Love in the Time of Cynicism (28 page)

“Until now,” Rhett insists seriously. “Prepare to be impressed, Cordelia Kane, because I am going to win you the best gift in the history of romantic comedy relationships.”

“Consider me prepared.”

We walk from under the black lights to a large, dimly-lit area. There’s a concession stand with bored teenagers turning fries built in to one white wall and mini basketball, classic arcade games, and claw machines lining another. At the center are a few plastic picnic tables where families lounge tiredly.

Rhett chooses a large silver claw machine filled with fluffy stuffed animals wearing necklaces with those small twenty five cent canisters that normally contain cheap jewelry or bouncy balls. Intensely focused, he fishes a dollar bill from his back pocket and feeds it through the machine, accepting seventy five cents back in change. The blinking red LED display welcomes him and a sharp ditty sounding of childhood and failure rings out. The claw moves to position above the center of the stuffed animals and Rhett carefully places his hand on the joystick. He spends the next thirty seconds maneuvering the menacing claw around until he’s satisfied with the position.

He cuts a glance back to me and says, “Ready to have your dreams come true?”

“More than ever,” I laugh. The way he’s so intense about this is adorable verging on sexy.

The claw lowers pointedly and balls its spindly metallic fingers into fists around absolutely nothing.

“Wow.” I clap slowly and sarcastically, drawing each motion out. “I have never been more honored to be your girlfriend than I am right now.”

“Just you wait.” He shakes his head and plucks another quarter from his pocket.

I stand behind him watching these ventures until the last quarter split from a five. Most would see this as pathetic, but I can’t stop laughing at how cute he is when he’s determined. His eyebrows scrunch together and lips purse until they’re near white.

On this last try, Rhett’s developed a strategy culminating from his past failures, which involves lip biting and quiet cursing. This round is particularly amusing as his fingers very nearly push the red button about eight times before he carefully chooses the best possible place to ensure winning.

Then, as the claw drops lower and lower, Rhett recoils in shock as it clamps around a small, pale blue elephant wearing a bright pink necklace with a small clear container. The claw deposits the elephant into the chute and it tumbles out the bottom and to Rhett’s eagerly waiting hands.

“See that?” He beams and shows off the creature with obvious pride. Its ears are enormous, each one the size of its entire body. The elephant has those classic stuffed-animal eyes verging the line between cute and creepy. “Pure, unadulterated skill.”

“And five bucks down the drain,” I reply with a smirk.

He bumps my hip with his and says, “Now you have to pick up dinner.”

“Deal, but only if I get whatever’s inside Mr. Elephant’s necklace.”

“Mr. Elephant is a
terrible
name for a stuffed animal,” Rhett argues. “We should definitely go with something classier.”

“
Dr.
Elephant.” I roll my eyes.

Rhett shakes his head and thinks on this vital topic a moment before saying, “We should call him Winston.”

“Winston it is,” I agree with a laugh.

Rhett’s fingers pry off the necklace and he pops open the plastic canister on the end of it. A quick smile flits over his mouth as he sees the contents. Not allowing me to see, Rhett drops to one knee, props the newly-dubbed Winston on his other knee, and reaches behind him as if to grab something from his back pocket. He produces one of the cheap, silver plastic adjustable rings, this one with a small heart the same shade as Winston perched on its middle, and takes my hand.

I laugh and ask, “Is this a proposal?”

“Only if you take it seriously.”

I nod gravely and hide my budding smile behind tight lips.

Rhett runs his fingers over mind and begins, “Cordelia Kane, would you do me the honor of wearing this hideously childish ring on your finger un-ironically, running the risk of being ridiculed by your peers and potentially yours truly-” he pauses as I attempt to maintain composure. Groups of people wander by and stare at us, wondering if this is the real deal. “-as a symbol of your undying love for me?”

I giggle as he slides the scratchy ring onto my finger, “With great pride.”

