Sloppy Firsts_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [92]
Marcus hopped out of the car and didn’t even attempt to open my car door for me. Good. Again, he reminded me that this was not a date.
We walked into Helga’s lobby. Bam! Mirrors everywhere. A million Marcus-and-me’s to remind us that we were actually doing this. We were going out in public on a Saturday night—together.
"Smoking or non," growled Viola, our waitress. She intimidated me pretty well for someone who came up to my chin.
"Non," I said before Marcus had a chance.
Non-smoking. Non-date, I thought.
We slid into our booth. He took off his wool pea coat and I was made instantly happy over his decision to ditch his shirt and tie in favor of an oldie but goodie.
"Backstreet’s back?!" I asked, pointing to the boys smiling on his chest.
"What?"
"No jacket and tie?"
"Nah," he said. "That’s just for show at school."
Helga’s was decked for the holidays in the sad but well-intentioned way that diners and gas stations and other public places often are.
"Fake Christmas trees depress me," I said, pointing to a shabby evergreen with plastic, toilet-brush-like branches.
"Me too," he said. "How about fake Christmas trees spray-painted with fake snow?"
"Yes!" I said. "How about fakeXmas trees spray-painted with fake snow?"
"Yessssssss! I hate that word," he said. "Xmas."
Then we rattled off a list of things that depressed us about the holidays: pop divas who mess up holiday classics with their show-offy vocal gymnastics; fruitcake; when people don’t write anything but their names inside mass-produced greeting cards; Salvation Army bell-ringers; animatronic Nativity scenes …
"This would’ve been great to write about," I said. "Too bad I already turned in my next editorial."
"What’s the topic?" he asked.
"’Rudolph Revisited: A Red-Nosed Nerd’s Revenge.’"
"Classic," he said, nodding his head in approval.
We stopped bah-humbugging when Viola chucked our plates on the table. I poured on the ketchup and dug in.
"You eat," Marcus said, after a few minutes of face-stuffing silence.
"Yes," I mumbled in between mouthfuls of cheeseburger.
"Most girls don’t eat."
He was doing it again. Marcus was reminding me of all the other girls he’s had before me. Well, I was going to remindhim that this didn’t bother me a bit. Not one bit.
"You would know, wouldn’t you?" I said, popping a fry into my mouth. "Because you’ve datedmost girls, haven’t you?"
"Most," he said, with a sly smile. "But not all. Not yet."
I barely had time to savor these lip-smacking words when I was bitch-slapped back to reality with one shrieky Omigod!
Sara, Manda, Scotty, and Burke had just burst through the door on a gust of ice-cold air. This was my fault. I should have known they would come here on a Saturday night. There was no way Marcus and I would get out of this without being seen.
"What’s wrong?" Marcus asked.
I jerked my head in the direction of their noise.
"Why do you care?" he asked, leaning back in the booth.
Why did I care? Did I care? How could I still care what the Clueless Crew and Co. thought?
I looked at Marcus. He was sitting still, with his hands folded calmly on the table. A serene smile on his lips. He wasn’t tapping his foot or drumming his fingers on the table or flicking his lighter open and shut. Marcus wasn’t all hopped up and hyperkinetic. He was loose and relaxed in a way that I haven’t seen him since he stopped using. And then I realized that I hadn’t felt nervous around him all night either. I’d felt more comfortable in my own skin than I had, well, since Hope moved away.
So did I care about what these assholes thought? No. Let them see us. I—we—belonged here.
Too bad I didn’t get the chance to tell this to Marcus.
"Omigod!" screamed Sara so loud, I thought she’d shatter the lobby mirrors. "Look who it is! The Class Brainiac and Krispy Kreme."
All heads turned in our direction. Eight eyes on us.
"I’m still thinking she’s a dyke," said Burke.
"Puh-leeze," said Manda. "She just got tired of being the last virgin in school."
"Mutherfucker," was all Scotty had to say.
Finally,