Like a Love Story(30)

“Uh, definitely not,” I say. We get to the beginning of Saint Mark’s. “This is where I want to live when I grow up. Right at the edge of Saint Mark’s Place. I want a small apartment overlooking the street, and in the window, I want to put a few mannequins wearing my designs. I’ll swap the designs out every month, and I’ll do seasonal displays. It won’t be, like, a store or anything. It’ll be my home, but it’ll entertain people who walk by.”

“You and Art are lucky,” he says, wistfully.

Art. Something was up with him. All that business with the backpack was weird. And he called me Frances, which he does when he feels guilty. But maybe I’m overthinking it. Or maybe he was just concerned about Stephen like I was.

Stop thinking about Art and Stephen, Judy. Enjoy this moment. That’s what Uncle Stephen would tell you to do.

“You both know who you are, what you want to be,” he says.

“What do you want to be?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I have no idea. I guess I just . . . want to go to college, so I have more time to figure it out. I like school. Well, I like class at least.”

Something strikes me. That maybe the reason Art and I know what we want to be is because we’ve been partially raised by Stephen, and we feel how fleeting time is, how quickly it can be taken away.

“So, my favorite place here, if you’re hungry, is Yaffa. It’s got really yummy tahini dressing, and the waitresses are so badass.”

He’s craning his neck, taking in this street for the first time. The leather. The piercings. The tattoo shop down the street. There’s a dog wearing pink vinyl. There’s a man in a corset. There’s a hippie smoking grass. There’s Manic Panic, my favorite place on the whole street. It’s closing soon, supposedly, which totally depresses me. I wish I could freeze time on Saint Mark’s, just so it never changes.

“That’s my favorite store,” I say. “They sell crazy hair dyes and punk things. The women who started it are so amazing, They even sang backup for Blondie.” He looks at me, confused. “Blondie. One of the best bands of all time, led by goddess Debbie Harry, who could literally wear anything and look good.”

I’m talking too much. What guy wants to hear about hair dye, and about Tish and Snooky’s backup career? What does he care?

“That restaurant sounds nice,” he says. “Should we eat?”

We go inside and sit. The waitress wears black vinyl platform shoes, a short black skirt, and a crop top. I’ve seen her before. Art and I love her look. “Isn’t that cute?” she says as she hands us menus. “The flower in your hair matches your dress. I love that.”

I love that she noticed. I’m so yellow that I feel like sunshine.

Say something charming, Judy. What do people talk about on dates? About how much they like each other?

For a long time, we say nothing. We stare at menus. We can’t even see each other.

Then he says, “Judy, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” I say.

I think he’s going to ask me something deep, but he says, “What should I order?”

I laugh. “I’m obsessed with the tahini dressing, but you can pretty much get it on the side of anything you order. Like if you get a burger and fries, dip them in the dressing. If you get salad, get extra dressing. Honestly, if you get pancakes, douse them in tahini and they’ll taste amazing.”

“Okay,” he says. “Maybe we should ask them for tahini dressing soup.”

I laugh too loud. It’s not even that funny, but I love the idea of both of us slurping salad dressing like soup.

“You have a nice smile,” he says.

“Thank you,” I say. He’s so sweet and so vulnerable, and so different from every other guy I’ve met, and without thinking, I say the first thing on my mind. “And by the way, thank you for not being a typical asshole guy.”

Idiot, Judy. Who wants to hear the word asshole on a date?

The waitress returns, and we order salads.

“Do you know that before school started, I ripped my braces out? Before that, I would never smile.”

I suddenly laugh. “Oh my God,” I say. “Did you bleed?”

“Oh, yes,” he says. He’s laughing too, now. We have found some kind of groove. “There was so much blood. And my mother was too scared to tell her new husband that her son is crazy, so she found an orthodontist in the yellow pages.”

“No!” I say.

“I’m very serious,” he says, laughing his beautiful laugh. “But I convinced them to take the braces off. Now I wear a retainer at night.”

“Aw, that’s cute,” I say.

“I haven’t told anyone about that,” he says. “Not even my stepfather or stepbrother knows.”

“Your dental secrets are all safe with me,” I say. I lean in covertly. “And by the way, I would’ve liked you even with braces.”

He smiles again. Our salads arrive. “You are too kind,” he says.

“No, seriously,” I say. “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not kind. I can be an awful, unforgiving person. I judge everyone, except Art and Stephen. I hate people.”

“You do not hate people,” he says. “You love Art and your uncle. You just said you love those ladies who sing backup.”