Blaze (8 page)

“You don’t have to sound so excited.” Mark laughs. “I mean, I know you were expecting a call from this Mema-somebody…”

I cut him off, “Oh, no! I’m excited.” I cringe at my enthusiasm. “What I mean is, um… hey, what’s up?”

“You are a strange girl, Blaze.”

Is
strange
good?
“Mema’s just my grandmother,” I blurt out. “On my Dad’s side.”
Strange
cannot
be
good.

“I thought your dad moved to New York,” Mark says.

“Yeah, but his mom took my mom’s side when they split up,” I explain, wondering why I can’t seem to steer the topic away from my Mema.

“Wow, his own mother, huh? He must be a real jerk.”

“Not really,” I say quickly. “My Mema is kind of a gossipy bitch is all.”

It’s his turn to say, “Oh,” and leave it dangling awkwardly in the air.

Then we both start saying something at the same time, which is just obnoxious, and then he says, “No, it’s okay, you go ahead.” Except that I completely forgot what I was about to say—if anything—and he insists I go first since he’s going to change the topic anyway, and by now there’s such a build-up to whatever is going to be said next that I honestly can’t say anything at all. “Really, really, I mean it, please go ahead,” I insist firmly enough to finally penetrate his pretty head.

“Anyway.” He finally reboots our conversation. “I got your number off the soccer phone list and was just calling to see if you maybe wanted to exchange email addresses? We can IM or text or something.”

“That would be great!” I say, overdoing the excitement again. I hate the phone. I’ll probably have a far better chance with Mark if our communication shifts online.

“Now, what were
you
going to say?” he puts me back on the spot.

“Oh, nothing,” I claw about my mind for something interesting to talk about.

“Come on, Blaze,” Mark teases, “your turn to share.”

His tone is flirtatious, but I just can’t phone flirt back. I consider using Josh’s trick with Mema where he starts saying something and then hangs up in the middle of a sentence so she thinks they got disconnected, but I probably couldn’t pull it off. I finally grumble something about needing to call my Mema back, so Mark and I exchange information and I give an awkward, “Okay, um, well… Bye now.”

“Bye, Blaze,” Mark says, and I hang up before I can act any weirder. I hope I can redeem myself via email, but I doubt he’ll even bother writing after I acted like such a spaz on the phone.
I
am
so
not
a
phone
person.

I try to keep my mind off my laptop all through dinner and clean-up, but as soon as the kitchen is put back together I take the steps three at a time to my little mouse room to see if Mark has emailed me yet.

There are zero new emails in my inbox, which makes me feel really super stupid for envisioning a nice, long flirty letter from Mark waiting for me.
There
is
nothing
more
depressing
than
an
empty
inbox.

I open my IM to see if Amanda’s online—which, unless she’s peeing, she probably is. Even then, she once wrote me that she was using her laptop and we were “having a pisser together.” I signed off right away, which probably didn’t stop Amanda from using her laptop on the bowl, but at least it stopped her from sharing about it. I’m surprised to see she’s offline.

Terri is offline too, and I wonder if she and her sisters can maybe work out some sort of computer schedule so Amanda and I will know when she’s online. But then, Terri’s home isn’t exactly super organized, and her family members aren’t the scheduling sort. The intergalactic battle between order and chaos has clearly been decided in Terri’s household. Chaos won.

Just then, my IM notifier bleeps and a new screen name pops up.

Soccergod
: Blaze? You there?

Oh
my
god, it’s Mark! Mark is trying to contact me!
I just sit there, grinning like an idiot at my screen for a few moments before I realize that if I don’t reply he’ll think I’m ignoring him.

Blazefire22
: Hey there. Soccergod—nice screen name btw

Soccergod
: Are you implying I’m not a soccer god?

Blazefire22
: You kick the ball around just fine with the kiddies, but I’ve never seen you play against somebody your own size.

Soccergod
: We must fix that rite away. U doing anything Thurs nite?

See that, I’m much better online.

Blazefire22
: Why? You guys have a game Thursday?

Soccergod
: Why is it that nobody ever follows the soccer schedule? I’ll bet if I was on football team you’d know if there was a game on Thurs.

Blazefire22
: I still don’t know if that’s a yes or no

Soccergod
: Yes! We have a home game Thurs night, K? It starts at six and I’m thinking we can grab a slice after. You mind driving?

