Skater Boy (15 page)

The way my parents are staring adoringly at Brent makes my stomach turn. How can they be so fooled by his obvious pandering? He's so cheesy I feel the sudden urge for crackers.

“Hi, Brent,” I say. “What's up?”

My mother shoots me a look. Evidently “what's up” isn't proper date convo. But whatever. Like I give a care. The only reason I agreed to this was so I can phone Sean. So any dreams she may have of a white wedding and a Vera Wang dress and fancy ivory invitations with bows that say “The Millers and the Bakers invite you to join them for a joyous event” can be tossed out the window now.

“Ooh, Richard, we should get the camera,” my mom suggests.

Even Brent looks uncomfortable at that suggestion. Heh. “Actually, we have to get going,” he says. “Reservations at the club for seven-thirty. And you know how Johan hates when people are late for their reservations.” He winks at my dad.

Ew. We're going to the country club? I freaking hate that place. It's so snobby and formal and pretentious. The food sucks, too. All gourmet, with these tiny miniscule portions. Give me a burger and fries any day of the week.

“Oh we know that, all right,” Dad agrees, slapping Brent on the back.
Gross.
“Okay, you kids go have fun now. Dawn, just give us a call if you're going to be out past eleven.”

Wow. He's even going to let me break curfew, all in the name of Brent Baker the Third. What do they see in this guy? Just ‘cause he comes from a wealthy family doesn't mean he's God's Gift to Teens. I mean, I'd have had to sell my soul to the devil before Mr. Curfew allowed me to stay out late. Though I guess, in a way, that's exactly what I've done.

“Okay,” I say, throwing him a big smile. “Can I have my phone then? I mean,” I say in my most casual voice, “in case I have to call, you know.”

“Oh yeah, your phone. Good idea.” Dad walks over to the closet and pulls my precious cell from a top-shelf box. Aha, that's where he stashed it. I've been looking everywhere. “Here you go.”

Yes! My plan worked. I feel major elation as my fingers wrap around the receiver, its plastic frame more precious to me than gold.

“Okay, let's go,” I say, stuffing the phone in my purse and opening the front door. Don't want to stick around in case he changes his mind. Besides, the sooner we leave, the sooner I can speak to Sean. He's going to be so psyched when he hears from me.

We head outside and into Brent's Mercedes. He opens the door for me, and I slip into the leather seat. It is a very nice car, I grudgingly admit. Too bad its driver is such a tool.

“Cool wheels,” I say as Brent gets in the driver's seat. I have a feeling I'm going to have a hard time coming up with conversation tonight.

“Yeah. It's all right,” Brent agrees. “It's just the SL500. I mean, I wanted to get the SL65, but the old man had the nerve to tell me it was too expensive. Puh-leze, right? I mean, we all know the stingy bastard could afford it.”

Aww. He had to give up his dreams and settle for the hundred-thousand-dollar car instead of the two-hundred-thousand-dollar car. Sad story. Breaks my heart, really.

Brett prattles on, though. “So I said to him, ‘Dad, the SL65 has twin-turbocharged V-12 engines. I mean, talk about massive power. This old thing only has a V-8.' And he says to me, ‘Well, Brent, do you really need twin-turbocharged V-12 to get to school?' And I say, ‘Dad, with the time it takes me to do my hair every morning, a car with twin-turbocharged V-12 engines would definitely come in handy. I get to school on time. I learn more. I get into Yale. I mean really, the thing is an investment in my future.' So he says, ‘How about we get you the SL500 and then we bring it down to the dealership and we get it modified to be faster?' And so we did and we souped it up with a—”

Wow. I didn't realize it was physically possible to be so bored. Brent continues his Mercedes monologue all the way to the club. And I nod and say, “uh-huh,” in a few choice places. This guy doesn't need a live date. He'd do perfectly fine with a blow-up doll.

We enter the club and the maitre d' seats us at a candlelit window table. Several of our parents' friends approach to say hi, looking more than delighted to see the two of us together. I catch a glimpse of Ashley #2 sitting at a table across the room. When she sees me with her beloved Brent, she gives me a dirty look and whispers something to her parents. Heh. Well, at least some good has come out of the otherwise lame-o date.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

I look up at the waiter and am about to ask for a Diet Coke, when Brent butts in.

