I pump ten dollars’ worth of gas into my tank knowing that will be plenty, round trip, for the Italian restaurant downtown. When I get home, Dad’s in the exact position he was when I left: hands clasped behind his head, knees bent, as if he fell asleep in the middle of a sit up.
I try not to make any noise. I go back to my room and begin to regroup. My bed is unmade. My nightstand is cluttered with papers. I scoot my covers to the end of the bed and start making stacks. Graded school assignments. Notes and fliers from school. Bills. Checking account statements.
I’ve got fifty bucks. Dad gets paid in four days. I’ll go by and pay ten dollars toward the electric bill and beg them not to turn it off. It’s worked before, but it all depends on who’s working and what kind of a mood they’re in. The whole thing is humiliating. But so is going to school with wet hair if our electric was to get cut off. I take all my stacks and compile them back to one stack and set it back on my nightstand.
I begin to flip through my closet and try on clothes. Thirty minutes and a mound of clothes later, I decide on old jeans and a coral button-down shirt that I can tie at the waist. However, that night, I leave in a short, black cotton dress, barelegged with my boots.
As I drive downtown, I look forward. Forward. Forward. Forward. I do everything I can to avoid looking over and making eye contact with any driver on the street. For Nate to see me driving to our date would be so . . . awkward. I tell myself he’s probably coming from a different direction, but I still feel like such a goob.
Downtown is packed. Teenagers, families, old people . . . it’s a potpourri of Okies down here. I find the restaurant and pull into the parking lot across the street. A lot attendant holds a sign, but he’s turned around talking to a group of women wearing conference badges, so I can’t read what the sign says. I find a space, and take a few deep breaths.
When I get out of the car, it takes effort to walk. I didn’t think I’d be this nervous. I’m about to cross the street when I see the lot attendant coming after me. He’s hollering, “Hey! Miss!”
From the corner of my eye, I see Nate walk out of the restaurant.
The attendant catches up to me, and I realize why he’s chased me down. The sign says parking is eight dollars.
EIGHT DOLLARS.
I smile at the man (Nate’s watching), and get a ten from my purse. The attendant, a guy in his sixties, makes change. I don’t have time to process this expense or the impact it will have on my financial situation. I cross the street.
Nate laughs.
“Trying to slide by the ol’ parking lot guy, are ya?”
I feel my cheeks flush red.
“Oh, no. I didn’t see his sign, that’s all.”
“Yeah, that’s what all the parking lot bandits say.”
I laugh.
“I’m not a parking lot bandit.”
Nate opens the door for me, and we enter the restaurant.
It’s a cozy little place. Dim lights. Round tables with red checkered tablecloths. Couples sharing bottles of wine. The smell of bread hangs in the air. Although it’s a relaxing atmosphere, my hands begin to shake.
Nate makes his way to the hostess stand, and I follow behind. The hostess (the only one in this joint that seems to be my age) tells Nate it will be a twenty-minute wait.
“That’s fine. We’ll just wait in the bar,” he responds. He takes my hand and pulls me toward a cramped row of barstools where I stand behind him, still holding his hand.
Nate takes initiative.
“What do you want? I bet you’re a margarita girl, huh?”
The bartender makes eye contact with me, and I quickly look away. I stall.
“Hmm. I’m not sure, yet. You go ahead.” Nate picks up the bar menu and asks the bartender for a few minutes to decide. The bartender, a short, Italian-looking guy with wet, slicked black hair tosses two square napkins our way and designates our spot for drinks.
My shaking intensifies, and the hand that Nate’s not holding, I clinch to a fist. Will he serve me? Are the two napkins code for “go ahead and order, I’m not asking for your ID”?
Nate releases my hand to study the menu.
I’m a nervous wreck. I glance over at the bartender serving someone down the bar. He’s yet to smile, and I can’t get a read on this guy.
“I need to use the restroom. I’ll just take whatever you get.” I stretch myself taller to look over heads for the restroom.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m easy.”
He laughs and widens his eyes.
It dawns on me.
“I’m easy. Like easy to please . . . not easy like easy!”
He continues to laugh.
“Oh, you know what I mean!” I walk away to find the restroom.
I don’t need to use it, so I check myself in the full length mirror for a few minutes and try to imagine what’s going on between Nate and the bartender. When I walk out, Nate’s right there.
“Hey, do you have your ID on you? He won’t serve me two drinks without it . . . so ridiculous for a place like this.”
I stammer, “Oh, yeah. Just a minute. I think I left my lipstick in there.” I point back to the bathroom door and walk in. I’m frazzled. I look for an escape route. A tunnel. A loose ceiling tile that I can crawl through and hide. A secret passage that will lead me to the alley. I squat down and bow my head because I’m on the verge of fainting.
After a few minutes, I stand and walk back to the door and poke my head out.
“Hey, you go ahead. I’m not feeling real well. I’ll catch up in a sec.”
“Are you okay? You don’t look so well.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just need a couple of minutes.”
I close the door and regain my composure. Great. Just great. He probably thinks I’m in here with an upset stomach. How freaking embarrassing. The need to escape becomes greater.
