cracked up.

  “Well, I thought the test was very reasonable,” Lars finally admitted. “Although it isn’t required in Iceland.”

  “You took the SAT?” I asked. “Why?”

  Lars winked at me. “I’m keeping my options open, in case I decide to stay in The States,” he explained. “Many attractive things here
have captured my attention.”

  On that uncomfortable note, we headed off to reward ourselves with lunch at a kitschy little dive on Main Street called the Silver Pheasant.

  “There,” Jessie said, pointing the way to a cozy booth overlooking downtown.

  She shimmied into one side while Lars claimed the spot opposite her, which left me with a perplexing decision: I could either sit with Jessie (and stare into my potential new boyfriend’s creamy chocolate eyes), or I could snuggle up to the Hotness himself and let the sparks fly where they may.

  Of course, I chose the eyes. What can I say? I’m a chicken.

  As the young waitress appeared to take our orders, Jessie’s phone rang. “At the Silver Pheasant, with Flora. Okay. Yeah, I guess. Yup. See ya later,” she said to whoever was on the other end of the line.

  Meanwhile, Lars and I had already ordered.

  “Do you know what you want?” I asked, as soon as she flipped her phone shut.

  “Oh, no. I’m sorry,” she said to the waitress. “I have to go.”

  What? No fair. She’d promised to be the third wheel. The buffer. My easy out.

  “What do you mean?” I whined, panic-stricken. “You said you were having lunch with us. You even picked this place, remember?”

  She sighed like she was actually disappointed. “I know. It’s my ditzy mother. Honest to God, she’s a total flake. She ordered a new laptop, and it’s getting delivered today. And, of course, she’s not gonna be home to sign for it.”

  “So,” I said. Who cared? Why did her mother’s lack of planning have to screw up my social life?

  “Well, I’ve gotta do it. She needs the thing for work, so somebody has to be there when UPS bangs the door down,” Jessie explained. “Sorry, but it’s not my fault. Honest.”

  Maybe it was the way she kept claiming to be so friggin’ truthful every other word, or maybe it was the hint of a smirk I could tell she was suppressing, but I had a pretty strong suspicion Jessie was outright lying. And for all I knew, Lars was in on the scam.

  “Whatever,” I snarked. “Go ahead.” I flung myself out of the booth to clear the way for her devious departure.

  “Call you later,” she said, throwing me and Lars a peppy little goodbye wave. “Have fun, guys.”

  Lars grinned. “It was nice to see you. Thank you for coming.”

  Great. Now what was I going to do? I mean, I was interested in exploring the Lars situation a little further, especially since I’d finally accepted the truth about me and Mick, but I wasn’t quite ready to dive head-first into the pool of love just yet.

  For a few silent moments, Lars sat motionless while I fidgeted with the sugar packets and the miniature tubs of jelly. Then, luckily, the waitress buzzed by to drop off our Cokes, which at least gave us something to concentrate on.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you…” Lars started, then paused for a sip.

  I held my breath, since people usually only warn you in advance if what they plan to say is scary, or crazy, or intensely uncomfortable.

  “How has the dog walking been going?”

  Okay, so I was wrong. He was just making small talk. How unthreatening. “Oh, it’s good. Thank God I haven’t seen any more attack dogs lately,” I joked. “How’s your arm anyway?”

  He held up his injured wrist, but I could barely tell anything had happened to it. “Oh, it’s fine,” he assured me. “Nothing to worry about.”

  The waitress slyly slipped our plates in front of us and vanished.

  “I’m glad you could come today,” Lars said. “I like spending time with you. You’re so unique. Nothing like the girls in Iceland.”

  Huh? What was that supposed to mean? He thought I was some kind of freak or something?

  I trapped a few French fries between my chopstick-fingers and started nibbling. “Really? How so?” I could hardly wait to hear this one.

  Lars reached over and stroked my hand with his warm Nordic fingers, which luckily I saw coming or I probably would’ve jumped out of my skin.

  “Please don’t misunderstand,” he said. “I’ve dated wonderful girls in Iceland too. It’s just that they can be a bit hard. A bit jaded. But not you. You’re the exact opposite. You’re fresh and open and alive. It’s invigorating.”

  First of all: ick. I absolutely do not consider myself some sort of happy-go-lucky, airheaded twit like he seemed to think I was. And second of all, did he really just imply we were dating?

  “I think you’re nice too,” I admitted. What the heck? It was true. Even with all his idiosyncrasies, the Icelandic prince was still a good guy. And I was a sucker for nice, especially when it came wrapped in a hot, delicious package.

  I abandoned the fries for the puny burger, and while I chewed away, Lars produced a tiny black velvet bag from God only knew where and placed it on the table between us. Of course, I immediately panicked.

  “I hope this isn’t too forward,” he started.

