where’ve you been?” I ask him as I wrap up the tour.
“Well, I dunno. I work all day with my head in the sand, so I miss a lot.”
Then, as though a tiny lightbulb has clicked on above his big fat head, he sits up straight and cries out loud, “Hey, that’s why you wanted to Google the Virgin Mary the other day!”
Ding. He’s figured it out. A prize for the guy behind the wheel.
The just-dusk sky over the clubhouse is losing light fast and giving way to the deep blue-black of night. A star comes out, and as Doug and I are walking through the crowd toward the clubhouse, I look up at the first star I see and think about making a stupid, kid wish that begins with,
Star light, star bright
, and ends with
Angela tonight
. But before I can utter a single word—
“Hey, stud muffin.”
I turned around, and there she is, standing in front of me, out of breath, hair pulled back, looking like the answer to a prayer.
“What’re you doing?”
“Me?” I ask, sounding like a third grader who’s been caught outside his classroom without a pass. “I was just about to make a wish on that star up there.”
“Really?” she asks, gazing up into the night sky. “Y’know, some of those stars don’t exist anymore. Something about the speed of light. We’re just seeing the left-behind light. You could be looking up there and wishing at nothing.”
Then she surprises me by taking a step closer and making a big show of sniffing my shirt.
“You’ve been to Dairy Queen!” she announces.
I grab hold of her arms before she can pull away and take a quick whiff of her. It seems only fair. She smells like a just-baked something, a stack of clean towels, a new day.
“You smell amazing,” I say to her, and I mean it.
“So is it true?” she asks, completely ignoring what I had intended as a compliment. “Have you been to Dairy Queen?”
“My grandmother’s missing,” I tell her, letting go of her arms. “We’ve been looking for her. Sometimes she hangs there. She’s big on their Blizzards.”
“Yeah,” says Angela, adjusting the front of her blouse. “Blizzards are totally cool.”
I’m about to ask her if maybe she’d like to go with me to the Dairy Queen sometime when I notice Doug staring at us. He ahems, but I ignore him and pretend that he’s just a guy who’s hanging too close and creeping me out.
“I oughta go,” I say to Angela, and I begin to slowly inch away from her.
“You always have to go,” she says. “Why is that?”
Before I can think of what to say, Doug jumps in, trying to block my game.
“Well, well,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “You didn’t mention you had a
girlfriend.”
He emphasizes the word
girlfriend
by drawing it out and making it go on for about a week. Even afterhe’s finished saying it, the word continues to echo in my ears. I hate him.
“I’m not his girlfriend,” Angela says. “I mean, we just met today. Give it time.”
Doug and Angela are both looking at me, but their expressions couldn’t be more different. His is all wrong. Hers is all right.
“Oh. Wait,” says Angela as she looks past me and into the crowd.
“Hey, guys! Over here!”
The next thing I know, a guy and a girl about my age are standing next to her. I’m sure they aren’t from Jupiter. It’s not just that they each have their own particular style (Goth Boy and Beyoncé-on-a-Budget), it’s more that they appear to be visitors from outer space, each visiting from his or her own personal planet or galaxy. Where I live (planet Earth), never in a million years would these three people be hanging out together. It would invite too many questions—the main one being: “What do these people have in common?”
“So this is us,” Angela says, looking at her misfit duo. “We’re the club. Guys, this is Alex. The one I was telling you about.”
“Alex?” Doug asks. His eyebrows shoot up and stay that way. He stares at me as though maybe I am not his own son.
“Well, I dunno. I work all day with my head in the sand, so I miss a lot.”
Then, as though a tiny lightbulb has clicked on above his big fat head, he sits up straight and cries out loud, “Hey, that’s why you wanted to Google the Virgin Mary the other day!”
Ding. He’s figured it out. A prize for the guy behind the wheel.
The just-dusk sky over the clubhouse is losing light fast and giving way to the deep blue-black of night. A star comes out, and as Doug and I are walking through the crowd toward the clubhouse, I look up at the first star I see and think about making a stupid, kid wish that begins with,
Star light, star bright
, and ends with
Angela tonight
. But before I can utter a single word—
“Hey, stud muffin.”
I turned around, and there she is, standing in front of me, out of breath, hair pulled back, looking like the answer to a prayer.
“What’re you doing?”
“Me?” I ask, sounding like a third grader who’s been caught outside his classroom without a pass. “I was just about to make a wish on that star up there.”
“Really?” she asks, gazing up into the night sky. “Y’know, some of those stars don’t exist anymore. Something about the speed of light. We’re just seeing the left-behind light. You could be looking up there and wishing at nothing.”
Then she surprises me by taking a step closer and making a big show of sniffing my shirt.
“You’ve been to Dairy Queen!” she announces.
I grab hold of her arms before she can pull away and take a quick whiff of her. It seems only fair. She smells like a just-baked something, a stack of clean towels, a new day.
“You smell amazing,” I say to her, and I mean it.
“So is it true?” she asks, completely ignoring what I had intended as a compliment. “Have you been to Dairy Queen?”
“My grandmother’s missing,” I tell her, letting go of her arms. “We’ve been looking for her. Sometimes she hangs there. She’s big on their Blizzards.”
“Yeah,” says Angela, adjusting the front of her blouse. “Blizzards are totally cool.”
I’m about to ask her if maybe she’d like to go with me to the Dairy Queen sometime when I notice Doug staring at us. He ahems, but I ignore him and pretend that he’s just a guy who’s hanging too close and creeping me out.
“I oughta go,” I say to Angela, and I begin to slowly inch away from her.
“You always have to go,” she says. “Why is that?”
Before I can think of what to say, Doug jumps in, trying to block my game.
“Well, well,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “You didn’t mention you had a
girlfriend.”
He emphasizes the word
girlfriend
by drawing it out and making it go on for about a week. Even afterhe’s finished saying it, the word continues to echo in my ears. I hate him.
“I’m not his girlfriend,” Angela says. “I mean, we just met today. Give it time.”
Doug and Angela are both looking at me, but their expressions couldn’t be more different. His is all wrong. Hers is all right.
“Oh. Wait,” says Angela as she looks past me and into the crowd.
“Hey, guys! Over here!”
The next thing I know, a guy and a girl about my age are standing next to her. I’m sure they aren’t from Jupiter. It’s not just that they each have their own particular style (Goth Boy and Beyoncé-on-a-Budget), it’s more that they appear to be visitors from outer space, each visiting from his or her own personal planet or galaxy. Where I live (planet Earth), never in a million years would these three people be hanging out together. It would invite too many questions—the main one being: “What do these people have in common?”
“So this is us,” Angela says, looking at her misfit duo. “We’re the club. Guys, this is Alex. The one I was telling you about.”
“Alex?” Doug asks. His eyebrows shoot up and stay that way. He stares at me as though maybe I am not his own son.
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