Fireworks

It’s Saturday, Dad’s off at some hotel in Nevada sleeping off his emergency flight, and I am flat on my back on the floor, holding my cell phone to my ear like a life preserver.

“Did he say when he would call?” Rachel repeats as my mind rewinds, pauses, plays Wednesday’s conversation.

“No.” I’m jumpy and wired with anticipation, but I think it’s wearing off because it’s eleven and Robin hasn’t contacted me.

“Okay, then give him a few more hours.” I hear Rachel clacking away on her keyboard on the other end of the line. “I’m sure he didn’t forget. Calm down.”

I don’t think I can be calm today, only excited then nervous then exhilarated, or disappointed then depressed if he stands me up.

I check the display on my phone. I’ve been on with Rachel for forty-two minutes and fifty-seven seconds. Fifty-eight.

“Hey, Rachel, I think I’m going to call you back. It’s been an hour and you’re doing no good for me.” I put my hand to my stomach and feel its flatness, thanks to no breakfast and four sticks of gum at once.

“Whatever you say,” she scoffs, and we disconnect. The digits are replaced with the photo of Rachel and me at Great America. I recall we were psyched, standing in line for Drop Zone. Screams and cheers echo all around me as the purple mechanism freefalls. It hits my ceiling and explodes the wood into five hundred thousand splinters piercing my bones, bleeding out my marrow. I drop to 78.0.

I blink and the dream is gone.

In the top-right corner of my screen by the clock is a miniscule message alert. I almost slap myself, but my fingers are much too busy hitting the right buttons to open the message.

It’s an unknown number but I know.

XXXXXXX4005: HEY, IT’S ME. I TRIED CALLING BUT YOUR LINE WAS BUSY. ARE YOU STILL UP FOR TODAY? –R

Wow. I am truly hopeless. Quickly I text a reply and pray he hasn’t changed his mind since half an hour ago.

XXXXXXX7621: SORRY, I WAS ON THE PHONE WITH RACHEL. SURE, CALL ME BACK.

My phone vibrates ten seconds later, sending tremors up my arm.

“Hello?”

“Hey.” Robin sounds different on the phone. I probably do too.

“What’s up?” I position myself in front of my mirror and absorb the sight of my tree trunk legs, beach ball stomach, and Roman column arms. I almost miss what he says.

“You want to go hang out at the mall?” Most boys don’t decide on the mall, but Robin isn’t like most boys and the mall is neutral territory. Just in case I turn out to be a nutcase or an obese pig or secretly lock myself up in bathrooms and pull out my ribs.

Too late.

“Sounds great. Let me get ready.” I nearly laugh out loud at how normal this sounds. It could’ve been coming out of Melanie Tan the cookie-cutter cheerleader’s mouth. My imagine runs on and draws up a scenario where I am actually Melanie with a voice-disguiser. I bang my head against the mirror to brake it.

“You okay?” Robin says, his voice frowning.

He must’ve heard the thud. “Never better. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.” Already I am indecisive between my red skinny jeans or metallic gold spandex-type jeans.

“How far do you live?”

“Only about five minutes out, but I have to walk.”

“Sorry about that,” he apologizes. It takes me a minute to figure out why he’s apologizing. In that minute I one-handedly attempt to yank up the red skinny jeans. “If I could give you a lift, I would. But I don’t get my license until next year.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll be there. You better be.”

He chuckles, the sound of the red end button. “I will.”

I fire off a hurried text to Rachel explaining my situation and button my jeans. It sits too loosely on my hips, so I sling a studded belt through the loops. Careful not to mess up my hair, I put on my black-and-white Death Cab For Cutie tee. It actually takes me all of the twenty minutes to walk to the mall so I have to change quick.

I have been a good girl lately so I reward myself with a Milano cookie out the door.

I saunter into the mall casually because honestly, I didn’t break a sweat walking here. Plus it only took me seventeen minutes. I am proud of myself and swivel my eyes round to look for Robin.

Finally I see him in line at Panda Express. His back is to me and he’s facing the cashier behind the counter, but I already know the extent of his five foot eight frame, a good six inches on me. I lean against the column half-concealed by a boisterous green palm, studying him as he orders and hovers. He takes the tiny box of takeout that maybe I could even eat willingly and scans the food court.

I step into his line of vision and he lights up like my house on Christmas seven years ago.

“Hey,” he says breathlessly. I am aware of the fact that he plays soccer at school and he’s not out of breath because he half-jogged half-walked to meet me. His left hand nerve endings seem to snap back into action and he looks down at the Styrofoam box as if he’s seeing it for the first time.

