As I drove, I glanced at Robert now and then through the rearview mirror. He stared sightlessly out the window, lips puckered and sagging at the corners. I could imagine the thoughts banging about his adolescent head. Dreams of hitting a home run to the cheers of his teammates, of leaping to his daddy's aid last night and sinking a fist into Trent Baxter's well-deserving gut.
Our phone shrilled as we entered the house. It was Grandma Westerdahl, announcing that she'd waited long enough to talk to Daddy. “We've just come back from the game,” I said, “and he's right behind me. Can you wait a minute?” No trying to rescue him this time. A perverse part of me wanted to witness his having to defend Katherine to his mother-in-law in her presence.
Of course, Daddy found a way to shield Katherine from the storm. He took the call in his bedroom. I flicked her a meaningful look as he disappeared down the hallway. Slowly, she set our cooler on the kitchen table, her expression flattened and drawn. Amazingly, my heart beat one fleeting thud for her. Irritated, I turned away, hearing the orchestral burst of welcome from the computer in the family room. Robert apparently planned to drown his doldrums in a sea of dead aliens.
“Will you play a game with me?” Clarissa asked Katherine as I headed down the hall to dress for my first date.
I chose a simple orange sleeveless dress and heeled sandals. As I fiddled with my hair and put on makeup, Greg's picture smiled at me, reflected in my dresser mirror. I turned my radio on, hoping to hear “Hung Up on You,” but was disappointed. Fifteen minutes before I needed to leave, I could find no more primping to do. I sat on my bed and stared at Greg's picture. Stared and stared until fresh amazement and deep disappointment bubbled through my veins.
When you've lost a loved one, milestones in your life are bittersweet, inevitably tainted by the haunting “If only.” And so, even as I whispered aloud, “My first date, my first date,” reveling in the rhythm of the words on my tongue, a longing for Mama beat through my innermost being. Memories sprang up before me like projected slides. Mama, brushing my hair in this very room when I was thirteen. “Tell me about your first date with Daddy,” I said.
She laughed. “How many times have you heard that story, Jackie?” Never enough.
Sitting on the back deck with Mama, shelling peas, the sun warm on my arms.
Plunk.
The peas hit the large pan between our feet.
Plunk, plunk.
“On my first date, I want to go out to supper like you and Daddy did.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to sit across the table from him and look at him. You can't do that in a movie.”
Plunk.
“I'd have picked a movie,” Mama replied. “But your grandma wouldn't let me go to them.”
“Grandma didn't let you do anything.”
A winter afternoon three years ago, driving back home down a snowy Route 622 after gymnastics class. “When Daddy first took you out, what did you talk about? Was it hard to find something to say?”
Mama managed a smile in spite of her concentration on the slippery road. “I'd have talked a blue streak, but I was scared to sound too chatty, so I stayed pretty quiet. Your dad forced himself to talk so I wouldn't find him boring.”
No, I thought as I waited to leave on my first date,
Daddy forced himself to talk to keep his mind off someone else.
Had Mama known then? I wondered. Did she believe he'd stopped liking Celia Matthews? Or was she just so glad to be with him that she didn't allow herself to think about it?
I ran my palm over my bedspread, feeling the stitches, and stared at Greg's picture. Mama's first date with Daddy may not have been perfect, yet somehow over the years her memories had sifted over the imperfections like gold dust. I wanted that same gold dust now, tonight. Instead of my mama sending me off, Daddy would tell me goodbye, Katherine at his side.
Gold dust.
Greg's bruised face would remind me all evening of what Katherine had done.
Gold dust.
I would never be able to tell Mama about my first date.
Gold dust.
I left my room telling myself no matter what, I would make the most of this night.
M
y heart fluttered as I clicked up the porch steps to the Matthews' home. I felt downright strange. Never had I expected to be the one ringing the doorbell on this momentous occasion in my life. And I did not care to face Celia or her parents. Greg answered the door and my jaw slacked. His left cheek plumed reddish black, trailing all the way up to his eye. He looked bruised and battered and handsome all at once, dressed to kill in dark pants and a beige shirt, again of silk. The sapphire ring was back on his finger.
