Just a Freak

"You have to."

"No."

"Please, Riley."

"No. I'm not wearing it."

I thought my clothing battles would be kaput once that fucking wedding was over.

But no.

No, no, no, no, no.

Mom had to find a guy.

That she really liked.

And she had to invite him to dinner.

To a fancy restaurant.

And make me and Nana come along.

God!

I told her that fancy restaurants don't care about fancy clothes.

She told me they did.

And now she wants me to wear this little blue party dress thing.

Ugh.

Fine.

I'll wear the goddamn dress.

But just this once.

And I brought a sweatshirt to wear over it.

Mom got all dolled up, with lipstick and curly hair and this sleek white dress.

Who wears white when they eat?

It'll stain; I swear it.

The restauraunt was fancy.

It had little plants all over the place and some dude playing the piano and I could hear the tinkling sound of a water fountain somewhere.

I hate those things. Everytime I hear one it always makes me feel like I have to pee.

The guy met us there.

He was kind of stocky, but he had all of his hair, which was pretty suprising.

His face got all scrunched up when he laughed. It's weird.

"So, kiddo, what kind of stuff do you like to do?" He asked me, with his scrunchy smiley face.

I took a sip from my Coke (from a bendy straw) and told him that my friends and I got together every weekend to a stage a coup.

He raised his eyebrows and said, "Now, how do you know what that means?"

"Exactly," I said.

Mom cleared her throat and said, "She's joking."

"I know," He said.

His name was Ben Diller. Mom told me to call him Mr. Diller, but he told me to call him Ben.

I decided to call him Mr. Ben.

That way, everyone's happy.

Whoop-dee-doo.

Mom ordered a salad.

Nana ordered soup.

Mr. Ben ordered filet mignon.

This dude must be rich.

Either that or stupid and desperate. And hungry.

Anyway, I decided to splurge and get this totally wicked awesome entree that had like pasta and this awesome white sauce and all these little shrimps all over the place.

Fucking sweet, right?

I think it was a French restaurant, because they were all speaking French.

I don't think my dish was French, though. Weird.

Mr. Ben spoke in French to order our meals.

Can't these waiters speak English?

Seriously.

Like, if they can't speak English why not get some classes?

I have no idea.

But, like I told you, that fricking fountain made me have to pee.

So did the Coke.

So I went over the that guy who stands behind the podium and seats people and asked where the bathroom is.

"La salle de bains?"

What the fuck?

"Dude, I have to pee. Cut the shit and speak English."

He blinked at me in surprise and stuttered, "It's, uh, it's down the hall."

He looked kind of crestfallen afterwards. I think I hurt his feelings.

Boo-hoo.

Holy crap.

The bathroom had couches in it and stuff. It was crazy.

And these little towelettes that had the name of the place monogrammed on them.

And mints! Little wrapped up mints on the same table that had the towelettes.

I filled my pockets.

Granted I was wearing my sweatshirt.

Stupid dress didn't have pockets.

Guess what?

Mom stained her dress.

A little drop of salad dressing.

I knew it.

On the car ride home Mom said how well it went and how she wanted to see Mr. Ben again and yadda yadda yadda.

Went up to my room, tore that dress off, and stuffed it in the very deepest, darkest corner of my closet.

Changed into sweatpants and a tee-shrit.

Lovely.