“We'll have a bottle of your second-best champagne,” he says. He glances over at me with another slimy grin. “We're celebrating tonight.”

Uh, we are?

I wait for the waiter to ask for ID, to nip Brent's plan in the bud, but he doesn't. He simply nods and retreats to get our bubbly. Oh-oh.

“We can't drink,” I hiss at him after the waiter leaves. “I'm fifteen. You're seventeen.”

Brent looks bored. “Grow up, Dawn,” he says haughtily. “In Europe, kids can drink when they're twelve.”

“But we're in Massachusetts!”

“Details, details.” He waves his hand dismissively. “The guy served us, didn't he? That's all that matters.”

I slump in my chair. You know, half of me thinks I
should
take a drink. Or twelve. In fact, I should get absolutely trashed and then wake up my parents when I get home. Maybe then they'd see Brent wasn't such a good guy after all.

But no. I want to keep a clear head so I can talk to Sean. Sean, who is straight edge and doesn't drink a drop. He'd be mad if I phoned him all inebriated.

“Will you excuse me a moment?” I ask in my sweetest voice. “Need to go to the ladies'.”

“Sure. Whatever.” Brent doesn't look up from his menu. “I'll order for you.”

Of course you will.

I slip out of my chair and force myself not to run to the bathroom. The club has one of those bathrooms where there's a little sitting room with couches, so it's the perfect place to make my call. I'm so excited my hands are actually shaking. In a few brief moments, I'll be connected to my true love over the cellular airwaves. Did I mention how much I adore modern technology?

When I enter the bathroom, however, I notice feet under several stalls. And I'm a little nervous that they could belong to friends of my parents. Or maybe Ashley #2. Someone who will tell on me for making an illicit phone call to my love while on a date with someone else. And I so don't want to get grounded for another two months.

Well, that blows. I guess I can wait ‘til they leave, though that wastes precious talking time. Or, I suddenly realize, I can text him!

I sit down on one of the couches, pull out my phone and start typing. Sure, it's not as intimate as a phone call and I won't get to hear his sweet voice, but it's still one-on-one conversation with Sean. And right now, I'll take what I can get!

>Hi Sean. Miss you!

I hold my breath, hoping he's around and has his phone on him. That would really suck if he went out and left it at home or something, after all the trouble I've gone through.

>Hi Dawn!!!

Yay! He's there. I hug the cell to my chest for a moment, rejoicing in his virtual presence.

>How are you?

>Good. Are you off grounding?

>No. But I got a night off.

How am I going to explain the whole date thing in text speech? It takes so long to type anything.

>Where are you? Can I come see you?

>Ur never going to believe this. But E.O.s forced me to go on a date with this
loser guy.

I hold my breath, waiting for his reply.

>????

>WAIT! Don't freak. I only agreed coz I could call u.

>Ah. K. For a sec thought I should worry.

I smile and tuck my legs under my bottom. He was jealous. Jealous of Brent. Aww. He's so adorable.

>No need 2 worry, I promise!

> :-) I luv u2.

ARGHHH!!!!! I kiss my phone, prompting one of the old ladies exiting the bathroom to give me a weird look. But I so don't care. Sean loves me. He LOVES me.

Oh. I should probably not leave the poor guy hanging.

>I wish I could come see you.

>Me too. I'd give u a big hug & kiss.

>I'd like that. V. much.

We text a few more lines. Then I tell him I have to go, but I'll text him in a little bit. I can always make another trip to the bathroom while waiting for dessert or something.

I head back to the table, sure I'm still glowing from the exchange. Brent has already broken into the champagne and appears a little tipsy, which worries me. I don't want him driving me home drunk.

“Hey, Dawn, you missed it,” he says as I sit down. “You know how I said I wanted their second-best champagne? Well, the loser brought us their fourth best. Like, thinking I wouldn't know the difference, I'm sure. So I said to him, do you know who my father is? And he says …”

I yawn. I can't help it. Luckily or unluckily, depending on your view, Brent doesn't catch it. He's too busy relating the tale of the evil waiter, who he triumphantly vanquished with his extensive knowledge of champagne vintages. Fascinating stuff, I'll tell you what.