I take deep breaths. Reapply my lipstick that doesn’t need reapplied, and walk back out.
Nate’s sitting at the bar now, drinking a beer. I make my way over and place my hand on his back. He turns and says, “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine. Sorry, I just think my blood sugar was a little off.”
“You’re diabetic?”
“Oh, no . . . I just haven’t eaten much today. That’s all.’
“Want a drink?”
“Thanks, but I better not until I get something to eat.”
Nate turns around and takes a swig from his beer. I notice the words on the label are not written in English. I keep my hand on his back. He’s extra cute tonight. A pale blue, collared, cotton shirt. Starched khaki pants. We stand, unable to make a lot of conversation because of the crowd. Nate doesn’t even finish his beer before they call us to our table, so he brings it with him.
It’s slightly awkward since the tables are round. But the hostess helps us out by pulling out the chairs and assigning us a place to sit. We sit down directly across from each other.
He says, “You look great tonight, by the way. Your hair is extra beautiful.”
I fight back a smile.
“Well, thank you.”
I open my menu.
“So, what’s good here?”
“Everything’s good here. You really can’t go wrong.”
I decide on something safe and easy to eat: lasagna.
Without ever opening it, Nate pushes his menu to the side. He looks right into my eyes. “So, Chandra. Tell me about yourself.”
I have a quick panic attack from the way he says my name. Does he know it’s a cover? Did he just say that in an intentional I-know-everything-about-you tone? I pause, and then calmly respond. “Me? What do you want to know?”
He doesn’t look away.
“Where are you from? Where do you work? Do you have family?”
I’m caught off guard.
“Um. Why?”
He laughs.
“Um. Because we’re on a date, and I’m interested in getting to know you . . .?” A reply in question form.
I continue to look at my menu, although I know what I want.
“I was born in Newcastle, Oklahoma. I work at a tag office (tag office??!!!). I have a dad.”
He sympathetically raises his eyebrows.
“That’s it? Just a dad?”
“Well, I have other family members too, it’s just my dad is the only one that I’m close to.”
He looks like he wants to ask more questions but doesn’t.
“Oh.”
I close my menu and shoot right back.
“Tell me about you.”
“Me? Well, let’s see . . . I’m Aquarius.” He finishes off his beer. “I’m a huge St. Louis Cardinals fan . . . I like long walks on the beach.”
We both laugh about the beach.
He says, “Ok, my turn again,” and gets all serious. I anticipate the worst.
And out comes the worst.
“So how old are you, Chandra?”
I hesitate, and then answer, “How old are you?”
He answers quickly, “Twenty-two.”
“Twenty-two? How can you be the boss at your work when you’re only twenty-two?”
I do the math in my head, figuring that he’s five years older, only five years older than me and about this time the waitress walks up. She looks like she could be the bartender’s sister; it’s basically him wearing bright red lipstick and a black mini skirt. She places a basket of shiny bread sticks between us then looks at me first.
“Hi, doll. What can I get you to drink?”
The words come out of my mouth before the thought clears it with my brain. I order a margarita. She stares at me a few seconds and looks at Nate’s empty beer bottle on the table.
I don’t take a breath until she throws down one of those square napkins, and I exhale slowly.
Nate will take another beer, and she’s off to the next table clearing plates and dropping a check.
I take charge of the conversation.
“What were we talking about, again?” Then I answer my own question with confidence. “Oh yeah. I’m twenty-one.”
“Twenty-one, huh?”
I nod.
“Yeah. The big 2-1.” I’m a dork. He will never go out with me again. The big 2-1?! What was that?
The breadsticks are screaming for me to take a bite. I’m nervous. I’m starving. But more nervous than starving. Nate dunks a breadstick into a plate of oil and goes to town. Obviously he’s not nervous.
“So tell me about you.” I look up and smile.
“What do ya want to know?”
“Whatever you want to tell me.”
He goes in for another dunk of oil then leans back. “I’ve got three kids. One girl, twin baby boys. Been separated for about two months now. Giving up smoking. What else you wanna know?” He bites into the breadstick.
I’m speechless.
“Don’t let that scare you off, now,” he says.
My eyes widen. I sit.
He chews for a minute then starts to laugh. “I’m kidding. Totally kidding.”
“Well, I was going to say . . .”
“What, that’s a dealbreaker for you?” He laughs some more.
“Yeah, that would probably be a dealbreaker for me.” Considering I’m still in high school. Changing diapers between cheer practice and Spanish homework would be a challenge.
“That’s hilarious.” He wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin. “No, you don’t have to worry about that. I’m just a regular, handsome, responsible guy.” He’s still joking.
“I see that.” God, I suck at flirting. A deep breath of relief fills my lungs. “So. . . did you go to college?”
“Yep, OU. Boomer Sooner. I was a business major but got sidetracked with making money.”
“You can always go back someday.”
“Yeah, that might be difficult with a wife and three kids. Papa’s gotta keep the lights on and the water running, ya know.”
“Whatever.” I push my leg against his under the table.
We flirt our way through dinner.