anything starting after 10:30 around here. I have to file my review for the paper Monday morning.
“I thought we'd try to make the eight-ten,” Zac says as he opens the car door for me. He's driving his parents’ Nissan Maxima and when I slide inside, I get a whiff of vanilla. “I hope the scent doesn't make you sick.” He reads my thoughts. “My mom had the car cleaned today so I could use it and they sprayed something that smells like baked cookies.”
“It's making me hungry,” I tell him and pray Zac can't hear my stomach growl.
“One large popcorn with butter coming up,” he says as he shifts the car into drive.
Ten minutes later we're at the packed Cliffside Theater and Zac is buying two of the last tickets for the movie. When you live in a town like ours, all the theaters are small, so even though they have four movies playing, the total seating is really only equal to one major stadium theater. You're so on top of the small screen that it's only a step up from watching it in your living room. The two of us fight the crowd to get through the ticket line and inside to the small concession stand.
“We'll be lucky they even have popcorn left,” Zac jokes.
“You're not kidding. Maybe we can duke it out with the guy in front of us for a pack of Twizzlers.” The place is loud and the two poor guys behind the counter, whom I recognize from school, look harried as they try to keep up with the orders.
Zac makes a face. “I'd rather starve. How about Sour Patch Kids? Or Raisinets?”
“Either,” I say. “Even if I have to dive over the counter and swipe them myself.”
I thought it might be weird coming up with stuff to talk about with Zac, but it's not. It feels just like when we're in the newspaper office. We've talked about everything (next week's cover story) and nothing (the latest wedding dance video on YouTube) and didn't stop talking all the way to the theater. Brooke said to come up with topics to discuss ahead of time, but I didn't need to. With Zac it's easy. But that also makes me worried. Is it supposed to be this easy? Maybe this means we're more friends than anything else.
At that moment, Zac's hand brushes against my side and the hair on my arm stands up. No, definitely not just friends. At least not on my end.
“Hey, Charlie,” I hear someone say, and turn around. Bridget Eaton from my Spanish class is in line behind us. We've barely said one word to each other since the eighth grade.
“Hey.” I smile. “How are you?”
“Good,” she says and pushes a lost strand of her short blonde hair out of her eyes. “I'm with Gwen. She went inside to get seats.”
“Why didn't I think of that?” I ask.
Bridget is staring at me. “Cute shirt,” she says. “Is it new?”
“I've had for a while,” I say awkwardly, aware Zac can hear our conversation. I wouldn't dare say it's Brooke's. Lately, people I barely talk to have been stopping me to say hi. Maybe just a few days of taping have made me ooze more confidence already. That's what Mom thinks. She says I have a whole new positive outlook about me. “You know Zac, right?”
“Hey,” Bridget says absentmindedly and continues to look at me. The popcorn guy clears his throat. Bridget is next. “I should order,” she says sheepishly. “See you at school.”
“See you at school,” I say. I turn around and smile at Zac. “I'll get the snacks.” He bought the tickets.
Zac slides me out of the way. “I'll get them. I asked you, remember?”
“But—” I start to protest.
Zac motions for me to shush. “Don't fight me, Charlie. You know I'll win.” He winks and I practically melt into the floor. “If we get something to eat after, I'll let you buy me a soda.”
“Okay,” I say, “but it better be a large one.” The two of us grin at each other and I suddenly wish we were anywhere but in this long line. If we were alone outside maybe he'd kiss me right now. I've been moisturizing my lips all week, just in case.
“I thought we'd try to make the eight-ten,” Zac says as he opens the car door for me. He's driving his parents’ Nissan Maxima and when I slide inside, I get a whiff of vanilla. “I hope the scent doesn't make you sick.” He reads my thoughts. “My mom had the car cleaned today so I could use it and they sprayed something that smells like baked cookies.”
“It's making me hungry,” I tell him and pray Zac can't hear my stomach growl.
“One large popcorn with butter coming up,” he says as he shifts the car into drive.
Ten minutes later we're at the packed Cliffside Theater and Zac is buying two of the last tickets for the movie. When you live in a town like ours, all the theaters are small, so even though they have four movies playing, the total seating is really only equal to one major stadium theater. You're so on top of the small screen that it's only a step up from watching it in your living room. The two of us fight the crowd to get through the ticket line and inside to the small concession stand.
“We'll be lucky they even have popcorn left,” Zac jokes.
“You're not kidding. Maybe we can duke it out with the guy in front of us for a pack of Twizzlers.” The place is loud and the two poor guys behind the counter, whom I recognize from school, look harried as they try to keep up with the orders.
Zac makes a face. “I'd rather starve. How about Sour Patch Kids? Or Raisinets?”
“Either,” I say. “Even if I have to dive over the counter and swipe them myself.”
I thought it might be weird coming up with stuff to talk about with Zac, but it's not. It feels just like when we're in the newspaper office. We've talked about everything (next week's cover story) and nothing (the latest wedding dance video on YouTube) and didn't stop talking all the way to the theater. Brooke said to come up with topics to discuss ahead of time, but I didn't need to. With Zac it's easy. But that also makes me worried. Is it supposed to be this easy? Maybe this means we're more friends than anything else.
At that moment, Zac's hand brushes against my side and the hair on my arm stands up. No, definitely not just friends. At least not on my end.
“Hey, Charlie,” I hear someone say, and turn around. Bridget Eaton from my Spanish class is in line behind us. We've barely said one word to each other since the eighth grade.
“Hey.” I smile. “How are you?”
“Good,” she says and pushes a lost strand of her short blonde hair out of her eyes. “I'm with Gwen. She went inside to get seats.”
“Why didn't I think of that?” I ask.
Bridget is staring at me. “Cute shirt,” she says. “Is it new?”
“I've had for a while,” I say awkwardly, aware Zac can hear our conversation. I wouldn't dare say it's Brooke's. Lately, people I barely talk to have been stopping me to say hi. Maybe just a few days of taping have made me ooze more confidence already. That's what Mom thinks. She says I have a whole new positive outlook about me. “You know Zac, right?”
“Hey,” Bridget says absentmindedly and continues to look at me. The popcorn guy clears his throat. Bridget is next. “I should order,” she says sheepishly. “See you at school.”
“See you at school,” I say. I turn around and smile at Zac. “I'll get the snacks.” He bought the tickets.
Zac slides me out of the way. “I'll get them. I asked you, remember?”
“But—” I start to protest.
Zac motions for me to shush. “Don't fight me, Charlie. You know I'll win.” He winks and I practically melt into the floor. “If we get something to eat after, I'll let you buy me a soda.”
“Okay,” I say, “but it better be a large one.” The two of us grin at each other and I suddenly wish we were anywhere but in this long line. If we were alone outside maybe he'd kiss me right now. I've been moisturizing my lips all week, just in case.
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