Our meals come. Brent ordered me shrimp scampi, which I'm allergic to. I mention this, but he doesn't acknowledge me. He's too busy complaining about his own filet mignon, sending it back twice, complaining about the cut of the meat and then about its temperature. Then demanding to see the chef so he can berate him publicly. (With another reminder of just who his father is, in case the waiter forgot the first three times he told him.) Okay, this is gross, but I hope the chef hocks a big loogie in his mashed potatoes. It would totally serve him right.

Brent starts pouring himself a third glass of champagne and that's when I have to break into his monologue.

“Dude,” I say, grabbing his hand. “You've got to drive me home. I'd appreciate it if you could do it soberly.”

He looks sulky, but takes his hand off the bottle. “You know, I had a feeling you'd be this uptight, Dawn,” he says. “You're such a stuck-up little snob at school.”

Ni-ice! Great way to talk to one's date. I'm about to snark off a reply, when my purse buzzes by my feet. I reach down to retrieve my phone and read the text message from my lap.

>How's the date?

>Sux.

Brent's reheated meal shows up at that moment and he needs to come up with some other reason to yell at the waiter, so I'm able to text a few more messages to Sean, feeling a little like James Bond. There's something very intimate and sexy about sitting here, texting my true love, while my pseudo date sits across from me being a jerk-off. Very Romeo and Juliet, the next generation. In fact, I bet if those star-crossed lovers had text messaging back then, Juliet could have totally let Romeo in on her whole fake poison/death plan and then he wouldn't have had to kill himself over her. Would have made for a much happier ending.

Amazingly, the never-ending dinner from hell does finally end. Brent pays with his daddy's platinum card and we head out of the club. Thank goodness. Now I can go home and maybe my parents will forget about taking my phone back and Sean and I can text well into the night. Maybe we can even talk on the phone. After all, my bedroom is miles away from The Evil Ones' own chamber of horror. And our walls are pretty darn soundproof.

I look up. Where are we? Uh, wait a second.

“Where are we going?” I ask, as Brent turns off the main road. The main road that leads back to my house and back to my room. The main road that will bring us to the end of our miserable date and me closer to the time when I can start texting Sean again.

“Just for a drive,” Brent says with a shrug.

Um, no thanks. I want to get home. To Sean. This date has already lasted ten thousand years too long.

“I'm, um, actually kind of tired.” I fake a yawn. “Can you maybe just drop me off at home?”

“Just a little drive,” Brent insists. “Then I'll take you home. It's a nice night.”

Nice night, my butt. It doesn't take a linguist to translate guy talk.

“Besides, there's this cool place I want to show you.”

Oh, huh! Let me guess. Could this “place” possibly, maybe, coincidentally be Lookout Point, by chance? OMG, he's so obvious, it's pathetic.

Lookout Point, as its name suggests, is the top of the hill above our East Oaks subdivision. It looks out over the entire city. On the plus side, it's very beautiful at night, with all the sparkling town lights. On the minus side, it's a well-known make-out place for teens.

And if Brent thinks I'm going to make out with him tonight, I've got a great bridge in Brooklyn I'd like to sell him!

But sure enough, he turns onto the windy road that leads up the hill to Lookout Point. It's foggy out and the car headlights do little to slice through the darkness. Kinda creepy, actually.

“Brent, I'd really like to go home.” I try again, starting to get a little nervous. I should have never gotten into the car with him after he'd been drinking.

“Stop being such a freaking baby, Dawn,” he admonishes, stepping on the gas and picking up speed.

It's at that point my heart starts pounding. He's not going to listen to me. What if when we get to the top he wants to ...?

No, I tell myself. He's my parents' friend's son. He's well educated and has been brought up with morals and manners. He wouldn't dare.

Would he?

“Please, Brent,” I cry, knowing I sound scared and desperate and hating that I do. “Take me home.”

He doesn't answer. Just keeps driving.

My hands shaking, I reach down to grab my purse. I glance over at Brent. His eyes are still glued to the road. Pretending to rummage around inside for lipstick or something, I pull out my phone, set it on my lap, and text Sean.