“Come.” He took my hand and pulled me into their entryway, where I stood tongue-tied, the spicy scent of his cologne filling my nostrils. Greg licked his lips, anticipation and anxiety hanging about him like a fine mist. He gave a self-conscious shrug. “Sorry I look so bad.”
“You look wonderful,” I blurted, meaning it.
Mr. Matthews appeared, Celia and her mother behind him. My insides cringed. “Jackie,” he said warmly, “so nice to see you.”
“Nice to see you too,” I replied in a small voice, forcing myself to look at him. I saw not the slightest hint of blame in his expression, nor on the faces of Celia or her mother. Instead, Celia smiled from me to Greg with a mixture of tenderness and joy, almost as if she were bestowing some kind of blessing upon us. I felt bared, spotlighted on a stage with no knowledge of my lines. I turned my eyes to the wrinkled, worn face of Mrs. Matthews. “I'm sorry about last night. Everything that happened. And Greg getting hurt. My daddy's really sorry too.”
“Well, I'm not,” Mr. Matthews declared, tilting his head back to look Greg up and down with satisfaction. “I'm right glad Greg was there to help. Think what might have happened if he hadn't been.”
“Good for
you
to say,” Greg replied teasingly. We all laughed.
“Have a good time,” Mr. Matthews said, putting a hand on Greg's shoulder and urging him toward the door. Gratitude for the man's kindness welled within me.
“Celia's father sure is nice,” I told Greg as we drove away from the house.
“They are both very good to me.”
“At least bein' at their house has been a little more quiet than bein' at mine, huh.”
I made the remark lightly enough, but Greg laid a hand on my arm. “Let's make a promise to not talk about what happens last night, okay?”
“Okay.”
We were silent for a moment.
“What did you do today?” I asked.
“Meet people. We eat lunch with Mr. and Mrs. B, and Jessie and Lee. Then we go to the Kings' house. That is already planned,” he added. “We almost don't go, but Mrs. King says come.”
I threw a glance at him, wondering what he wasn't telling me. Surely that had felt awkward. I could imagine Mrs. King making a fuss over his face. But we weren't supposed to talk about that. “Did you meet Derek?” The thought of Greg and Derek side by side almost made me laugh. Talk about night and day.
“No, he is working.” Greg paused. “He is a friend of yours?”
“Yeah. Sort of. He's . . . well, he's Derek. Kind of different.”
“Mm.” He focused on the tree-lined road. “Sorry you have to drive.”
I envisioned all the boys in Bradleyville who could be driving their daddy's cars, taking me out for the first time. Not one picture could begin to compare with this, even with my driving and Greg's wounded face. “I don't mind at all. But you haven't told me which restaurant we're going to.”
“Ah. Clayton's Place. Celia says to go there. You know it?”
I bugged my eyes at him. “Clayton's Place, you're kidding me! That's the most expensive restaurant in Albertsville. I've never been there in my life.” The restaurant had earned a reputation, and folks would drive a long distance to it for a special night out. It was known as
the
place for romance, the restaurant for making an impression, for proposing, even. Daddy and Mama had celebrated their last anniversary during her healthy days at Clayton's Place.
“That is why I take you,” Greg replied grandly. “We are lucky to get in. They give me a table because they have a . . .”
“Cancellation?”
“Yes.” He flicked his eyes upward. “Cancellation.”
We grinned at each other.
“The restaurant makes you happy?” he asked.
“Greg,” I gushed, “just being with
you
makes me happy.” Instantly, I felt my cheeks flush.
Great, Jackie, real demure.
Greg leaned toward me, touched my shoulder. “And I am happy being with you.”
Well. What to say to that. Maybe the world wasn't so upside down after all.
“Are you worried about going out? I mean, what if someone recognizes you?”
Greg watched the winding road straighten like a pulled ribbon beneath our wheels. A breeze through his cracked-open window riffed the sleeve of his shirt. “People do know us here in the States. That surprises me. We are known in Athens, as I tell you. But that's home. Even the people I don't knowâthey are like friends to me because they are from my city. Here, it feels different when people know me.”
“Girls, you mean.”
“Mostly.” He sounded almost apologetic.
The thought irritated me more than it should have. But, glory, fine time to hear that our date could be interrupted by a drooling slew of girls. Most of whom were no doubt prettier than I was. For some reason I pictured Katherine at my age, how forward and charming she'd have been to encounter some singing star in a restaurant. That thought
really
irritated me.
