grade eleven?”
“Yes.”
“I am, too. Your father, he is a teacher, yes?”
“And the football coach,” I said, rolling my eyes. “And also the school disciplinarian.”
He pulled this fake scared face that was so adorable. “I am lucky to have never met him, then.”
I laughed at that, finally feeling safe, but his comment made me think. Wasn’t it just an example of how virtually ALL the guys who knew my dad felt? No wonder I’ve never had a date.
He pointed to my tire then and got down to business. “If you want to come out of the car, I will change it. I would lift the car with you inside, but it is not so safe.”
I must’ve looked uncertain, even though I felt fine, because he hiked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating his car. “My sister, Shefka, is here with me if that makes you feel better. I will bring her up with me.”
I didn’t want him to think I was some skittish, ethnocentric American who was afraid of foreigners, so I said, “Oh, it’s okay. I’m not afraid of you. I was just … sort of afraid in general, to have a flat on this dark road, this late at night. I’ve been sitting here for who knows how long, just trying to get up the courage to get out of the car.”
“Ah. I can understand. I was not too confident to approach your car, either,” he joked.
Is that not so sweet? Most guys act so annoyingly macho, and he was the antithesis of that. For him to admit that he wasn’t immune to the heebie-jeebies made me like him even more.
I got out of the car and met him around back, where he was rooting around in the trunk. He fished out a flashlight and handed it to me. I turned it on, said a silent prayer of thanksgiving that the batteries were fresh, and then held it over the trunk to help him see better.
“It is late,” he said, just making small talk while hegot out the jack and spare. “Did you go to the homecoming?”
HOW EMBARRASSING. I actually looked away from him when I shook my head no, but then he said, “I did not go either,” and I felt instantly better.
“What are you doing out so late?” I asked, though it was none of my business.
“My sister and I, we visit friends from where I used to live—”
“Bosnia?”
He smiled. “Yes. They live in Idaho Springs now.” He shrugged. “We were watching DVDs.”
I nodded, not really sure what to say next. I could ask him what DVDs they’d been watching, but I wouldn’t recognize any of the titles anyway, and the conversation would fizzle. I decided, instead, to focus on the tire. It looked more than flat, it looked shredded. “I can’t believe the tire did that.”
“It looks bad. You are a good driver to keep the car on the road after such a blowup.” He smiled again.
I smiled back, because he’d called it a
blowup
instead of a
blowout
, which was supercute. “Thank you. My dad would be happy to hear that.”
We both laughed, and then he got to work on the flat.
I know it was probably the typical, unfeminist girl thing to do—say yes to the GUY changing the tire for me—but hey. It was, as I’ve said, the middle of the night, pitch dark, and I’ve never changed a tire except for practicing with my dad. But that had been in a heated garage with fluorescent lights, and he talked me through every step.
Things got more comfortable between Ismet and me after that. I held the flashlight, and we chatted about school while he worked. Eventually his sister, Shefka, came up and hung out while Ismet finished. Shefka is a freshman, but she seems very smart and mature for her age. She was friendly.
Ismet had removed the shredded tire and he was lifting the spare into place just as I glanced down at him. The muscles of his back flexed with his effort and my awareness of him just sort of prickled up my spine. The realization struck me like a lightning bolt:
HEY, THIS GUY’S REALLYDATEABLE CUTE, in an exotic, foreign sort of way
.
Exotic and foreign were good things!
Just like that, with one split
“Yes.”
“I am, too. Your father, he is a teacher, yes?”
“And the football coach,” I said, rolling my eyes. “And also the school disciplinarian.”
He pulled this fake scared face that was so adorable. “I am lucky to have never met him, then.”
I laughed at that, finally feeling safe, but his comment made me think. Wasn’t it just an example of how virtually ALL the guys who knew my dad felt? No wonder I’ve never had a date.
He pointed to my tire then and got down to business. “If you want to come out of the car, I will change it. I would lift the car with you inside, but it is not so safe.”
I must’ve looked uncertain, even though I felt fine, because he hiked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating his car. “My sister, Shefka, is here with me if that makes you feel better. I will bring her up with me.”
I didn’t want him to think I was some skittish, ethnocentric American who was afraid of foreigners, so I said, “Oh, it’s okay. I’m not afraid of you. I was just … sort of afraid in general, to have a flat on this dark road, this late at night. I’ve been sitting here for who knows how long, just trying to get up the courage to get out of the car.”
“Ah. I can understand. I was not too confident to approach your car, either,” he joked.
Is that not so sweet? Most guys act so annoyingly macho, and he was the antithesis of that. For him to admit that he wasn’t immune to the heebie-jeebies made me like him even more.
I got out of the car and met him around back, where he was rooting around in the trunk. He fished out a flashlight and handed it to me. I turned it on, said a silent prayer of thanksgiving that the batteries were fresh, and then held it over the trunk to help him see better.
“It is late,” he said, just making small talk while hegot out the jack and spare. “Did you go to the homecoming?”
HOW EMBARRASSING. I actually looked away from him when I shook my head no, but then he said, “I did not go either,” and I felt instantly better.
“What are you doing out so late?” I asked, though it was none of my business.
“My sister and I, we visit friends from where I used to live—”
“Bosnia?”
He smiled. “Yes. They live in Idaho Springs now.” He shrugged. “We were watching DVDs.”
I nodded, not really sure what to say next. I could ask him what DVDs they’d been watching, but I wouldn’t recognize any of the titles anyway, and the conversation would fizzle. I decided, instead, to focus on the tire. It looked more than flat, it looked shredded. “I can’t believe the tire did that.”
“It looks bad. You are a good driver to keep the car on the road after such a blowup.” He smiled again.
I smiled back, because he’d called it a
blowup
instead of a
blowout
, which was supercute. “Thank you. My dad would be happy to hear that.”
We both laughed, and then he got to work on the flat.
I know it was probably the typical, unfeminist girl thing to do—say yes to the GUY changing the tire for me—but hey. It was, as I’ve said, the middle of the night, pitch dark, and I’ve never changed a tire except for practicing with my dad. But that had been in a heated garage with fluorescent lights, and he talked me through every step.
Things got more comfortable between Ismet and me after that. I held the flashlight, and we chatted about school while he worked. Eventually his sister, Shefka, came up and hung out while Ismet finished. Shefka is a freshman, but she seems very smart and mature for her age. She was friendly.
Ismet had removed the shredded tire and he was lifting the spare into place just as I glanced down at him. The muscles of his back flexed with his effort and my awareness of him just sort of prickled up my spine. The realization struck me like a lightning bolt:
HEY, THIS GUY’S REALLYDATEABLE CUTE, in an exotic, foreign sort of way
.
Exotic and foreign were good things!
Just like that, with one split