That ring says something profound about our relationship, I think. The way it sits on my finger is fitting and wonderful and it occurs to me that this is the first piece of jewelry Rhett has gotten me and, taking his finances to mind, probably the last. But it’s perfect and my heart flutters at the sight of it.

Rhett stands and hugs me tightly. His strong arms are warm and comforting. He whispers in my ear, his breath against my neck, “Love you.” I nuzzle into his words before he pulls away and asks, “Dinner?”

When I nod, Sky and Brian return with laughs on their lips. “We’re getting food?”

The four of us order at the concession stand and return to a table with three trays stacked high. The problem with four teenagers going out to eat is the empty leg effect. This is a theory Trent comprised on a particularly high night, wherein teens, and especially those with the Y chromosome, actually have hollow legs where excess food is stored. This phenomenon also explains why teenage boys never gain weight after consuming a large pizza, a loaf of garlic bread, a two liter of Coke, and at least two bowls of ice cream, which I’ve seen Trent do on multiple occasions under the influence of the munchies.

We’ve pooled our remaining cash – each of us brought around thirty bucks – to purchase several large orders of curly fries (the crowning glory of the fry kingdom), burgers, a meat-lover’s pizza, and an order of mozzarella sticks. The food crowds the table between our four varying colored drinks. We eat ravenously. Sky and I made a pact at fifteen that no matter how many guys we dated, we’d never refuse food on a date. A fundamental aspect of successful relationships, in my mind, is being able to eat comfortably around a significant other, or else the relationship is doomed to many a night of awkward dinners and forced laughter.

Sky, even in her homecoming queen physique and daintiness, manages to finish off several slices of pizza and half the mozzarella sticks. I make it through a burger and an order of curly fries shared with Rhett, who finishes a good fourth of the pizza for himself. Brian, in shocking twist of fate, is an animal in the food consumption department. He eats at least three slices of pizza, two burgers, and his entire order of curly fries until there are almost no leftovers for him to take home. The boy can’t weigh much more than I do – I’d peg him at around one fifty – and there’s no muscle on him. But he can pack it in like nobody’s business. We watch in collective awe as he wolfs down bite after bite quickly and without pause. When he’s finished, Sky offers each of us a stick of mint gum, which we accept gratefully.

Brian glances affectionately at Sky and tell us, “I think I’ll try my hand at the claw machine, try to win the lady something to remember me by when she inevitably realizes she’s far too good for me.”

Sky blushes and stands to join him.

Rhett throws our trash away and spits out his gum.

“Getting rid of it so soon?”

“Actually,” he says with a smirk, “I was just going to step outside, into the beautiful autumn air, and make out; care to join me?”

I spit out my gum without another thought and Rhett takes my hand in his. He leads me past the glowing tattooed man and out the door. The sun set long ago and the air is bitingly cold. Tendrils of vapor swirl from my nose and mouth as I breathe, caught like smoke in the stream of the bright lights overhead holding us back from the darkness.

Then Rhett’s hand moves from mine to the small of my back and I arch against his body. Through the fabric of my sweater, I feel his muscles tense as he leans down to kiss me. His lips, chilled from the sudden drop in temperature, press against mine until heat spreads over me like it’s the middle of summer instead of frigid November. A breeze rustles around us and my fingers shake with the cold against Rhett’s hips. Feeling the trembling of my hands, Rhett holds me closer to him and his arms radiate heat through my clothes. Warm with his closeness, I move my lips against him with more force and my hands skim under the hem of his shirt. My hips grind against his until I’m closer to him than I’ve ever been and itching to get closer. His hands run roughly across my back and a sound I’ve never heard slips from my throat, guttural as his fingers dig into my shoulder blades.

My face flushes deep red immediately at the sound but Rhett only pauses his lips against mine and moans softly, “Jesus, you are so sexy.”

I rocket my head back from him so our chests are still touching as I bite my lower lip. He’s never said anything quite like this before and it makes me warm all over. “Do you mean that?”

