happen?”
“Nothing much,” he says, voice leaden with irony. “Only… I have to do about 6,000 hours of community service and am on probation for, like, ever. I can’t even associate with anyone on the swim team, or extracurricular activities. When Tonia found out, she flipped. Said she couldn’t have me ruining her chances of getting into State.”
“Ouch,” I say.
“Yeah, ouch is right. Three years we’ve been dating, and the first time I’m not 100% Mr. America she bails. She’s already dating Brash Masters.”
“Brash?” I say, eyes rolling. “Doesn’t he have, like, an IQ of 38 or something?”
“Yeah, well, he’s all-state in four sports and counting, so… they kind of grade him on a curve, if you know what I mean. Tonia calls him a ‘real asset’ to her ‘well-rounded collegiate lifestyle,’ whatever that means.”
“Cold,” I say, suddenly realizing I’ve been sipping on his soda and munching on his popcorn for the last 10 minutes. “Oh. My. God!”
I gasp and quickly pour him another bucket full of his own, plus a new soda.
“Dart, I had no idea, I’m so sorry. So, what, you figured a little movie time might clear your head?”
His eyes get big, his cheeks flushed. “Clear my head? My Dad kicked me out tonight. Right after my grandparents left, he took me out to the garage. He packed my bags and handed me a few twenty dollar bills. Said he’d booked me a room at the Snowflake Chalet through New Year’s. Wants me to clear my head and think about where I’d like to live once school starts up again.”
“Because you got busted for some weed?” I ask.
“It’s more the newspaper thing. That mug shot really shook him up. He’s in real estate, you know, needs to keep his image up. I think he’s just kind of distancing himself from me, you know?”
“Not really,” I murmur. (I mean, how do you “distance yourself” from your own son, am I right?) “No.”
“Yeah, me either.”
“So, what are you going to do? I mean, once the hotel room runs out.”
“Sasha, I have no idea. I can’t live with any of the guys on the team, Tonia’s cut me loose, I have no other family in Snowflake, I mean…”
His voice trails off, his shoe squeaking on the tile floor of the lobby.
“My mom still has 76 days left in rehab,” I say. “That is, if she sticks with it this time. Her room is free, or the couch, or whatever…”
“I couldn’t, Sasha,” he says, face full-on crimson now. “Seriously, that’s… way over the line. I mean, you hardly know me.”
Know you? I want to say, but don’t; for obvious reasons. I’ve been silently stalking you since you transferred here halfway through freshman year, you doof! I know everything about you! Except, you know, for the fact that you’re a total pothead!!!
“I’m not proposing, dude,” I snort, slugging him playfully on the arm. “Get over yourself.”
“I don’t mean it like that,” he says, eyes so desperate I already know his answer before he does.
“Where are you going to go, Dart? It’s a big place; bigger than it looks on the outside. I keep it clean. You… you… can get a job here, help pay some of the bills.”
“Yeah?” he asks, the fact that his head’s not spinning around a pretty good indicator that his not completely disgusted by the idea; by either idea.
“Mr. Kerns made me assistant manager last week and hasn’t hired my replacement usher, so… I could put in a good word.”
“You’d… do that for me?”
“Yeah, Dart; I would.”
“But… we’ve never said 10 words to each other at school.”
“Yeah?”
“So, I mean, don’t you hate me?”
“Uh, no. I mean, I may think you have rotten taste in chicks and really bad drug hiding skills but, other than that, I actually think you’re kind of… cool.”
“Me too,” he blurts.
“Yeah, most jocks do think they’re cool.”
“No, I mean… I think you’re cool, too.”
“Yeah, well, free popcorn and a warm bed will do that to a guy.”
He blushes again, and looks toward his theater.
“Hey, you wanna… watch the movie with me?”
“I can’t,” I say, too quickly, if only to hide the fact that I’ve been daring him to ask me for the last 15 minutes. “I’ve got to bag the popcorn, clean the soda machine nozzles, spray down the mats…”
“I can help you with that,” he offers, smiling for the first time all night. “After the movie’s over, I mean. Come on, Sasha. I don’t want to watch a movie alone and… and… it’s Christmas.”
“But what if somebody else shows up?” I ask lamely, looking out into the deserted parking lot.
“Hand me your keys,” he says.
I do, not even reluctantly.
He strides toward the front door on long, athletic legs, finds the right key after about eight tries, locks the front door with finality and even turns the “Open” sign over to “Closed” in the ticket window.
“There,” he says, handing the keys back. “Now you have no more excuses!”
He’s right; I don’t.
I follow him, both our arms loaded down with movie snacks.
The theater is big and empty and I wait to see where he’ll sit; dead center, last row – my kind of scary movie watcher!
The movie is just about to start, but he kind of lazes his way back there.
He lets me sit first, and I’m waiting for him to do the whole extra seat between us deal like every other guy I’ve ever dated, but he plops himself right down next to me and even offers me his extra box of Slow Pokes!
He waits until we’re settled to ask, “Are you really serious, I mean, about… the couch?”
I practically choke on a popcorn kernel and say, “Are you really serious about helping me clean out the popcorn machine?”
“Yes.”
“Then… yes.”
“I don’t know what to say, Sasha.”
“How about not saying anything,” I joke. “You know, this is a movie theater.”
“But I don’t want to watch the movie anymore,” he says.
“Seriously?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, turning toward me.
“So… what do you want to do then?”
“Well, I just… if we get a jump on the cleanup, maybe I can swing by the Snowflake Chalet and get my deposit back, since I never actually stayed there, and I can give you the money for a start on my rent, and…”
Figures; I finally lure a guy over to my house, and he turns out to be a bigger prude than… than… Santa Claus!!!
* * * * *
About the Author:
Rusty Fischer
Rusty Fischer specializes in seasonal short stories for the young adult audience. Read more of Rusty’s FREE YA seasonal stories at www.rushingtheseason.com.
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