throw my leg over the back of the bike—which isn’t easy when you’re wearing a miniskirt and you have to tuck everything in and arrange your hair all at the same time, but I manage.
The truth is, I’ve never been on a motorcycle before and I’m not sure what to do with my hands. I mean, do I hug his waist or just place them on his hips? I must look like a total idiot because finally Ian glances over his shoulder and says, “Have you ever been on a bike before?” It’s like he’s asking ifI’ve ever had sex before, and I blush like the motorcycle virgin I am! He says, “Just hold on tight and lean with the bike.”
“No problem,” I say. And I’m about to tell him where I live—’cause he’s supposed to be giving me a ride home—when he guns it and we’re flying. I fling my arms around his waist and scream. The wind rushes down my throat like an arctic blizzard, and my hair whips all over the place. Ian leans into the corner, and it feels like we’re going to wipe out. It takes all my willpower not to lean in the other direction. I keep thinking
Holy shit, I’m going to die without ever having sex
.
I duck behind his back to hide from the wind, and when I look up again, we’re zipping down Leslie at 100 miles an hour. Is this his idea of a fun date? Does he think I get a kick out of playing chicken in traffic? I push my boobs up against his back to see if that might get his attention and slow him down, but no, he just keeps zigzagging around like a crazy lunatic. I want to throw up. Meanwhile, my miniskirt keeps flapping around my bum, like Marilyn Monroe over the air vent, only I can’t use my hands to hold it down because I have Ian in a death grip!
By the time we get to my house, my whole body is cold and stiff. I try to pretend that I’m Ann-Margret when she slides off her motorcycle and shakes her long beautiful hair out of her helmet, only Ian didn’t give me a helmet, so my hair looks like a rat’s nest. When my feet touch the cement, my legs almost buckle. Ian smirks and says, “So, what’d ya think?”
“That was … great,” I lie through my teeth. “Do you want to come in?” He flicks his hair off his face and grins.
Fortunately, Ma and Buzz are out. I lead Ian into the kitchen, and we sit at the table near the French doors, facing out onto the ravine. Ian helps himself to Ma’s chocolate chip cookies. I do most of the talking because Ian is one of those guys who doesn’t offer up anything unless you ask him a direct question. I find out that he’s an only child; that he had (notice “had,”
past
tense) a girlfriend in North Bay named Kimmy (sucky name, if you ask me); and he hates school ’cause it’s all “meaningless bullshit,” which is mostly true. I mean, am I ever going to use a trigonometric function after I leave high school? Uh … no.
I’m just putting the kettle on for coffee when Ian says, “Hey, there’s Jules.” I look out the window and see Julia Epstein walking up the hill.
“She lives next door,” I explain. “She gives me the creeps.”
Ian leans back in his chair. “Why?”
“She’s so prissy.”
“Her Rapunzel was good.”
“Sure, if you like that weird, sicko kind of thing.”
Ian laughs. I spoon coffee into our cups. Julia disappears behind the hedge. Ian says, “I heard she skipped a grade.”
“So? Big deal. It doesn’t make her a genius,” I say. “To be a genius, you have to skip at least two grades. To skip one grade, all you need is high marks and a pushy mother. Which she has.”
“So, what do you care?”
“Who said I care? She just bugs me, that’s all. I don’t see why you have to defend her.”
“I wasn’t defending her,” Ian says.
“Yes, you were.”
“Look, I don’t even want to talk about her.”
“Neither do I,” I say. “You’re the one who brought her up.”
Ian takes out his cigarettes. Export “A”s. “Do you have a light?” he asks.
I don’t know why he can’t carry
The truth is, I’ve never been on a motorcycle before and I’m not sure what to do with my hands. I mean, do I hug his waist or just place them on his hips? I must look like a total idiot because finally Ian glances over his shoulder and says, “Have you ever been on a bike before?” It’s like he’s asking ifI’ve ever had sex before, and I blush like the motorcycle virgin I am! He says, “Just hold on tight and lean with the bike.”
“No problem,” I say. And I’m about to tell him where I live—’cause he’s supposed to be giving me a ride home—when he guns it and we’re flying. I fling my arms around his waist and scream. The wind rushes down my throat like an arctic blizzard, and my hair whips all over the place. Ian leans into the corner, and it feels like we’re going to wipe out. It takes all my willpower not to lean in the other direction. I keep thinking
Holy shit, I’m going to die without ever having sex
.
I duck behind his back to hide from the wind, and when I look up again, we’re zipping down Leslie at 100 miles an hour. Is this his idea of a fun date? Does he think I get a kick out of playing chicken in traffic? I push my boobs up against his back to see if that might get his attention and slow him down, but no, he just keeps zigzagging around like a crazy lunatic. I want to throw up. Meanwhile, my miniskirt keeps flapping around my bum, like Marilyn Monroe over the air vent, only I can’t use my hands to hold it down because I have Ian in a death grip!
By the time we get to my house, my whole body is cold and stiff. I try to pretend that I’m Ann-Margret when she slides off her motorcycle and shakes her long beautiful hair out of her helmet, only Ian didn’t give me a helmet, so my hair looks like a rat’s nest. When my feet touch the cement, my legs almost buckle. Ian smirks and says, “So, what’d ya think?”
“That was … great,” I lie through my teeth. “Do you want to come in?” He flicks his hair off his face and grins.
Fortunately, Ma and Buzz are out. I lead Ian into the kitchen, and we sit at the table near the French doors, facing out onto the ravine. Ian helps himself to Ma’s chocolate chip cookies. I do most of the talking because Ian is one of those guys who doesn’t offer up anything unless you ask him a direct question. I find out that he’s an only child; that he had (notice “had,”
past
tense) a girlfriend in North Bay named Kimmy (sucky name, if you ask me); and he hates school ’cause it’s all “meaningless bullshit,” which is mostly true. I mean, am I ever going to use a trigonometric function after I leave high school? Uh … no.
I’m just putting the kettle on for coffee when Ian says, “Hey, there’s Jules.” I look out the window and see Julia Epstein walking up the hill.
“She lives next door,” I explain. “She gives me the creeps.”
Ian leans back in his chair. “Why?”
“She’s so prissy.”
“Her Rapunzel was good.”
“Sure, if you like that weird, sicko kind of thing.”
Ian laughs. I spoon coffee into our cups. Julia disappears behind the hedge. Ian says, “I heard she skipped a grade.”
“So? Big deal. It doesn’t make her a genius,” I say. “To be a genius, you have to skip at least two grades. To skip one grade, all you need is high marks and a pushy mother. Which she has.”
“So, what do you care?”
“Who said I care? She just bugs me, that’s all. I don’t see why you have to defend her.”
“I wasn’t defending her,” Ian says.
“Yes, you were.”
“Look, I don’t even want to talk about her.”
“Neither do I,” I say. “You’re the one who brought her up.”
Ian takes out his cigarettes. Export “A”s. “Do you have a light?” he asks.
I don’t know why he can’t carry
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