Blazefire22
: Sounds like fun. You need me to pick you up?

Soccergod
: Just a ride home, thanx

Blazefire22
: K – guess I’ll see you there

Soccergod
: I’ll be the guy on the field who’s awesome

Blazefire22
: I’m expecting god-like

Soccergod
: Lol! Wow, your tough

Blazefire22
: I just hope you’re better at soccer than you are at counting cows

Soccergod
: I promise I will do my best to wow you

Blazefire22
: And I promise I’ll be merciless if you don’t

Soccergod
: I’d better go practice, then. C U, Blaze.

Blazefire22
: K See you—bye

I wait, but Mark doesn’t type a final “bye.” I feel pretty confident it doesn’t matter because,
Wheeeee!!!
I scream inside my head.
I
have
a
date
with
Mark
Thursday
night!

Once my overwhelming happiness fades a smidge I get a head start on panicking. I have no idea what the heck to wear to a school soccer game, and more importantly, I realize I’ll be sitting all alone in the bleachers for a large portion of our “date.”

Right away, I send messages to Amanda and Terri begging them to come to the game portion of my date with Mark on Thursday.
And
then
please
disappear
into
thin
air
immediately
afterward
, I don’t add. I wonder if I’ll know anyone in the stands, but besides the fact that my friends list is severely limited, our school’s soccer team is not exactly known for drawing huge crowds.

And how sad is it that I can’t imagine myself showing up at a soccer game without my little brother and the horny gang of cretins with me?

I hit the mall to finally spend a bit of my accumulated fundage on a new pair of jeans for my date. Between the upcoming rendezvous with Mark and Mom trying to give me time to myself, things are definitely looking up. Even my butt got a nice lift from the new jeans swinging inside my shopping bag. They ride up in the crotch a little, but it’s totally worth it for how great they make my ass look.

As I walk past the mall’s comic book store, I’m drawn toward the yawning arched doorway with a vague notion that I could apply for some part-time work. I’m also thinking I might find a replacement for the 1987
Silver
Surfer
#2 that Mark and I were reading together. When I’d gone back down to tidy up in the daylight, I saw the cover was a little loose at the staples. I doubt it’s something my dad would even notice, but it can’t hurt to replace it with a mint copy if I find one. Dad has been bugging Mom to have me do the inventory, so he must be coming by at some point to pick up the comics. I’ve really been missing him, so that’s another part of my life that’s looking up.

The comic book store has been completely remodeled since I saw it last, with a giant talking comic bubble hanging in the center that exclaims
SECTOR
COMICS!
My dad and I visited it together only one time, and Dad walked through the place pointing out which comics were overpriced as he gave me a quick superhero education. I remember him getting into a heated Spider-Man-related argument with the guy behind the counter and I feel the tension of that interaction all over again. It’s silly, I know. I was only twelve years old; no way would anyone recognize me. Plus, I’m willing to bet they’ve had some significant staff changes over the past five years. Nonetheless, I suspend the employment idea and dart quickly in and out of the stacks, feeling like I don’t belong.

I see there’s somebody new behind the counter, and I imagine the other guy left in shame after my dad clearly bested him. Even though I’d felt bad for that guy, I remember being extra-proud to be Dad’s daughter that day. Their showdown had even attracted an audience, including a young kid around my age who’d turned to me at one point to state the obvious—“Wow, your dad is awesome.” Squinting at the guy behind the counter I realize something.

He isn’t a kid anymore.

Five years can really change a person, but I’m certain I recognize him. He’s by a rack labeled with a talk bubble that shouts
Just
In!
and he’s conversing with a portly customer wearing an oversized orange T-shirt. The crazy thing is, hanging around a comic book store all this time has somehow turned the scrawny kid with bad skin I remember into a fit and not at all bad-looking young man. His hair’s a little messy, but who could’ve imagined that underneath all that acne was a well-structured face? This is
not
your average Comic Book Guy.

“If you honestly think Thor could’ve led the Avengers better than Captain America, I have a stack of nap-wipes in mint condition I’d love to sell you.”

Then
again…

As he continues berating orange T-shirt guy, I scan the display case for a copy of the
Silver
Surfer
issue Mark and I marred. There are a number of issues in the glass case that I recognize from my dad’s oldest comics, but that series must be kept someplace else, since I don’t see any on display.

