dude.
It’s 12:37 when Oliver comes rollin’ in, all sleepy-haired and adorable.
“Am I late?” he asks.
“Nope,” I lie.
“Good,” he says, pushing the door open from his side of the car. I hop in.
“I’m starving,” he says. “How ’bout you?”
“Yeah, but I don’t recommend the Oink Joint,” I say, staring at the air-conditioning vent. I can’t look at him without getting nervous all over again. I seriously have to get over that.
“No worries. I got the food thing covered,” he says, heading out of town.
I love it when Oliver drives. He’s watching the road, and I can steal all the glances I want.
In Austin, we go to the Tamale House and have the best cheap Mexican food ever. We sit on the curb, chucking bits of beef at grackles, greedy little black birds that are a chicer, cooler version of pigeons.
With my grubbing complete, I nudge Oliver. “We should go to a record store,” I say.
“Record store,” he says, dramatically pondering the suggestion. “Hmm. Okay, I’m all for it.”
We head to Waterloo, the original Austin spot for music consumption. As we head inside, Oliver shakes his head. “Man, it’s so soulless to get your music online. This is the way real music fans shop.”
Inside, the place is covered with concert posters, and music lovers browse with hard-core seriousness.
Oliver nods to the completely gross but surprisingly friendly fat redheaded dude behind the counter.
“Oliver, ’sup?” Fatty asks.
“Same ol’, same ol’,” Oliver answers.
We go our separate ways, flipping through racks of CDs. At one point, Oliver brushes past when we’re in the same aisle. He hooks his finger in the belt loop of my jeans, pulls me back to him, and whispers “you are hot” in my ear before disappearing behind a case of vinyl.
I get so distracted, it takes me several seconds to refocus on my CDs, and when I do, I realize I’m holding a copy of Ashlee Simpson’s latest transgression. I quickly put it back and get my hands on a Dead Boys CD, just so I can feel normal again.
Waterloo has a wall of sealed-off listening booths that look like old-school telephone booths you see in ’80s movies. You can step inside, shut the door, and sample the music before you buy. Or you can go inside with the boy you skipped school for and pretend to listen to the new Bright Eyes disc while stealing kisses when no one’s looking—that’s what Oliver and I are up to.
That is, until Oliver finally says, “Wanna get out of here?”
“Totally,” I say. As if I have any idea of where we could go.
Movie Make Out 101
O liver parks a couple of blocks away from the UT campus and leads me through the grounds like he owns the place. That’s one of the best things I’m starting to observe about Oliver. No matter where he goes, he just belongs there. And when I’m with him, I belong there too. He’s my passport to all things cooler and more interesting than Bodeen.
We end up at Hogg Auditorium, where all the hipster film students hang out watching old, obscure movies and it costs, like, two dollars to get in. Today, some ’60s black-and-white French flick called Breathless is on the marquee. Oliver and I sneak in fifteen minutes after it’s started, sit at the very back, and pretty much make out the entire time. At least, we attempt to until I have a little grooming confidence meltdown that throws everything into a tailspin.
You see, I’m not the most experienced girl in the world. I’m bound to make a mistake or two (or fifty). Like today. Oliver and I start a no-holds-barred kiss-a-thon (very good), when I suddenly realize I forgot to shave my right leg this morning (very bad). Now, I’m sure you’re asking yourself “what kind of half-wit retard forgets to shave one leg?” And, trust me, if I had the answer for that one, I’d be sittin’ pretty with two silky-smooth gams, mugging down with this luscious lad without a care in the world.
But, alas, my
It’s 12:37 when Oliver comes rollin’ in, all sleepy-haired and adorable.
“Am I late?” he asks.
“Nope,” I lie.
“Good,” he says, pushing the door open from his side of the car. I hop in.
“I’m starving,” he says. “How ’bout you?”
“Yeah, but I don’t recommend the Oink Joint,” I say, staring at the air-conditioning vent. I can’t look at him without getting nervous all over again. I seriously have to get over that.
“No worries. I got the food thing covered,” he says, heading out of town.
I love it when Oliver drives. He’s watching the road, and I can steal all the glances I want.
In Austin, we go to the Tamale House and have the best cheap Mexican food ever. We sit on the curb, chucking bits of beef at grackles, greedy little black birds that are a chicer, cooler version of pigeons.
With my grubbing complete, I nudge Oliver. “We should go to a record store,” I say.
“Record store,” he says, dramatically pondering the suggestion. “Hmm. Okay, I’m all for it.”
We head to Waterloo, the original Austin spot for music consumption. As we head inside, Oliver shakes his head. “Man, it’s so soulless to get your music online. This is the way real music fans shop.”
Inside, the place is covered with concert posters, and music lovers browse with hard-core seriousness.
Oliver nods to the completely gross but surprisingly friendly fat redheaded dude behind the counter.
“Oliver, ’sup?” Fatty asks.
“Same ol’, same ol’,” Oliver answers.
We go our separate ways, flipping through racks of CDs. At one point, Oliver brushes past when we’re in the same aisle. He hooks his finger in the belt loop of my jeans, pulls me back to him, and whispers “you are hot” in my ear before disappearing behind a case of vinyl.
I get so distracted, it takes me several seconds to refocus on my CDs, and when I do, I realize I’m holding a copy of Ashlee Simpson’s latest transgression. I quickly put it back and get my hands on a Dead Boys CD, just so I can feel normal again.
Waterloo has a wall of sealed-off listening booths that look like old-school telephone booths you see in ’80s movies. You can step inside, shut the door, and sample the music before you buy. Or you can go inside with the boy you skipped school for and pretend to listen to the new Bright Eyes disc while stealing kisses when no one’s looking—that’s what Oliver and I are up to.
That is, until Oliver finally says, “Wanna get out of here?”
“Totally,” I say. As if I have any idea of where we could go.
Movie Make Out 101
O liver parks a couple of blocks away from the UT campus and leads me through the grounds like he owns the place. That’s one of the best things I’m starting to observe about Oliver. No matter where he goes, he just belongs there. And when I’m with him, I belong there too. He’s my passport to all things cooler and more interesting than Bodeen.
We end up at Hogg Auditorium, where all the hipster film students hang out watching old, obscure movies and it costs, like, two dollars to get in. Today, some ’60s black-and-white French flick called Breathless is on the marquee. Oliver and I sneak in fifteen minutes after it’s started, sit at the very back, and pretty much make out the entire time. At least, we attempt to until I have a little grooming confidence meltdown that throws everything into a tailspin.
You see, I’m not the most experienced girl in the world. I’m bound to make a mistake or two (or fifty). Like today. Oliver and I start a no-holds-barred kiss-a-thon (very good), when I suddenly realize I forgot to shave my right leg this morning (very bad). Now, I’m sure you’re asking yourself “what kind of half-wit retard forgets to shave one leg?” And, trust me, if I had the answer for that one, I’d be sittin’ pretty with two silky-smooth gams, mugging down with this luscious lad without a care in the world.
But, alas, my
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