that idiot.”
I turn around again and find myself staringopenmouthed at Raf, who has taken off his helmet and is aiming that knee-buckling smile of his at me from the seat of the scooter.
“What the—who—how did you—what are you doing on that thing? Oh my God, Raf. Did you steal it?”
“It’s my uncle’s. He’s out of town, and he told me I can use it whenever I want.”
“Um, isn’t that … illegal? Don’t you need a license or something? You’re twelve!”
“Yeah, but with the helmet on, you really can’t tell. C’mon, get on. I have another helmet for you.”
“Do you even know how to drive it?”
“How do you think I got here? Uncle Luis taught me. There’s nothing to it. Like riding a bike. Except you don’t have to pedal, and you actually have to stop at red lights.”
“Rafael …,” I start, which gets his attention.
“Uh-oh. She’s serious. It’s ‘Rafael.’”
“Do you have any idea what would happen to me if my parents found out that I had been on a scooter with you? For one thing, you would never see me again. They would pack me and my stuff up and send me to a boarding school someplace in another galaxy, like New Hampshire.”
“Well then, I guess we’d better be careful,” he says. “Just put the helmet on. You don’t want to miss the movie, do you?”
“You’ll be careful? And park far away from my building?”
“Cross my heart.”
I am putting on the helmet, I am throwing a leg over the scooter. “Um, what am I supposed to hold on to?”
“Um, me,” he says, pulling my arms around his waist. (If you’re keeping score, that makes it Scooter 273, Bus 0.)
And off we scoot!
What a blast! When we get to the East Side, I’m having so much fun that I beg Raf to take one more lap around the park. When the ride is over, I make him park eight blocks from my building, on a street where my parents, or anyone who knows them or me, is unlikely to see us. Thanks to the scooter, we’re ahead of schedule. But that’s about to change.
Mom greets us at the door. “Hi, honey. You just missed Margaret. Rafael, nice to see you again. Are you hungry?”
I jump in before he has a chance to say anything I’m going to regret. “No, we’re going to grab a slice before the movie.”
“All right, but I think I should warn you, your father made macaroni and cheese. I’ll bet Rafael has never had anything like it. Remember the first time Leigh Ann tried it? She was ready to move in.”
Dad comes out of the kitchen waving his favorite knife. “Did I just hear someone turn down my
macaroni au fromage?”
Dad’s mac and cheese is nothing like “the orange horror,” as he refers to the stuff that comes in a box with powdered
(sacrebleu!)
cheese.
Raf takes a good long look at that knife. The glint of razor-sharp steel and the incredible smell wafting from the kitchen convince him. “Sure, I’ll try some.”
Dad points the knife my way, squinting menacingly. “Mademoiselle Sophie?”
“Oui, mon père
. Bring it on.” I plunk myself into a chair next to Raf at the kitchen table.
“You will be thrilled you succumbed,” Dad says.
Mom sets a plate in front of me. “Oh, Margaret said to call her as soon as you can. Said it’s important. And to be sure to tell you that she ‘got another one.’”
“Agrnother wab?” Raf asks through a mouthful of macaroni. “Mmm.”
“Just eat.” After a struggle to dig my phone out of my slightly tight jeans, I call her. “Hey, Marg.”
“Where are you? Aren’t you supposed to be out with Raf?”
In a loud voice, I say, “At the moment, I’m being held captive by a demented Frenchman with a gnarly-looking knife and an enormous tray of mac and cheese.”
“Where’s Raf?”
“Oh, he’s here, too.”
“You know, Sophie, after he tastes your dad’s macaroni and cheese, he’s going to want to marry you.”
Oh, reeeaaallly. Hmm … mmm.
“Speaking of that—boy, do I have a story to tell you!” I say.
I turn around again and find myself staringopenmouthed at Raf, who has taken off his helmet and is aiming that knee-buckling smile of his at me from the seat of the scooter.
“What the—who—how did you—what are you doing on that thing? Oh my God, Raf. Did you steal it?”
“It’s my uncle’s. He’s out of town, and he told me I can use it whenever I want.”
“Um, isn’t that … illegal? Don’t you need a license or something? You’re twelve!”
“Yeah, but with the helmet on, you really can’t tell. C’mon, get on. I have another helmet for you.”
“Do you even know how to drive it?”
“How do you think I got here? Uncle Luis taught me. There’s nothing to it. Like riding a bike. Except you don’t have to pedal, and you actually have to stop at red lights.”
“Rafael …,” I start, which gets his attention.
“Uh-oh. She’s serious. It’s ‘Rafael.’”
“Do you have any idea what would happen to me if my parents found out that I had been on a scooter with you? For one thing, you would never see me again. They would pack me and my stuff up and send me to a boarding school someplace in another galaxy, like New Hampshire.”
“Well then, I guess we’d better be careful,” he says. “Just put the helmet on. You don’t want to miss the movie, do you?”
“You’ll be careful? And park far away from my building?”
“Cross my heart.”
I am putting on the helmet, I am throwing a leg over the scooter. “Um, what am I supposed to hold on to?”
“Um, me,” he says, pulling my arms around his waist. (If you’re keeping score, that makes it Scooter 273, Bus 0.)
And off we scoot!
What a blast! When we get to the East Side, I’m having so much fun that I beg Raf to take one more lap around the park. When the ride is over, I make him park eight blocks from my building, on a street where my parents, or anyone who knows them or me, is unlikely to see us. Thanks to the scooter, we’re ahead of schedule. But that’s about to change.
Mom greets us at the door. “Hi, honey. You just missed Margaret. Rafael, nice to see you again. Are you hungry?”
I jump in before he has a chance to say anything I’m going to regret. “No, we’re going to grab a slice before the movie.”
“All right, but I think I should warn you, your father made macaroni and cheese. I’ll bet Rafael has never had anything like it. Remember the first time Leigh Ann tried it? She was ready to move in.”
Dad comes out of the kitchen waving his favorite knife. “Did I just hear someone turn down my
macaroni au fromage?”
Dad’s mac and cheese is nothing like “the orange horror,” as he refers to the stuff that comes in a box with powdered
(sacrebleu!)
cheese.
Raf takes a good long look at that knife. The glint of razor-sharp steel and the incredible smell wafting from the kitchen convince him. “Sure, I’ll try some.”
Dad points the knife my way, squinting menacingly. “Mademoiselle Sophie?”
“Oui, mon père
. Bring it on.” I plunk myself into a chair next to Raf at the kitchen table.
“You will be thrilled you succumbed,” Dad says.
Mom sets a plate in front of me. “Oh, Margaret said to call her as soon as you can. Said it’s important. And to be sure to tell you that she ‘got another one.’”
“Agrnother wab?” Raf asks through a mouthful of macaroni. “Mmm.”
“Just eat.” After a struggle to dig my phone out of my slightly tight jeans, I call her. “Hey, Marg.”
“Where are you? Aren’t you supposed to be out with Raf?”
In a loud voice, I say, “At the moment, I’m being held captive by a demented Frenchman with a gnarly-looking knife and an enormous tray of mac and cheese.”
“Where’s Raf?”
“Oh, he’s here, too.”
“You know, Sophie, after he tastes your dad’s macaroni and cheese, he’s going to want to marry you.”
Oh, reeeaaallly. Hmm … mmm.
“Speaking of that—boy, do I have a story to tell you!” I say.
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