“Can I help you?” The aggressive tone catches me by surprise and sends me reeling backward into the glass case. I look up and see that Comic Book Guy has succeeded in running off the other customer and is set on making me regret entering his store. He may have adored my father, but I doubt he’ll even recognize me.

“No, I’m fine.” I back away, my bag clutched to my side. “Just looking.”

His flashing brown eyes slice me in half. He sniffs the air as if my breathing is turning all the comics yellow, and I move quickly to a bin labeled “$2.”

“Do I know you?” he asks the back of my head.

I shake it no, not looking at him, and mumble, “Never been here before.”

Thankfully, a mother with a young boy dares to enter the store at that moment. Comic Book Guy’s frustration at seeing an actual child looking at the comics takes up all his attention.

I leaf through the bin, just killing time until I can leave gracefully without seeming like I’m fleeing. My eye is drawn to a black cover punctuated with flames.
Ghost
Rider
. My namesake. I quickly leaf through and pick out all the
Ghost
Rider
s I can find. Adding them up, I count nine, so I grab an old
X-Men
just to make it an even twenty dollar’s worth.

Fortunately, as I pay, Comic Book Guy is so distracted calling out, “Ma’am
please
do
not
let him touch that,” over and over that he doesn’t get the chance to draw me into a debate of any sort. I shove the comics into my bag and walk back through the archway, happily noting that the mother gives no sign of leaving the store any time soon. When Comic Book Guy practically shouts, “Those are
not
meant for
children
!” I think I even see her give a slight smile.

• • •

Walking across the grass toward the soccer field’s rusty bleachers, I feel as if the whole world can tell that my jeans are riding uncomfortably up my crotch. There’s seriously no way to unobtrusively remove a vagina wedgie. I take a few bowlegged steps before accepting the fact that I’m in for a rough evening, crotch-wise.

There are only about twenty-odd fans spread out over the small set of rusty soccer field bleachers, which means they all turn to look at me as I step onto a creaky metal beam. I’m heading for the nice, empty spot about four rows up, but I lose my nerve and redirect my fine-looking butt to the closest empty space. Thankfully, I’ve timed my arrival so the game has already started, and the other fans quickly turn their attention back to the field.

My special skill of stalking Mark helps me spot him right away, but I don’t want to be ogling him when he looks in my direction so I peruse the fans hoping I’ll know somebody. Terri turned down my invite with a “No way. I promised myself I’d never watch soccer with you again.” But Amanda still has her sights on Stu, so she agreed to come, except she’ll be half an hour late. I debated waiting and coming with her, but I don’t want Mark to think I’m not interested. I mean, he did ask me out, and this is, after all, our first date.

I curse myself for not bringing my sketchpad so I’d at least have an interesting prop. Mark still hasn’t caught my eye, and I want to be doing something when he finally sees me. It would be too awkward to stand up and walk all the way back to Superturd to get my
Ghost
Rider
s, especially considering the denim douche I have happening.. Finally, I remember Ryan’s
Daredevil
and fish it out of my bag. I’m horrified to see I’ve rumpled the cover, but it’s still in ‘near mint’ condition. I’m pretty sure Ryan doesn’t know the difference anyway—he only started buying comics so he’d have something to talk to me about. There are too many gaps in his knowledge to believe he’s totally into superheroes, but right now I’m pretty darn happy for his charade. As well as his
Daredevil
.

Opening the comic book, I stare at it blindly while listening for a referee whistle. I’ve been to enough soccer games to know there’s always a regrouping after a whistle, and it’s a good time to look up and casually catch Mark’s eye. It takes a few tries:

Tweet!
*casual glance*
Mark’s not looking
, *duck behind comic*
Tweet!
*casual glance*
Mark’s not looking
, *duck behind comic*
Tweet!
*casual glance*
Mark’s not looking
, *duck behind comic*

Finally, after a particularly long
Tweeeeet!
when I give my *casual glance* Mark happens to be looking toward the stands. I lower my comic shield to my lap and am rewarded when he smiles and waves at me. I wave back and say “Hey there! Hello!” half to myself, since he is much too far away to really hear me. Then, with a horrible thought, I turn and look behind me, expecting to see a big-bosomed sex kitten like Catherine Wiggan sitting there.

