“Do you still have that card he gave all of us on the last day of school?”
“That little driver’s-license-looking thing with our picture on it? That was twenty years ago!”
“But didn’t you keep it? The Official Member of the Human Race card?”
“You remember the name of it? Wow.”
I wonder if I’m the only freak who actually kept the card. Then I start to wonder if it’s because I’m my mother’s daughter and will one day be a hoarder too, all alone in a shitty house, wearing pink sweat suits covered in stains and watching the Buy from Home Network among endless piles of carefully collected and stacked junk.
“It seemed important, that card—special. No one had ever given me anything like that before.” Admittedly, my voice sounds too defensive, maybe even like Mom’s when I start talking about getting rid of her junk.
“I might have it somewhere in a drawer or something, but—Jesus, Portia, you’re sweating. Are you sick?”
“You know what, I’m actually not feeling great. I just left my husband last night. Caught him cheating and just took off.”
Why am I bringing up Ken now?
“Last night? Like yesterday?”
“Yeah, I left him and Tampa all at once. It sort of just happened.”
“What you told me in the diner about that teenage girl—that really happened last night?”
“Yeah. It’s just sort of hitting me now. The finality of it. And someone really attacked Mr. Vernon in his classroom with a baseball bat? Really? You’re not fucking with me? That actually happened at our high school?”
“I’m sorry, but it’s true. It was in all the papers. Like I said, on TV even. I’m really surprised you hadn’t already heard. I assumed it was national news.”
I’ve never really read the papers or watched the news, mostly because it’s too depressing, as lame as that sounds.
I can’t stop shaking my head no. “That’s just so . . . so . . . so fucking fucked.”
“Yeah, it really is. But I’m worried about you now. You’re pale as a ghost.”
“Sorry. I better go home. I’ll call a cab.”
Danielle glances at her cell phone. “Chuck’s off in ten minutes. He can drive you.”
“I don’t want to put him out,” I say, remembering Lisa the waitress’s threat.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Before I know it, I’m in a shitty old pickup truck with thick white stripes across the sides and a blanket covering the presumably ripped-up bench seat, being driven home by Chuck.
The engine is making a horrid whistling noise, like it’s smoked two packs of unfiltered Camels a day for fifty years and decided to jog for the first time in decades.
“I’m sorry you’re sick,” Chuck says as we leave Oaklyn.
“I’ll be okay. I dug your record collection. Very impressive,” I add, just because he seems slightly freaked out by me, and I don’t want to make this any weirder than it already is.
“How do you like the old man’s Ford?” He pats the steering wheel.
I glance at the emblem on the dash. “Isn’t this a Chevy?”
“Yeah, it is. Can’t get anything past you. But I was just making a reference to eighties rock. And sort of hitting on you at the same time, but in a completely lame way. I suck at being cool. It’s true. I’m really terrible at women. Fuck, I’ve said some pretty weird shit already, haven’t I? Well, I’ll just shut up now and drive.”
His actually admitting to hitting on me is a surprise, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. He’s obviously a great guy, based on his interactions with Tommy, and he’s in shape—I glance over, confirm that his jeans and shirt bulge in all the right places and none of the wrong, notice his luscious biceps. He has an amazing body. And he even has kind eyes. Really kind. Turquoise, almost—they seem to shine every time oncoming headlights illuminate his face. So unlike Ken’s oily shark eyes. Chuck’s actually pretty cute in a nervous-innocent kind of way. I think about why the hell he might ask if I like “the old man’s Ford” when we’re in a Chevy. Where have I heard that phrase before, “the old man’s Ford”? Then suddenly I understand the reference. “Poison. ‘Talk Dirty to Me’? Were you really referencing that song? ‘In the old man’s Ford!’ ” I sing.
“Yeah, pretty stupid, right? I don’t actually expect you to talk dirty to me, but I wanted to impress you with my knowledge of hair metal lyrics from our shared youth, and I get nervous around exceptionally beautiful women. Really nervous, if you haven’t already noticed.”
“That’s me, right over there. The one with the retro and super-cool awning.” I point to the row home where I grew up, pretending not to have heard the words exceptionally beautiful come out of his mouth.
Chuck makes a U-turn and pulls up right in front of Mom’s home of shit.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have referenced Poison, right? Fuck Bret Michaels. Fuck that guy. So dumb to quote him. And that song, of all songs! But I’ve gone this far, so maybe would you like to have dinner with me sometime? Maybe? I promise I will not talk dirty to you.”
Wow, I think.
A man who is concerned about how I feel—aware that I might actually have preferences. Kind of nice, for a change. And flattering too—I mean, I get asked out on the first day I’m officially on the market. And by a guy who publicly sings Bon Jovi with his adorable nephew.