real fast, but d on’t stare,” I tell Tyler. “Two popular girls from school are sitting right next to you.”
He whips his head around and then back to me. “Wow. I hope they d on’t see me.”
“Are you crazy? I thought you wanted to be popular.”
“They call me and Evie ‘Dip’ and ‘Drip.’”
“That was before your brow tweeze and haircut. I bet you were wearing dorky clothes then too.”
He shrugs. “I guess.”
“Ask them if they want to sit with us.”
“Me?”
“No, your invisible friend next to you. Of course you.”
“I . . . I c an’t.”
“Listen. I didn’t tweeze your eyebrows, research the perfect 1978 haircut for you, and spend the last hour and a half with you at the mall to hear you say you c an’t.”
He sighs. “I guess I have to, huh?”
“Move it. Oh, wait. Hold on.” I adjust his feathered hair around his face. Touching him does nothing for me. This is definitely not a date. “Okay, ask them.”
Tyler clears his throat, then reaches over and taps the girl next to him on her bony shoulder.“I’d be honored if you charming ladies here—”
I kick his foot.
“I meant to say: Sit with us?”
The girl looks him over so long and so carefully, I half expect her to pull open his mouth to inspect his teeth. “Who are you?” she finally asks.
“Far-out,” says her friend. “It’s Tyler Gray. He looks totally different.” She talks about him as if he’s not, like, two feet away from her. “Did he get a haircut or something?”
“I like it,” says the first girl.
“It’s like Shaun Cassidy’s hair without highlights,” says the other girl. They both laugh at the same time and in the same way, little head bobs and quiet giggles with their lotioned, manicured hands over, but not touching their mouths. Just like my 2006 friends.
“Hey, Shay Saunders,” the girl near me says. “Bitchin’ dress.”
“Thanks.” It’s Mrs. Gray’s castoff, which I dyed in a huge pot of tea and shrank in the dryer.
“Let’s sit with them,” her friend says.
As they slide into our booth, they introduce themselves. T hey’re Debbie M. and Debbie P. “We call ourselves the Double Ds,” Debbie M says.
Double D my ass. More like a generous C. But Tyler’s gaze goes right to her chest and dawdles there.
“You want to get some ice cream, Ty Ty?” Debbie M. tongues her upper lip almost as if she’s flirting with him.
I ’ve eaten at least 500 calories at lunch. “How about frozen yogurt instead?” I suggest.
The girls do their identical giggles again.
“Gross,” Debbie M. says.
“Grody,” Debbie P. says.
“What’s the point of freezing yogurt?” Tyler asks.
“Good one, Ty Ty,” Debbie M. says. She actually bats her eyelashes at him.
Gawd. “Well, I d on’t want ice cream.”
“That’s okay,” Tyler says like I don’t matter.
As soon as we get to Swensen’s at the food court, Debbie M. says, “Ooh, w ouldn’t it be awesome to share a cone? We could each pick a flavor and get a triple scoop.”
“ I’ll buy!” Tyler yelps before I even have time to roll my eyes.
He pays for the ice cream and holds it up like a trophy. “Who wants the first lick of my cone?”
I’m not sure whether his double tundra or whatever is on purpose.
Debbie M. grabs his ice cream cone, keeps it an inch from her mouth, sticks her tongue out, and slowly licks it.
“You should get paid for that,” I mutter.
Tyler’s mouth is open so wide, I’m tempted to smash the entire damn cone into it.
“Mom, I’m at a pay phone at Valley Mall,” I tell her. “Can I please use your car a little longer than I’d asked for? Shopping is taking more time than expected.” I don’t tell her that I just made a movie date with three pretty girls and that I’m hoping to hold Shay’s hand in the theater.
“Ty Ty.” Debbie M. walks into the phone booth.
I back away to the rear wall of the booth, but she follows me.
“How much time, dear?” Mom
He whips his head around and then back to me. “Wow. I hope they d on’t see me.”
“Are you crazy? I thought you wanted to be popular.”
“They call me and Evie ‘Dip’ and ‘Drip.’”
“That was before your brow tweeze and haircut. I bet you were wearing dorky clothes then too.”
He shrugs. “I guess.”
“Ask them if they want to sit with us.”
“Me?”
“No, your invisible friend next to you. Of course you.”
“I . . . I c an’t.”
“Listen. I didn’t tweeze your eyebrows, research the perfect 1978 haircut for you, and spend the last hour and a half with you at the mall to hear you say you c an’t.”
He sighs. “I guess I have to, huh?”
“Move it. Oh, wait. Hold on.” I adjust his feathered hair around his face. Touching him does nothing for me. This is definitely not a date. “Okay, ask them.”
Tyler clears his throat, then reaches over and taps the girl next to him on her bony shoulder.“I’d be honored if you charming ladies here—”
I kick his foot.
“I meant to say: Sit with us?”
The girl looks him over so long and so carefully, I half expect her to pull open his mouth to inspect his teeth. “Who are you?” she finally asks.
“Far-out,” says her friend. “It’s Tyler Gray. He looks totally different.” She talks about him as if he’s not, like, two feet away from her. “Did he get a haircut or something?”
“I like it,” says the first girl.
“It’s like Shaun Cassidy’s hair without highlights,” says the other girl. They both laugh at the same time and in the same way, little head bobs and quiet giggles with their lotioned, manicured hands over, but not touching their mouths. Just like my 2006 friends.
“Hey, Shay Saunders,” the girl near me says. “Bitchin’ dress.”
“Thanks.” It’s Mrs. Gray’s castoff, which I dyed in a huge pot of tea and shrank in the dryer.
“Let’s sit with them,” her friend says.
As they slide into our booth, they introduce themselves. T hey’re Debbie M. and Debbie P. “We call ourselves the Double Ds,” Debbie M says.
Double D my ass. More like a generous C. But Tyler’s gaze goes right to her chest and dawdles there.
“You want to get some ice cream, Ty Ty?” Debbie M. tongues her upper lip almost as if she’s flirting with him.
I ’ve eaten at least 500 calories at lunch. “How about frozen yogurt instead?” I suggest.
The girls do their identical giggles again.
“Gross,” Debbie M. says.
“Grody,” Debbie P. says.
“What’s the point of freezing yogurt?” Tyler asks.
“Good one, Ty Ty,” Debbie M. says. She actually bats her eyelashes at him.
Gawd. “Well, I d on’t want ice cream.”
“That’s okay,” Tyler says like I don’t matter.
As soon as we get to Swensen’s at the food court, Debbie M. says, “Ooh, w ouldn’t it be awesome to share a cone? We could each pick a flavor and get a triple scoop.”
“ I’ll buy!” Tyler yelps before I even have time to roll my eyes.
He pays for the ice cream and holds it up like a trophy. “Who wants the first lick of my cone?”
I’m not sure whether his double tundra or whatever is on purpose.
Debbie M. grabs his ice cream cone, keeps it an inch from her mouth, sticks her tongue out, and slowly licks it.
“You should get paid for that,” I mutter.
Tyler’s mouth is open so wide, I’m tempted to smash the entire damn cone into it.
“Mom, I’m at a pay phone at Valley Mall,” I tell her. “Can I please use your car a little longer than I’d asked for? Shopping is taking more time than expected.” I don’t tell her that I just made a movie date with three pretty girls and that I’m hoping to hold Shay’s hand in the theater.
“Ty Ty.” Debbie M. walks into the phone booth.
I back away to the rear wall of the booth, but she follows me.
“How much time, dear?” Mom
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