Lisa’s dad picks her up when we’re done. He nods and says, “Hi, David” to me. David is my real name. Ace is my nickname. He says hi to Denny, too, which is more than Lisa has said to Denny since he showed up. I get the feeling Lisa doesn’t like Denny that much. Right now I’m a little bugged with him myself for freaking me out with his cell phone. It’s almost as if the whole harmonica mess was his fault.
Lisa and I split the money we made. There is a little more than eighteen dollars each. It’s not our best for a Friday, but it’s good. We were good, apart from my harmonica disaster.
“Practice tomorrow?” I ask her.
“Can’t,” she says. “I’m working all day.” She has a part-time job at Bargain Village. Sometimes I drop by there when she’s working and pretend I didn’t know she would be there.
“How about Sunday?” I ask. “Maybe?”
Lisa makes a face. “I have an English report. Haven’t you got homework?”
“Yeah,” I say. I do have homework. Whether I do it is another thing. That’s how I got my nickname. When people used to ask what marks I had gotten, I’d always say sarcastically, “A’s,” even though they weren’t.
Lisa waves and follows her dad to their car. She has her phone out, texting, before she even gets in. She’s still texting as they pull away. I wave anyway. Then I start walking home with Denny. We take a shortcut through the park.
He shows me what he filmed. Let’s just say it’s not pleasing.
“Wow, Den,” I say, “the close-up where my eyes bug out while I scream is really tasteful. How can I thank you?”
“Hey, no biggie,” Denny says. He still doesn’t get that I’m being sarcastic. Instead, he blathers more about doing a video. Denny is big on video. He’s in the video club at school. There are hot girls in the video club.
As we pass the swings, I have a conversation in my head instead of listening to him. First I say, Why didn’t you ask Lisa if she’s busy tonight, dumb one? I answer, She was texting. That means she’s busy. And I didn’t want to interrupt. And her dad was in a hurry. Then I say to myself, You’re chicken. That’s the real reason. That makes me answer, Okay, just watch. I’ll text her when I get home. That makes me feel better—if I don’t think about how many times I’ve said that before and then not sent the text.
At the other side of the park, Denny takes off for his house. It’s close to suppertime when I get home, but I still get back before Mom. She sells real estate, so her schedule is weird sometimes. The sound of hammering from the basement tells me that her boyfriend, Chuck, is here though. Chuck sells real estate too. He’s renovating our basement in his spare time. I thought it was fine the way it was. He says he’s making a man cave for me down there. Uh-huh.
Our cat, Archie, comes to say hello. I check Arch’s food and water, then look downstairs. Chuck is on his hands and knees, measuring something. He’s flashing some major plumber’s butt. It’s not a pretty sight.
“That you, Dave?” he calls up, still measuring.
“Uh-huh.”
“How was busking?”
“Okay.” I’m not going to tell him about the harmonica. Chuck is actually an okay guy. He was in a band when he first dated my mom. It’s his guitar and bass I’ve been using. I’m not going to tell him about stepping in the guitar case either, since the case is his too. Luckily, it only cracked a little. Instead I say, “Denny says we need a video.”
“Hmm. Good idea,” Chuck says. He marks a two-by-four with a pencil, sticks the pencil behind his ear and stands up. It’s a better visual, believe me. Then he chuckles and says, “Or maybe not. When I was in Razorburn, we tried to make a video. Remind me to tell you about it sometime.”
Razorburn was Chuck’s band. They played country rock. He stoops and grabs the two-by-four. I get to enjoy more plumber’s butt. Then he moves to his portable workbench and picks up the circular saw.
That’s when my mom gets home. She has pizza with her. She gets me to help make salad, and then, as we all eat, Chuck tells her about Denny’s video idea. Naturally, she has a million suggestions. All of them are bad.
“You know what you could do,” she says, “is have you and Lisa both singing, with your heads in profile next to one another, like, you know—oh, whose video was it?”
“ABBA,” I say. It’s one of my favorite bad videos to laugh at.
“Right.” Mom is all excited. “And you could—”
Oh, please. I nod and pretend I’m listening. Really, I’m talking to myself again. Text Lisa. I chew slower and answer: Grade-ten girls don’t hang with grade-nine guys, even if they do play music together. I know this is a law of the universe—or of high school, at least. High school and the universe are the same thing if you are fourteen.
It doesn’t have to be a law, I say to myself. Didn’t you hear how worried she sounded when she asked if you were all right? Do it. Don’t be a chicken.
I’m going to do it. I put down my pizza and pull out my phone. Mom says, “Hey, mister, no phones at the table, remember?” At that exact instant, her BlackBerry rings and she jumps up. “Except for this one call,” Mom says.
Chuck takes salad. I power my phone to text Lisa. The pizza has gone dry in my mouth. I’m going to do it. I’m going to text her this time. But first I see a message from Denny: want 2c doomaster 2nite can pick u up @ 8.
Oh, wow. Doom Master. It’s a new 3-D blockbuster movie. It’s based on our favorite action-hero toy from when Denny and I were little. This is opening night, so everybody will be going. Lisa will probably even be there. That would solve everything. I text Denny back: cool c u @ 8.
I can always ask Lisa next time.