“What is that?” I question. Somehow our feet have taken control and we are walking without really knowing were we’re going.

“Orange chicken,” he admits sheepishly. “I know Panda Express is all about fake Asian food, but I’m a sucker for this.” He opens it carefully and steadies it on his palm. With a plastic fork he whips magically out from empty air, he spears a piece of chicken and drops the entire thing into his mouth thoughtfully. “Want some?”

My stomach is egging me on, yesyesyes, but I am shaking my head nonono. “No, thanks. You have fun with your rip-off Asian.”

Robin snorts with laughter and swallows his mouthful before answering, “You make it sound like I have an over-processed Asian chick suffocating my arm.”

I laugh out loud with him at the mental image conjured. The lady at the perfume stand in the middle of the corridor hesitates, a strip of scented paper in her hand. Quickly I pull Robin’s bare wrist to make him walk faster. He almost spills the contents of the box.

“What’s up?” he asks, glancing back over his shoulder. Oh, now he must think I have some ex-boyfriend here I didn’t want seeing me.

“It’s nothing, I just hate getting sprayed with those people who advertise perfume.”

“Me, too,” he nods. The last piece of chicken goes in his mouth (nooooooooo from the depths of my insides) and the Styrofoam goes into the next trash can we approach. The trash can yaps it up and burps appreciatively. My stomach is jealous and hates me.

But still, it, along with everything else, loves me for keeping myself skinny.

For the rest of the day I am surprised that I actually enjoy myself. We store-hop into Hot Topic, PacSun, Abercrombie, and he actually pays for a lot of things I buy. Of course I protest, but he dismisses me forcefully. The NFS Carbon poster outside of Game Stop lures us in and we play for free on the machine behind the glass case until the owner kicks us out. It was all a mismatch of activities we did, but by the end, bearing bags with new clothes and sipping a coffee frap that I convinced him I should pay for, I don’t think I’ve ever had a better day in my life.

We are sitting across from each other back in the food court at four o’clock at the spindly plastic tables. I am staring down shoppers as they pass, making random comments to Robin.

“I think that chick used to have red hair,” I say, gesturing my chin upwards towards a pale, freckly girl dressed in all black with pitch-colored hair and power-walking into Papaya.

He cocks an eyebrow at me. “What makes you think that?”

“Her skin tone doesn’t match her hair color,” I respond, aware that he is eyeing my own dyed hair. “And only redheads have that signature white skin and green eyes.”

“Probably.” Robin thinks. “I used to have a girlfriend who was a redhead.”

“What was that like?”

He shrugs. “I don’t remember.”

I lift one shoulder and let it drop, flicking the straw on my frap. “Alright then.”

“It’s not like that, Sara,” he continues. “We just hung out a lot at a summer camp back in sixth grade. You know, we were all young and had no idea what significant others are. When I got back here, I didn’t bother talking to her much.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” I say, keeping my tone even. This information isn’t provoking me, but it is beginning to irk me.

“Yeah, I do, if we’re going out,” he retorts.

My world tilts. My eyes flicker up from staring at the edge of the plastic rim where whipped cream had collected. Robin is watching me earnestly. I almost laugh with relief.

“So,” I deadpan. I’m blank.

“That is, only if you want to be,” he amends quickly.

I am just as fast reassuring him. “Yeah. I do. You have no idea.” And I am laughing with weak knees and giddy pleasure. I feel him watching me and that makes me laugh even harder. I must look like a maniac.

Robin has an amused expression lifting his features. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m totally, completely fine.” The sugar must be getting to me. I haven’t had this much at one time in a while. The cup is empty and I nudge it to the side.

My phone vibrates. I check the lit-up display and find a text from Rachel.

XXXXXXX6944: WHERE ARE YOU?! GIG STARTS AT FIVE!

Oh, crap. I forgot about the low-key acoustic band playing at Barnes and Nobles, the one right down the street from my house. Rachel and I are going and it is already four twenty-three. She’s probably waiting for me at my house to get ready.

“I’m so sorry, I have to go,” I say, unmoving.

“What happened?” He puts together the fact that I have to leave after I get a text.

“I’m meeting up with Rachel and we’re going to see Skeleton Keys at Barnes and Nobles,” I explain, gathering my bags.

Robin smiles. “I’d rather you not leave, but okay. I’ll see you Monday?”

“Definitely.” We part, him heading back towards the inner mall shops and me out the door.