  Breathe, you dumbass, I tried to remind myself, but I couldn’t quite hear my own thoughts over the erratic pounding of my heart.

  “I’d like you to have these,” he said, sliding the velvet bag over to me. “And I’d like it if we could date. I think we would be good together. You’re just what I’ve been looking for, so…”

  Oh, this was the part where I was supposed to say something. Or maybe I was just supposed to accept his bribe; I had no idea. It didn’t really matter what I was supposed to do, though, since I’d suddenly lost control of every molecule in my being, including my vocal cords.

  Lars gave me a few extra seconds to pull it together before he recognized the obvious: I was speechless.

  “You don’t have to answer right now,” he said. “I can see I’ve caught you by surprise. But I hope you’ll think about it.” With a red-hot stare, he turned me to mush. “Please accept these, though. They wouldn’t be right for anyone but you.”

  My muscles still weren’t functioning, but in a way I guess it was a blessing in disguise, because at least I couldn’t do anything to make myself look any more moronic than I probably already did.

  So while I continued to sit there like a frozen dope, Lars released my hand and unwrapped the gift for me. It was an adorable pair of silver earrings shaped like baby seahorses. Too bad I couldn’t accept them.

  “They’re…beautiful,” I finally managed to spit out. “Thank you for getting them, but I can’t wear earrings.”

  Now Lars was the one who was speechless, which sort of made sense if you thought about it for half a second. I mean, who in their right mind would turn down a gift from a hot Icelandic prince anyway? But honestly, I was only stating a fact. I’d had my ears pierced twice, first when I was ten and again when I was twelve. And as freakish as this sounds, it just didn’t take.

  “It’s just that I don’t have pierced ears,” I explained. “I tried it a couple of times, but they closed up. I think I might have super healing powers or something.”

  Lars’ whole body relaxed. “Like Wolverine?”

  “Yeah, sort of,” I said, taking an extra second to grasp his X-Men reference.

  “Well, that’s all right,” he said, tucking the earrings back inside the velvet bag and pocketing them. “I know someone else who may like these. Mrs. Fisk has been very supportive. I’d like to do something nice for her.”

  How sweet. He wanted to make his host-mom happy. “Great idea,” I said. “I bet she’ll love ’em.”

  “Did I tell you she’s registered us for driver’s training?” Lars asked offhand, as he dug into his burger.

  “Huh?”

  “Mrs. Fisk wants us to learn how to drive together—me, Vivian, and Elmer,” he clarified. “She says it’ll be a good bonding experience.”

  “You don’t have a license already?” I asked, thinking of Mick. I mean, at least he had a license, even if he hadn’t made use of it to visit me like he’d promised.

  Lars shook his head. “No. I don’t have a need for one in Reykjavik. Everything is s
o compressed.”

  I didn’t quite get it. “Then why are you taking driver’s ed? I mean, if you don’t need a license.” And why wasn’t I in on this sweet deal anyway? I could use a get-out-of-jail-free card.

  “Mostly for the Fisks. I’d like to please them,” Lars admitted. “And it’s also a lucrative skill to have.”

  Well, I didn’t know how lucrative a driver’s license really was, unless you were one of those crazy ice road truckers who drive over frozen lakes and rivers and such. They make the big bucks—or so Mr. Tightwad says anyway. Other than that, a license was probably more like a convenience. A liberating convenience I was absolutely desperate to possess.

  “Do you know when the driver’s ed class is?” I asked, deluding myself into thinking my parents might actually let me go. “Maybe I’ll join you.”

  Since Mrs. Fisk had made all the plans, Lars was in the dark on the details. But, of course, the mere mention of me joining him in, well, anything seemed to send the Icelandic prince directly to cloud nine. Could I really be so charming, or sexy, or magnetic? Somehow I doubted it.

  Lars threw a pile of cash on the table to cover our bill, which I tried to protest to no avail. I mean, the last thing I wanted to do was give the boy the impression I owed him anything. But before long, I did owe him something. Because within half a block of the Silver Pheasant, I broke out in a shivering fit, and my Icelandic prince was kind enough to drape his arm around me and warm me to the core with his inexplicably sizzling body heat. I must admit, I was glad to have him wrapped around me—and not just because he was protecting me from the cold either. I liked him touching me. He was tender and inviting, just like Mick had been. I wanted him to touch me more.

  “You know what?” I said, breaking the silence we’d been enjoying for a good long while. “I’ve thought about it, and the answer is yes. I’ll go out with you.”

  It was an impulsive decision, I know, but I felt pretty good about it anyway. Because even though I technically still had feelings for Mick, there was definitely something sparking between me and Lars. And maybe it was just lust, or loneliness, or desperation on my part, but I didn’t really care. All I knew was, Lars Johannsson made me feel good. He made me feel special. He made me feel sexy. He wanted me. And I was going to let him have what he wanted.