But the seats behind me are empty. When I turn back, Mark is talking to a teammate, but his greeting stays with me long after Amanda comes and wedges herself beside me to watch Stu. She tries to stalk casually but lacks my extensive sideline experience and ends up flirting aggressively from the stands, which comes off as a little desperate. She flips her hair, crosses and uncrosses her legs, raises her arms, and fake laughs in Stu’s direction. She’s so “on” for so long I notice a few players glancing our way between plays. Finally I have to say something.

“Stu knows you’re here,” I hiss. “Now, the trick is to act so casual he wonders about you.”

“What are you talking about?’ Amanda gives me a fake smile. I just hold her gaze until she concedes, “Okay, okay.” She squints. “Am I
that
obvious?”

I mimic one of her fake laughs, flipping my hair and crossing my legs, which gets her laughing, which then gets me laughing. I mime her outrageous flirting some more to keep the funny coming, and she lets out a hoot in appreciation. We marvel over the fact that
I’m
giving
her
flirting advice, which sends the two of us into genuine hysterics and…

“Something funny?”

We both stop laughing.

It’s Mark. Apparently, as the two of us were busy negotiating how we should act as potential soccer-player-girlfriends-in-the-stands, the actual game played itself out, and the players are already leaving the field. Mark walked right up to us without our noticing.

“Oh!” my face goes hot, and Amanda starts scanning the field for Stu.

“You still up for grabbing a slice?” Mark asks, but before I reply he adds, “Just give me a few seconds to jump in the shower.” His sweaty hair sticks to his head in beautiful tufts, and his full-on grin gives me reassurance that we will be having an actual
date
-date from this point on.

Mark takes two strides toward the school, turns back and throws over his shoulder, “You can come too, Amanda, if you want. I’ll just catch a ride with one of the guys and meet you two at Pizza Shack.” He gives me a nod and jogs away.

Amanda and I face each other. It’s my disappointment versus her clear excitement.

“That must mean it’s a group hang-out sort of thing,” she says happily.

“That means it’s not really a date,” I say unhappily.

“Oh, come on, please be excited for me.” Amanda digs a mirror out of her purse so she can watch herself doing quick little baby-primps with her fingertips and check her over-bleached teeth. “I’ll bet Stu told him to invite me.”

Looking over her shoulder, I see Stu shoot an open-palmed wave to a petite girl from another school, who rewards him with a flash of her dimples.
I
wouldn’t bet on it.
But I can see Amanda’s mind is made up. She’s sure she’s just been invited to come along as Stu’s date, and all I’ll end up with is a whole lot of grief if I try to convince her otherwise. Amanda is definitely a hate-the-friend-who-is-just-trying-to-help kind of girl. I decide to spare myself but hope the cute brunette with the dimples isn’t coming along for pizza.

• • •

“
So
, how long have you and Stu been dating?”

The brunette answers my question with a shrug as she giggles and puts her hand possessively on Stu’s back. We’re sharing a booth at Pizza Shack, and the two of them snuggle across from me as Amanda sulks beside me—probably plotting her vengeance. Stu is only partially present, leaning deeply toward the long table filled with the rest of the soccer team. The players celebrate their win as Mark laughs heartily from the head of that table.

Amanda and I had decided to undo her obnoxious flirting with our casually-uninterested-coming-to-Pizza-Shack-late-act. But we ended up arriving too late to fit at the large, rowdy table. We claimed the closest possible booth, and it wasn’t so horrible until Stu and his cute brunette showed up and sat with us. Stu is more involved in his teammates’ conversation than ours, but his cute brunette keeps a hand perched on his arm at all times. She seems to be reveling in Amanda’s beams of hatred.

At least Mark smiles over at me from time to time. Forty minutes into our “date,” he calls out, “Hey, Stu, how’d you end up with all the pretty girls?” Which inspires his cute brunette girlfriend to launch herself onto Stu’s back and hold firm like a darling little backpack. Stu opens his arms and leans back as if all three of us belong to him.

“Don’t get any ideas, Buddy,” Mark says. “Blaze is coming home with me.” His public acknowledgement of our date feels like a radioactive nip of happiness. The only thing that keeps me from flying to him is Amanda’s crestfallen face. I doubt I’d look like a sweet backpack on Mark, anyway. More like a gangly alien attacking an unfortunate host.

I lean toward Amanda. “Don’t any of them catch your eye?” I whisper. “If Tony stopped shaving his head he’d actually be kind of cute.”