“How could I not?” He scoffs deep from his throat like the answer should be obvious. “You drive me crazy. Absolutely insane and every time we’re together, I swear I get so-”

“Whoa there, this isn’t a porno.” Sky laughing voice slips between us and I whip away from Rhett, embarrassed. “Break it up, lovers, we have a curfew to maintain and it’s a long walk back to the car.”

“I might find it a little difficult to walk at this particular moment,” Rhett mumbles and I purse my lips together with a prayer that Sky didn’t hear. There’s no way I’d see the end of her teasing remarks over leaving Rhett in his current state.

Rhett links his fingers to mine and we trek awkwardly across the parking lot, him shuffling uncomfortably but with a broad smile hidden in his eyes. I run a hand through my hair, unable to stop myself from being the teeniest bit proud. It’s a weird emotion to be paired with, to be frank, horniness, but that’s how it is. I love him and he loves me and there are only so many ways this relationship can progress from here.

Chapter Seventeen – There’s Nothing More Uncomfortable than Bra Shopping

The final bell rings and my honors Euro teacher’s still talking on and on through a ragingly thrilling lecture on the history of French monarch’s blood patterns. He’s one of those despicable middle-aged men who has nothing to live for but watching the hope and happiness slowly fade from his students’ eyes year after year. He finishes the talk with an exciting, gripping conclusion about white men ruling the world for as long as modern society has persisted about six minutes after the bell sounds. When his voice finally cuts off, the entire class startles out of seats, slinging backpacks over shoulders and rushing out to the busses or cars, which have to be off campus twelve minutes after the final bell.

I have to wait in my seat for the slew of kids to get out the door before I stand up so I don’t get body slammed to the ground by the jocks who weren’t quite smart enough for AP and not quite dumb enough for Academics.

“Del,” Mr. Harris beckons me to his desk and I suppress an eye roll.

I have a strong hankering to get the hell out of there but avoiding teachers, even when I’m officially on my own time Friday afternoon, is a no-no in high school. “Yes?”

He smiles in a way teachers who spend years droning on about monarchies and revolutions don’t as he offers my hand. Reluctantly, I shake it. Sky’s waiting for me somewhere outside and I need to get out there to meet her. “I wanted to take some time to personally congratulate you on the offer from
The New Yorker.
Will- Ah, Doctor Sullivan told me about it.”

I shrug and cut a glance at the door, where students are running to catch busses. “Thanks, Mister H, but I haven’t actually accepted yet.”

“Why not?” He’s shocked, clearly. “Your writing is great, better than most student’s I’ve had the past twenty years. Well,” he finishes his thought, “I really hope you go up there. Whatever’s holding you back from writing an acceptance letter right now isn’t worth it. Trust a man who wasted his talents in a small town. I could’ve gone to Harvard or Princeton because I was a National Merit Scholar and…” My teacher runs through a typical long tangent about his life which I’ve heard every day. Poor man.

Before he gets through the whole thing, I interrupt and say, “Seriously, thank you. I’m planning on saying yes; it’s just a matter of convincing parents and making the right plans. I need to catch my friend before she gets a loitering detention, so…”

“Alright, kid,” Mr. H beams. “Good luck. With everything.”

I dash out the door and a sudden, unexpected excitement takes over me. Everyone wants me to go to New York and I’m nearly sure that’s what I want for myself. But, right now, my mind is on Rhett. There he is at the end of the hall, backpack hanging from one shoulder and an ear bud in. I told him he didn’t have to walk with me, but there he is. As always.

“Hey, babe,” his voice brightens and my stomach flips at the word. “You need a ride home? I’m always happy to have you on the back of my bike.”

I walk over and kiss him quickly on the lips and rest my hands on the nape of his neck. “By that do you mean having me pressed right up against you?” With each word I get closer, eliminating the gap between us until our noses are near touching.

“While that may be an ulterior motive,” he admits, “mostly it stems from my unending desire to help those in need.”