okay?”
Here’s a slightly awkward moment. I have no idea what to really say here, so of course I say too much. “I don’t have a phone. My mom has a cell phone, but she’s a waitress and a single mom and she can’t afford a phone for me too. I’d get my own phone, but I haven’t had any luck landing a part-time job. And I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to call my mom looking for me….” He’s giving me this strained look now, and I figure it’s time to shut my mouth. “So anyway, that’s why I can’t exchange numbers.”
“You can still take mine,” Saul replies. “I’ll give it to you after I bring you home. Maybe you’ll call me sometime.”
“Sure.”
“Well. What’re you doing after graduation?”
I shrug. “I want to go to college. Just not sure where yet, or what I’m gonna study.”
“I’m going to Dartmouth.” There’s something bitter in Saul’s voice when he says this, although it doesn’t show in his face. “I didn’t really have the grades to get in, but my dad’s a big-shot alumnus, and he got me in on some legacy deal. I’ll be majoring in electrical engineering so I can go into the family business.”
Jeez. What a total loser I am. There are lots of seniors at school who are just like Saul, who already know what college they’re going to and what their careers are going to be. Mom was nineteen when she had me, only two years older than I am now. Her boyfriend at the time—my father—disappeared once he found out she was pregnant, and her parents kicked her out of the house. But she did what adults are supposed to do. She got a job and took care of her kid.
When the hell am I going to grow up?
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
I look over at Saul, puzzled. “Huh?”
“Just now, you got a weird, angry look on your face. Was it something I said?”
“No. Not at all. It was nothing.” And then, because we’re supposed to be having a good time, I totally change the subject by telling a dirty joke I overheard before I fell asleep in the Y’s waiting room. The joke is about a horny cop and a donut. Saul laughs, which lightens the mood in the car. I laugh too, wondering at the same time how to steer the conversation around to asking Saul what he thinks about two guys dating each other.
T HAT QUESTION is still on my mind an hour later as we sit side by side in the dark watching the latest James Bond flick. The theater is packed. We’re sitting in the middle of the first row because Saul likes his action up close and in his face. He seems captivated by what’s unfolding on the screen. I’m captivated by the fact that his knee is so close to mine.
I want to touch his knee. I want to hold his hand. If I give in to my urges and slip my hand over his knee or take his hand, what will he do? Hit me? Jump up, run out of the theater in disgust, and leave me stranded? Slip his hand over my knee? The possibilities are endless, exciting, and frightening.
I keep sneaking glances at his knee. On screen, James Bond is in the fight of his life, running through the dark, tight corridors of some top secret, high-tech Chinese research facility while trading shots with laser-armed drones. That’s nowhere near as interesting as the mystique of Saul. His knee is bouncing to some kind of rhythm. Bounce one-two-three times. Rest. Bounce one-two-three times. Rest . I can’t figure out what he’s bouncing to. It’s not the music from the movie, which is loud and dramatic and nothing anybody would even think about bopping to.
I’m so fascinated by Saul’s knee that I don’t even notice his right hand until he suddenly moves it from the armrest between us and places it palm up on my thigh. I freeze in complete shock. Excitement shoots through me like a bolt of lightning, and I hold my breath. His knee is still jumping to the same rhythm, but faster now.
I don’t stay frozen very long. I want to be sure I’m not dreaming this, so I reach out and put my hand in
Here’s a slightly awkward moment. I have no idea what to really say here, so of course I say too much. “I don’t have a phone. My mom has a cell phone, but she’s a waitress and a single mom and she can’t afford a phone for me too. I’d get my own phone, but I haven’t had any luck landing a part-time job. And I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to call my mom looking for me….” He’s giving me this strained look now, and I figure it’s time to shut my mouth. “So anyway, that’s why I can’t exchange numbers.”
“You can still take mine,” Saul replies. “I’ll give it to you after I bring you home. Maybe you’ll call me sometime.”
“Sure.”
“Well. What’re you doing after graduation?”
I shrug. “I want to go to college. Just not sure where yet, or what I’m gonna study.”
“I’m going to Dartmouth.” There’s something bitter in Saul’s voice when he says this, although it doesn’t show in his face. “I didn’t really have the grades to get in, but my dad’s a big-shot alumnus, and he got me in on some legacy deal. I’ll be majoring in electrical engineering so I can go into the family business.”
Jeez. What a total loser I am. There are lots of seniors at school who are just like Saul, who already know what college they’re going to and what their careers are going to be. Mom was nineteen when she had me, only two years older than I am now. Her boyfriend at the time—my father—disappeared once he found out she was pregnant, and her parents kicked her out of the house. But she did what adults are supposed to do. She got a job and took care of her kid.
When the hell am I going to grow up?
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
I look over at Saul, puzzled. “Huh?”
“Just now, you got a weird, angry look on your face. Was it something I said?”
“No. Not at all. It was nothing.” And then, because we’re supposed to be having a good time, I totally change the subject by telling a dirty joke I overheard before I fell asleep in the Y’s waiting room. The joke is about a horny cop and a donut. Saul laughs, which lightens the mood in the car. I laugh too, wondering at the same time how to steer the conversation around to asking Saul what he thinks about two guys dating each other.
T HAT QUESTION is still on my mind an hour later as we sit side by side in the dark watching the latest James Bond flick. The theater is packed. We’re sitting in the middle of the first row because Saul likes his action up close and in his face. He seems captivated by what’s unfolding on the screen. I’m captivated by the fact that his knee is so close to mine.
I want to touch his knee. I want to hold his hand. If I give in to my urges and slip my hand over his knee or take his hand, what will he do? Hit me? Jump up, run out of the theater in disgust, and leave me stranded? Slip his hand over my knee? The possibilities are endless, exciting, and frightening.
I keep sneaking glances at his knee. On screen, James Bond is in the fight of his life, running through the dark, tight corridors of some top secret, high-tech Chinese research facility while trading shots with laser-armed drones. That’s nowhere near as interesting as the mystique of Saul. His knee is bouncing to some kind of rhythm. Bounce one-two-three times. Rest. Bounce one-two-three times. Rest . I can’t figure out what he’s bouncing to. It’s not the music from the movie, which is loud and dramatic and nothing anybody would even think about bopping to.
I’m so fascinated by Saul’s knee that I don’t even notice his right hand until he suddenly moves it from the armrest between us and places it palm up on my thigh. I freeze in complete shock. Excitement shoots through me like a bolt of lightning, and I hold my breath. His knee is still jumping to the same rhythm, but faster now.
I don’t stay frozen very long. I want to be sure I’m not dreaming this, so I reach out and put my hand in
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