“Really. It took me a while to catch my breath, but . . .”
“So, you’ve met Chopper!” Miles said.
Ellen laughed. Miles revved the engine.
“Where we going?” I asked.
Miles looked at me in the rearview, tearing around a corner, which forced Ellen to press against my chest. She was warm and soft, two hundred twenty volts of longing shot from my ankle to my neck.
“It’s a surprise!” Miles winked, and then passed another car.
A half hour later, we walked into a large, loud room. There were beer steins on all the windowsills and pictures of soccer players on the walls. The waitresses wore frilly white dresses and blue aprons. The busboys wore blue lederhosen and little hats. Plates of schnitzel and weiners and wursts came pouring out of the kitchen, carried on enormous platters to families sitting at picnic tables arrayed about the room.
“German food?” I laughed. “
German
food?”
“What?” he said. “This place is great!”
“I’m with you, Stan,” Cari said, sticking out her tongue. “Ick.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure, huh?” Miles asked. “Plus, as an added bonus, I called ahead to make sure they don’t serve tofu!”
“How about you, Ellen?” Cari asked. She was wearing a skirt and a green blouse and almost no makeup. She had little dark ringlets and dark skin that made her look always tan. She had a way of asking you questions like she really cared about the answers.
Ellen looked around, and then shrugged. “It’s umm . . . interesting.”
“Very diplomatic,” Miles said. “Very United Nations.”
“Boutros Boutros-Ghali,” I said, just because it was fun to say.
There were men at the bar looking at Ellen. There were women at the bar, but none of them looked at me. A severe old man in a green suit led us to a table.
“I wonder if they’ve ever heard of salad,” Cari said, looking at her menu.
“Amen,” Ellen agreed.
“Salad?”
Miles hissed, mock-outraged. “Shhhh . . . they’ll kick us out.”
Someone in the kitchen dropped a plate, punctuating his warning.
“Well, guys, what’ll it be?” the waitress asked, suddenly just
there,
large and blond and imposing. Her name tag said BUFFY .
Buffy?
Miles ordered himself a beer. We all looked at one another while Buffy wrote it on her little pad.
“Um . . . all the way around,” I said, hoping my voice sounded a fraction deeper than usual.
“Sorry, hon,” Buffy said, smacking her gum, “but I’m gonna have to see your ID.”
“Ummm . . . ,” I said, looking at Ellen, who was staring at the floor. I looked at Cari, who jutted her lip in sympathy.
“I think I . . . um . . . left it at . . .”
“Okay,” Buffy said, “so that’s one beer and three Diet Cokes, right?”
I nodded lamely.
“Be right back.”
Ellen was looking at Miles with a grin. “Wow. How come they don’t card you?”
Miles shrugged. “I have the mojo.”
“What
ever,
” Cari said, turning to me. “I should have warned you, Stan. Miles always does that. He gets a kick out of it.”
“No, I get a
beer
out of it,” Miles said, a little snappy. They kind of glared at each other. I’d never seen Miles and Cari argue before, not even a little.
Buffy came back with an enormous beer and three tiny and pathetic Cokes and took our order. The girls went first, then me and Miles.
“So,” Buffy said in disbelief, staring mostly at me, “that’s
three
salads and
one
bratwurst plate?” She put her hand on Miles’s shoulder while saying “bratwurst.” He smiled and toasted her with his beer. Buffy sniffed and walked away.
“I
like
her,” he said.
“You would,” Cari told him.
“So.” Miles grinned, ignoring Cari and turning toward Ellen and me. “Are you guys, like,
going steady
?”
There was a silence. I squeezed my fork. Miles cackled. It occurred to me that he’d started drinking before picking us up.
“Hilarious,” I said. “Really.”
Cari punched his arm. “Stop it.”
“Ow!” he
“So, you’ve met Chopper!” Miles said.
Ellen laughed. Miles revved the engine.
“Where we going?” I asked.
Miles looked at me in the rearview, tearing around a corner, which forced Ellen to press against my chest. She was warm and soft, two hundred twenty volts of longing shot from my ankle to my neck.
“It’s a surprise!” Miles winked, and then passed another car.
A half hour later, we walked into a large, loud room. There were beer steins on all the windowsills and pictures of soccer players on the walls. The waitresses wore frilly white dresses and blue aprons. The busboys wore blue lederhosen and little hats. Plates of schnitzel and weiners and wursts came pouring out of the kitchen, carried on enormous platters to families sitting at picnic tables arrayed about the room.
“German food?” I laughed. “
German
food?”
“What?” he said. “This place is great!”
“I’m with you, Stan,” Cari said, sticking out her tongue. “Ick.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure, huh?” Miles asked. “Plus, as an added bonus, I called ahead to make sure they don’t serve tofu!”
“How about you, Ellen?” Cari asked. She was wearing a skirt and a green blouse and almost no makeup. She had little dark ringlets and dark skin that made her look always tan. She had a way of asking you questions like she really cared about the answers.
Ellen looked around, and then shrugged. “It’s umm . . . interesting.”
“Very diplomatic,” Miles said. “Very United Nations.”
“Boutros Boutros-Ghali,” I said, just because it was fun to say.
There were men at the bar looking at Ellen. There were women at the bar, but none of them looked at me. A severe old man in a green suit led us to a table.
“I wonder if they’ve ever heard of salad,” Cari said, looking at her menu.
“Amen,” Ellen agreed.
“Salad?”
Miles hissed, mock-outraged. “Shhhh . . . they’ll kick us out.”
Someone in the kitchen dropped a plate, punctuating his warning.
“Well, guys, what’ll it be?” the waitress asked, suddenly just
there,
large and blond and imposing. Her name tag said BUFFY .
Buffy?
Miles ordered himself a beer. We all looked at one another while Buffy wrote it on her little pad.
“Um . . . all the way around,” I said, hoping my voice sounded a fraction deeper than usual.
“Sorry, hon,” Buffy said, smacking her gum, “but I’m gonna have to see your ID.”
“Ummm . . . ,” I said, looking at Ellen, who was staring at the floor. I looked at Cari, who jutted her lip in sympathy.
“I think I . . . um . . . left it at . . .”
“Okay,” Buffy said, “so that’s one beer and three Diet Cokes, right?”
I nodded lamely.
“Be right back.”
Ellen was looking at Miles with a grin. “Wow. How come they don’t card you?”
Miles shrugged. “I have the mojo.”
“What
ever,
” Cari said, turning to me. “I should have warned you, Stan. Miles always does that. He gets a kick out of it.”
“No, I get a
beer
out of it,” Miles said, a little snappy. They kind of glared at each other. I’d never seen Miles and Cari argue before, not even a little.
Buffy came back with an enormous beer and three tiny and pathetic Cokes and took our order. The girls went first, then me and Miles.
“So,” Buffy said in disbelief, staring mostly at me, “that’s
three
salads and
one
bratwurst plate?” She put her hand on Miles’s shoulder while saying “bratwurst.” He smiled and toasted her with his beer. Buffy sniffed and walked away.
“I
like
her,” he said.
“You would,” Cari told him.
“So.” Miles grinned, ignoring Cari and turning toward Ellen and me. “Are you guys, like,
going steady
?”
There was a silence. I squeezed my fork. Miles cackled. It occurred to me that he’d started drinking before picking us up.
“Hilarious,” I said. “Really.”
Cari punched his arm. “Stop it.”
“Ow!” he
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