Alex, Approximately
Page 43
“Yeah, maybe,” I say, mimicking him. “I mean, I know nothing about tides and waves, and all that, so you’ll have to alert me when and where it’s going down.”
Mrs. Roth gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up sign from the door and then quickly lowers her arm before Porter can see it. “Sounds like a plan to me,” she says. “And I’m sorry to break this up, but I really need some help back here—Porter?”
“Sorry, duty calls,” he tells me.
I shake my head, dismissive. I’ve got to buy that new wheel lock before work. There’s plenty of time for that, but he’s clearly got stuff to do here, so I don’t say that. I just tell him I’m busy too, thank him again, and ask him to thank his dad again, who has disappeared with Lana. Mrs. Roth waves good-bye over the top of a stack of boxes when I leave through the back door.
I still have a couple of hours to kill before work, plenty of time to buy my new wheel lock, so I text Patrick back and make plans to meet up with him at the Pancake Shack as I test out my newly repaired seat lock. As I’m doing this, high up on the gutter of the roof, I catch a glimpse of white fur: a cat. Two cats, actually. It’s my tabby from the churro cart, Señor Don Gato, and she’s stalking a big, fluffy white feline. I laugh out loud—I can’t help it—because it’s just like that children’s song. My Don Gato has found her true love.
“Don’t jump,” I call out to Don Gato. Both cats look down at me quizzically. “Trust me on this one, you’ll only break your leg and die. That stupid white cat is not worth it. But if you do jump, remember that during your funeral, the scent of fish will bring you back to life—or probably, in your case, the smell of churros.”
Don Gato plops down inside the gutter and starts licking his paw. She couldn’t care less about my warning. Well, I tried. Somewhere on this boardwalk, I silently hope that Sam-I-Am is living a smarter life than these two love cats, risking bodily harm on the roof . . . and then I remember Alex blowing me off.
“You know what? Screw it. You’ve both got nine freaking lives,” I call back up to the cats as I strap on my leopard-print helmet. “Live them a little.”
LUMIÈRE FILM FANATICS COMMUNITY PRIVATE MESSAGES>ALEX>NEW!
@alex: Hey, Mink? You’re not mad at me, are you?
@mink: And what would make you think that?
@alex: I don’t know. I was just worried that you might be mad when I asked you to check with me before buying a plane ticket to come out here. You haven’t messaged since then.
@mink: I’m not mad. I would have thought you knew me better than that.
@alex: Err . . . Is that a joke? I can’t tell.
@mink: Sometimes it’s hard to tell someone’s tone online. Anyway, too busy to talk now. Catch you later.
“Please let me keep this memory, just this one.”
—Jim Carrey, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)
18
You’d think that two people who maybe, just might like each other (sometimes) and who definitely, usually (almost always) work together would find some time—or any time, really—to be alone. If not for kissing, then at least for talking. But an entire week passed, and all I got from Porter after the visit to his family’s surf shop was a daily greeting, a lot of smiling, and enough desperate across-the-lobby stares to fill up the entire cavern.
Every day, I watched the bruises on his face lighten and his wound heal, but as they disappear, so does the memory of what happened between us, and I am feeling something akin to physical withdrawals. Sure, I received some texts from him during work hours. They included the following:
On a scale from 1 to Hades, how humid is the Hotbox today?
You should wear sandals to work more often. Your feet are sexy. Maybe I’m the one with the foot fetish.
I thought about sneaking out to your house last night, but I didn’t want to risk getting you in trouble with your dad if I got caught.
I’m tired. Let’s go take a nap together in the big teepee.
And when he texted me, I think I need medical care. Will you come nurse me again? I nearly fell off my stool in the ticket booth. But when I texted him back that I would be right there, his reply was: Sigh. I wish. Pangborn is sitting next to me. Awkward.
The boy is killing me. K-i-l-l-i-n-g.
Things were much simpler when we were archenemies.
“Sometime I feel like Porter is Pangborn’s nurse,” I mutter under my breath.
Grace hands tickets through the window and mutes the microphone. “Know what I heard? That all that weed Pangborn vapes might actually really be medicinal. The old goat might have the big C.”
I frown. “What? Cancer? Who told you that?”
“It’s just a rumor going around. Don’t know if it’s true. You know how people talk. That girl Renee up in the café says she heard that he’s been in remission for years, and that he just uses it as an excuse to get high. So who knows? He doesn’t look sick to me.”
