hand travels to the inside of my thigh, on a slow, exploratory trip.
Exactly how many fingers does Debbie M. have? Enough to keep my leg very happy.
Just when I’m certain my left thigh will be in a permanent state of nirvana, she moves onto my right thigh. Then her hand roams my hips, my chest, and just about everywhere else that won’t get us arrested. Though my gaze stays glued to the screen through the end of Grease, I have no idea what the movie is about. But I do enjoy the theatergoing experience.
When it’s over, Debbie M. takes my hand again as we walk up the aisle. This time I don’t resist. I can’t resist. In fact, I can barely move.
“Let’s go home,” Shay snaps.
Debbie M. drops my hand, blows me a kiss, and calls out, “Bye-bye, Ty Ty.”
“Later,” Shay says as she rushes out of the theater.
Shay seems jealous, I held the wrong girl’s hand, and my thighs are practically numb. What an awesome day.
17
“Thanks for an awesome day,” Tyler gushes while he drives home.
“Yeah, whatever.” I sneak a look at his face, intent on the road ahead, the face Debbie M. obviously thinks is all cute. “You know, I’m the one who changed your look,” I blurt out.
“Should I call you Svengali?” he says.
“Seven Who?”
“Svengali,” he says again.
“Yeah, whatever,” I say again.
He laughs, almost as if I’m beneath him.
“Wow, y ou’ve changed,” I tell him like it’s not a compliment.
“Thanks.” He obviously d oesn’t understand my tone of voice. He turns up the volume of the car radio and starts singing along. “Fever nights, fever nights fevuuuur.” He bangs on the steering wheel in synch with the music. Or sort of in synch. “We have to go shopping again,” he shouts over the radio. “I need a white disco suit just like Travolta’s.”
What have I done? Any improvement in his looks is outweighed by his new, crappy personality. “You want a disco suit?” I yell over the music. “Go buy it yourself.”
He turns down the volume. “You d on’t have to be so rude.”
“I’m through giving makeovers. I just want to chill.”
“Chill? Are you hot?”
“Gawd.” I reach over and turn off the radio. “ Chill means relax. Which I plan to do as soon as I’m out of this damn station wagon.”
But Heather meets me at the front door. “I need an outfit for my student council meeting tonight.”
I shake my head. “I should stop messing with you guys. You were fine before.”
“Please, Shay. I’m desperate.”
She looks desperate. She’s wearing a gray nylon dress with red heart buttons down the front. Total fashion catastrophe. So much for my chill plan.
I walk upstairs with her, search through her closet, and try not to groan. Her wardrobe looks like something worn only by Amish girl lumberjacks. I manage to find potential in a bright floral skirt. I use scissors and duct tape to make it thigh length while Heather sits on her bed with her hand over her mouth. If she gasps, I’m out of here.
She keeps her hand on her mouth, walks to the closet, and trots out a plain, s coop-c ollared, beige cotton blouse which could be part of a Girl Scout uniform. “I usually wear this with the skirt.”
“ Don’t. Let’s think outside the box.”
She looks around. “What box?”
“Never mind. Have you outgrown any sweaters lately?” She shows me a pile of clothes for Goodwill on the top shelf of her closet. It’s not exactly a gold mine. More like an aluminum mine, if there are such things as aluminum mines. Whatever.
Aha. I pick out a tight white sweater which plunges in the back. I snip off the tag and tell Heather to wear the sweater backward. I pair the look with Heather’s h igh-t op sneakers, formerly wasted on basketball. I’m a fashion savant.
She models the new outfit for me, twirling in her skirt.
I pronounce her, “Cute, funky, and a little indecent.”
“Is that good?”
“It’s great. And for the grand finale, let’s bring on the
Exactly how many fingers does Debbie M. have? Enough to keep my leg very happy.
Just when I’m certain my left thigh will be in a permanent state of nirvana, she moves onto my right thigh. Then her hand roams my hips, my chest, and just about everywhere else that won’t get us arrested. Though my gaze stays glued to the screen through the end of Grease, I have no idea what the movie is about. But I do enjoy the theatergoing experience.
When it’s over, Debbie M. takes my hand again as we walk up the aisle. This time I don’t resist. I can’t resist. In fact, I can barely move.
“Let’s go home,” Shay snaps.
Debbie M. drops my hand, blows me a kiss, and calls out, “Bye-bye, Ty Ty.”
“Later,” Shay says as she rushes out of the theater.
Shay seems jealous, I held the wrong girl’s hand, and my thighs are practically numb. What an awesome day.
17
“Thanks for an awesome day,” Tyler gushes while he drives home.
“Yeah, whatever.” I sneak a look at his face, intent on the road ahead, the face Debbie M. obviously thinks is all cute. “You know, I’m the one who changed your look,” I blurt out.
“Should I call you Svengali?” he says.
“Seven Who?”
“Svengali,” he says again.
“Yeah, whatever,” I say again.
He laughs, almost as if I’m beneath him.
“Wow, y ou’ve changed,” I tell him like it’s not a compliment.
“Thanks.” He obviously d oesn’t understand my tone of voice. He turns up the volume of the car radio and starts singing along. “Fever nights, fever nights fevuuuur.” He bangs on the steering wheel in synch with the music. Or sort of in synch. “We have to go shopping again,” he shouts over the radio. “I need a white disco suit just like Travolta’s.”
What have I done? Any improvement in his looks is outweighed by his new, crappy personality. “You want a disco suit?” I yell over the music. “Go buy it yourself.”
He turns down the volume. “You d on’t have to be so rude.”
“I’m through giving makeovers. I just want to chill.”
“Chill? Are you hot?”
“Gawd.” I reach over and turn off the radio. “ Chill means relax. Which I plan to do as soon as I’m out of this damn station wagon.”
But Heather meets me at the front door. “I need an outfit for my student council meeting tonight.”
I shake my head. “I should stop messing with you guys. You were fine before.”
“Please, Shay. I’m desperate.”
She looks desperate. She’s wearing a gray nylon dress with red heart buttons down the front. Total fashion catastrophe. So much for my chill plan.
I walk upstairs with her, search through her closet, and try not to groan. Her wardrobe looks like something worn only by Amish girl lumberjacks. I manage to find potential in a bright floral skirt. I use scissors and duct tape to make it thigh length while Heather sits on her bed with her hand over her mouth. If she gasps, I’m out of here.
She keeps her hand on her mouth, walks to the closet, and trots out a plain, s coop-c ollared, beige cotton blouse which could be part of a Girl Scout uniform. “I usually wear this with the skirt.”
“ Don’t. Let’s think outside the box.”
She looks around. “What box?”
“Never mind. Have you outgrown any sweaters lately?” She shows me a pile of clothes for Goodwill on the top shelf of her closet. It’s not exactly a gold mine. More like an aluminum mine, if there are such things as aluminum mines. Whatever.
Aha. I pick out a tight white sweater which plunges in the back. I snip off the tag and tell Heather to wear the sweater backward. I pair the look with Heather’s h igh-t op sneakers, formerly wasted on basketball. I’m a fashion savant.
She models the new outfit for me, twirling in her skirt.
I pronounce her, “Cute, funky, and a little indecent.”
“Is that good?”
“It’s great. And for the grand finale, let’s bring on the
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