“I should talk before about this,” Greg said. Had I spoken aloud? “But we have no chance. Albertsville is not a big city, right? And I ask for a table in the back.”
“Mm.” We came up behind a slow-moving pickup that had seen far better days. Route 622 offered few places to pass; we'd likely be stuck for a while. I tapped the steering wheel.
Greg waited for me to say something. I could feel his worry over my terseness. I worried about his being worried. “It will be okay,” I assured him. “We're hardly in New York. Girls don't expect to see you here. Especially with a bruised jaw. Oops.” I cringed. “Wasn't supposed to say that.” He smiled. “Even if someone thought she recognized you, she'd probably figure, âWow, he looks a lot like that guy from LuvRush.'”
“You mean she will not know my name?” Greg feigned disappointment.
I laughed at that. “Oh, I know! Let's make up a first name, in case someone does recognize you. Some back-hills-sounding name.”
He frowned. “What do you mean, a back-hills-sounding name?”
“A name like . . .” I thought a minute. “Willy Ray, Junior.”
“Three words? Junior is the last name?”
“No, no, it's all part of the first name. It means he's the second to be called that, and his father was first.”
“Ah, I see.” He said the name a few times under his breath. “Willy Ray, Junior; Willy Ray, Junior.” The “j” sounded like a “ts” again. It all sounded so refined in his accent that I had to laugh.
“Only you could make a back-hills name sound classy, Greg.”
He drummed his fingers against his knees, obviously pleased. “So you are not mad at me?”
“Why would I be mad at you?” I shook my head. Guys were sure hard to understand sometimes.
We rolled too close to the truck. I eased off the gas. “Mind if I turn on the radio?”
“Ah, I don't like music much.”
I threw him an “oh, ha-ha” glance and punched on my favorite station. Commercials. I turned down the volume. “You know what would be the greatest thing in the world right now? To hear âHung Up on You' with you sitting right here.”
His lips curved. “You should see the first time I hear the song on the radio. I am getting ready for school. I run out of my bedroom, yelling like a fool. âAaahhhhh!'” Greg shook his hands in the air. “My parents think something terrible happened. Mamma is making breakfast, and she pours my little brother's milk on her feet.”
I laughed with him. “Hope you helped her clean it up.”
“No. I am too busy calling Demetri.”
I couldn't imagine what that would be likeâhearing your own voice on the radio after years of dreaming about it. Well. I'd dreamed about a first date for a long time, hadn't I? Now here I was. With Greg Kostakis, no less.
Music sounded low on the radio, and I turned up the sound. A lineup of songs played, but not Greg's. Twenty minutes later we arrived at Clayton's Place. It turned out to be all that I expected, intimate, white cloths and a red rosebud in a dainty cut glass vase at every table. Couples and foursomes filled the tables near the front, with about six still empty. “You're the first ones here,” the hostess said to Greg with a smile. She looked to be in her midtwenties, with blonde hair and oh-so- straight teeth. I paid little heed to her words, watching her eyes linger on Greg's face, his cheek. Greg may have looked like he'd been in a fight, but it seemed to me all the bruises in the world couldn't hide his incredible looks. I wondered which caused her the most pause.
“First ones?” He glanced at the other filled tables.
“I mean first of the prom bunch.” She turned from Greg's puzzled expression to me. I looked down the length of my dress. I was hardly dressed for a prom. Bradleyville didn't even have such a thing. Still doesn't today. A lacking, certainly, that gives Albertsville high schoolers one more reason to look down their noses at our town.
A second later, the woman's words registered. “This is
prom
night?” I demanded, almost as if she were to blame.
“A prom night is what?” Greg asked.
The hostess smiled at him again, indulgently. “You have such a wonderful accent.” She laid down her pen. “Sorry, I was assuming. Yes, it's prom night. But you must be the reservation under âGreg.'” We nodded. “We've saved you a table in the left corner, as you requested, sir. Come right this way.” She picked up two menus and led us to our seats as I explained to Greg what a prom was. He pulled out my chair for me, then sat across the table facing the wall, his back to the room, rosebud and fancy china and silverware spread elegantly between us.