Me either, but can you really tell? And it’s not like I’m going to walk up and flat-out ask him. I hate rumors. It makes me sad that people are talking about Pangborn behind his back.
“What the hell is going on between you two, anyway?” Grace asks me as she adjusts the portable fan.
“Pangborn and me?”
She gives me a classic Grace eyeroll that clearly communicates: You know what I’m asking about; don’t play dumb. “Porter and you.”
“Beats me,” I say, thoroughly grumpy. I’d already told her about the kissing. No details. Well . . . some details. Grace has a way of dragging things out of me. “Maybe he’s dating someone else, and he’s trying to juggle two girls at once.”
Grace shakes her head. “No other girlfriend. He works at the surf shop after he leaves here every day. It’s open until nine. Then he turns back around and works there every morning—and that’s if he hasn’t been surfing. When has he got time for another girl?”
Good point. I feel guilty for even joking about it.
“I saw him arguing with Mr. Cavadini about the schedule that just got posted,” she notes as her phone buzzes. She checks the message, texts something back, and smiles to herself.
“And?”
She shrugs as she passes tickets through the window.
Now my phone buzzes with a text. It’s Porter. We both have tomorrow off. If you’re not busy, would you like to go on a date? Time: tomorrow afternoon until? Chance of being caught by your dad: very low. (Please say yes.)
I look up at Grace. “Did you know about this?”
“About what?” she says, the picture of innocence. “And, yes, I’ll cover for you. You can tell your dad you’re spending the day with me. But my parents want to actually meet you, so you’re coming round for dinner on Tuesday. We don’t play nerdy board games, but my dad cooks and will force you to help in the kitchen while he tells stupid jokes, so fair warning there.”
“I owe you big-time, Grace.” I can’t type Yes fast enough.
The next day at noon, I park Baby in the alley behind the surf shop, neatly wedging her into a small nook between the building and Mr. Roth’s van. Mrs. Roth says she’ll keep an eye on it but assures me that no one in their right mind would steal anything from them. One look at Porter’s scary-ass dad and I believe her. But I’m not really all that concerned about Davy rejacking Baby, I’m just relieved to stow the scooter back here, where my dad won’t be likely to see it if he’s out and about.
Mrs. Roth gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up sign from the door and then quickly lowers her arm before Porter can see it. “Sounds like a plan to me,” she says. “And I’m sorry to break this up, but I really need some help back here—Porter?”
“Sorry, duty calls,” he tells me.
I shake my head, dismissive. I’ve got to buy that new wheel lock before work. There’s plenty of time for that, but he’s clearly got stuff to do here, so I don’t say that. I just tell him I’m busy too, thank him again, and ask him to thank his dad again, who has disappeared with Lana. Mrs. Roth waves good-bye over the top of a stack of boxes when I leave through the back door.
I still have a couple of hours to kill before work, plenty of time to buy my new wheel lock, so I text Patrick back and make plans to meet up with him at the Pancake Shack as I test out my newly repaired seat lock. As I’m doing this, high up on the gutter of the roof, I catch a glimpse of white fur: a cat. Two cats, actually. It’s my tabby from the churro cart, Señor Don Gato, and she’s stalking a big, fluffy white feline. I laugh out loud—I can’t help it—because it’s just like that children’s song. My Don Gato has found her true love.
“Don’t jump,” I call out to Don Gato. Both cats look down at me quizzically. “Trust me on this one, you’ll only break your leg and die. That stupid white cat is not worth it. But if you do jump, remember that during your funeral, the scent of fish will bring you back to life—or probably, in your case, the smell of churros.”
Don Gato plops down inside the gutter and starts licking his paw. She couldn’t care less about my warning. Well, I tried. Somewhere on this boardwalk, I silently hope that Sam-I-Am is living a smarter life than these two love cats, risking bodily harm on the roof . . . and then I remember Alex blowing me off.
“You know what? Screw it. You’ve both got nine freaking lives,” I call back up to the cats as I strap on my leopard-print helmet. “Live them a little.”
LUMIÈRE FILM FANATICS COMMUNITY PRIVATE MESSAGES>ALEX>NEW!
@alex: Hey, Mink? You’re not mad at me, are you?
@mink: And what would make you think that?
