Shuffle, Repeat(21)
It’s a piece of the conversation we just had. A piece that keeps repeating over and over in the playlist of my mind.
It’s the part when Oliver told me in no uncertain terms that he does not, in fact, find me shockingly unattractive.
I know, I know.
High praise, indeed.
? ? ?
“Frankly, I’m shocked,” Shaun tells me as we push our way through the main lobby.
“Stop it. It’s not that shocking.”
“?‘Inane,’ you’ve called them.” He holds open one of the doors for me to walk through. “?‘Ludicrous.’ ‘Gratuitous.’?”
“All right, all right. So I haven’t always been awash in compliments. Cut me some slack.”
“?‘A parade of hormonal insecurity swathed in violence and unnecessary ceremony.’?” Shaun says it with air quotes and all.
“A girl’s allowed to change her mind,” I tell him. “Especially about something as insubstantial as football. Will you be my date on Friday?”
Shaun makes a big show of considering it, but of course he says yes. “Only because Kirk’s not around.”
“How’s that going, anyway?” We round the corner of the school and head toward the parking lot. “Have you talked to him?”
“Only every day,” Shaun says. “I don’t screw around when I’m in love.”
After that, I go quiet.
I have a new tactic to allay the agony of Oliver’s horrendous music: conversation. I’ve discovered that if we talk on the way to school, he turns the music down low, so I can barely hear the atrocity (two songs to my one that is currently on the playlist).
“You’re actually nervous?” I ask in response to his comment. “I thought you people lived for Friday nights.”
“We people do,” he says, emphasizing to let me know what he thinks of my painting all athletes with the same brush.
But let’s be honest: the brush fits.
“It’s still a lot of pressure,” Oliver explains. “If you fumble or something, there are literally hundreds of people watching.”
“Yeah, but if you score a home run—”
“Touchdown.”
“—then everyone cheers.”
“That part isn’t so bad.” Oliver changes topic. “Do you know our moms are going out tomorrow?”
“Yeah. There’s a new restaurant they want to try.”
“Do you think they talk about us?”
That makes me laugh. “God, what else would they have to talk about?”
“Well, I’m sure your mother is a font of fascinating debate. My mom on the other hand…I don’t know. Meat loaf recipes? The original Kinkade my dad bought her?”
“Your dad bought her a mixer?”
“That’s a KitchenAid. Kinkade is an artist.”
“Oh.” It’s a little embarrassing. After all, my mother is an artist, too. I should know these things. Also, Oliver has this big smile on his face because he’s oh so amused at my lack of knowledge about the Fancy Ways of life.
Oliver sees my look. He reaches over and pats my leg. “Don’t worry. You’re cooler for not knowing Kinkade. Strip malls carry his work in bulk. Your mom’s art is authentic. No mass productions, no marketing campaigns. I like her stuff.”
“What do you know about my mom’s work?”
“You do realize we’ve known each other since birth, right?”
“I guess. I just…” I stop and think about it. I suppose I do know quite a bit about Oliver’s family. His mom, Marley, is my mom’s best friend. His father, Bryant, is a developer of many gated communities, including fancy-schmancy Flaggstone Lakes, where they all live. His older brother, Owen, is now in college in North Carolina.
“What?” Oliver asks.
“I’m surprised you like my mom’s art,” I tell him. “Especially given your terrible taste in music.”
? ? ?
Shaun wends his hatchback through throngs of students wielding giant foam fingers and parents carrying hand-painted signs. We find a parking space and he turns to me with a face that is all kinds of serious. “You love me, right?”
“Definitely.”
“Here’s the thing. I’m different at football games than I am with you and Darbs and Lily.”
“I know, I know. You’re a rainbow.”
“Such a rainbow.” Shaun pulls off his hat to reveal a giant mop of red-and-blue hair.
I gawk at him. It’s supremely hideous. “Please tell me that’s a wig.”
“It’s a wig. Isn’t it fantastic?”
It takes me a second to find the words. “It definitely shows school spirit.”
“Exactly,” says Shaun. “On Friday nights, I have school spirit.”
I look down at my own outfit: black tunic over leggings, high-top Chucks. Decidedly not spirited. “I can live with that.”
At the gate, a twenty-something security guard rifles through my messenger bag. “What are you looking for?” I ask him.
“Drugs. Booze.”
“I don’t have either of those.”
“Cool.” He waves me through.