@alex: I don’t know. I was just worried that you might be mad when I asked you to check with me before buying a plane ticket to come out here. You haven’t messaged since then.
@mink: I’m not mad. I would have thought you knew me better than that.
@alex: Err . . . Is that a joke? I can’t tell.
@mink: Sometimes it’s hard to tell someone’s tone online. Anyway, too busy to talk now. Catch you later.
“Please let me keep this memory, just this one.”
—Jim Carrey, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)
18
You’d think that two people who maybe, just might like each other (sometimes) and who definitely, usually (almost always) work together would find some time—or any time, really—to be alone. If not for kissing, then at least for talking. But an entire week passed, and all I got from Porter after the visit to his family’s surf shop was a daily greeting, a lot of smiling, and enough desperate across-the-lobby stares to fill up the entire cavern.
Every day, I watched the bruises on his face lighten and his wound heal, but as they disappear, so does the memory of what happened between us, and I am feeling something akin to physical withdrawals. Sure, I received some texts from him during work hours. They included the following:
On a scale from 1 to Hades, how humid is the Hotbox today?
You should wear sandals to work more often. Your feet are sexy. Maybe I’m the one with the foot fetish.
I thought about sneaking out to your house last night, but I didn’t want to risk getting you in trouble with your dad if I got caught.
I’m tired. Let’s go take a nap together in the big teepee.
And when he texted me, I think I need medical care. Will you come nurse me again? I nearly fell off my stool in the ticket booth. But when I texted him back that I would be right there, his reply was: Sigh. I wish. Pangborn is sitting next to me. Awkward.
The boy is killing me. K-i-l-l-i-n-g.
Things were much simpler when we were archenemies.
“Sometime I feel like Porter is Pangborn’s nurse,” I mutter under my breath.
Grace hands tickets through the window and mutes the microphone. “Know what I heard? That all that weed Pangborn vapes might actually really be medicinal. The old goat might have the big C.”
I frown. “What? Cancer? Who told you that?”
“It’s just a rumor going around. Don’t know if it’s true. You know how people talk. That girl Renee up in the café says she heard that he’s been in remission for years, and that he just uses it as an excuse to get high. So who knows? He doesn’t look sick to me.”
Me either, but can you really tell? And it’s not like I’m going to walk up and flat-out ask him. I hate rumors. It makes me sad that people are talking about Pangborn behind his back.
“What the hell is going on between you two, anyway?” Grace asks me as she adjusts the portable fan.
“Pangborn and me?”
She gives me a classic Grace eyeroll that clearly communicates: You know what I’m asking about; don’t play dumb. “Porter and you.”
“Beats me,” I say, thoroughly grumpy. I’d already told her about the kissing. No details. Well . . . some details. Grace has a way of dragging things out of me. “Maybe he’s dating someone else, and he’s trying to juggle two girls at once.”
Grace shakes her head. “No other girlfriend. He works at the surf shop after he leaves here every day. It’s open until nine. Then he turns back around and works there every morning—and that’s if he hasn’t been surfing. When has he got time for another girl?”
Good point. I feel guilty for even joking about it.
“I saw him arguing with Mr. Cavadini about the schedule that just got posted,” she notes as her phone buzzes. She checks the message, texts something back, and smiles to herself.
“And?”
She shrugs as she passes tickets through the window.
Now my phone buzzes with a text. It’s Porter. We both have tomorrow off. If you’re not busy, would you like to go on a date? Time: tomorrow afternoon until? Chance of being caught by your dad: very low. (Please say yes.)
I look up at Grace. “Did you know about this?”
“About what?” she says, the picture of innocence. “And, yes, I’ll cover for you. You can tell your dad you’re spending the day with me. But my parents want to actually meet you, so you’re coming round for dinner on Tuesday. We don’t play nerdy board games, but my dad cooks and will force you to help in the kitchen while he tells stupid jokes, so fair warning there.”
“I owe you big-time, Grace.” I can’t type Yes fast enough.
The next day at noon, I park Baby in the alley behind the surf shop, neatly wedging her into a small nook between the building and Mr. Roth’s van. Mrs. Roth says she’ll keep an eye on it but assures me that no one in their right mind would steal anything from them. One look at Porter’s scary-ass dad and I believe her. But I’m not really all that concerned about Davy rejacking Baby, I’m just relieved to stow the scooter back here, where my dad won’t be likely to see it if he’s out and about.
