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Authors: Caroline B. Cooney
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sneakers. I was so upset with myself I could hardly tie the dumb things. Ted watched me with a sort of awed appreciation for anyone so uncoordinated that she couldn’t even tie a bow on her sneakers.
I waited for him to make some sort of snide remark like did I require assistance in getting dressed each morning, but he didn’t. He just gave me a rather determined smile. I could just hear his mother Hildegarde telling him if you’re going to have to do something anyway, best to do it with a cheerful smile. Mother’s well-trained boy Ted gave me a glued-on, cheerful smile.
We climbed into Ted’s car. After I accidentally distributed his neatly stacked pile of my music all over the floor of the front seat, and after we had fished my Bach out from under his gas pedal, and after he had helped me figure out all over again how to fix his crazy seat belt, I was definitely ready for an early death.
Here I had spent my whole silly life learning how to impress people with all my super skills, and the one boy I wanted to impress…you’d have thought my body consisted of old Jell-O.
“Well, I think I’ve got enough photographs,” said Ted brightly. “All we need now is a place to talk. You want to go to the Burger Chef or Howard Johnson’s on the turnpike and sit in a booth?”
I had no money on me. This wasn’t exactly a date, and I had no idea if Ted planned to pay. I’d been so hard on him already—literally—that I didn’t feel up to asking what the financial arrangements were on this. I rubbed my skull where it still ached from whacking his.
Ted, no doubt, was regretting he had ever gotten started on this interview. He was probably thinking it was truly miraculous that a girl could be a musician and still be a completely uncoordinated jerk. He had probably fastened my seat belt so that he wouldn’t have to worry about me writhing all over the seat every time he made a left turn.
The more I looked at Ted, the cuter I thought he was. Sort of solid-looking. Friendly. The sort of guy you could snuggle up to and tell your troubles to and move on from those to…
“Don’t worry,” said Ted, “the newspaper pays for it. We can go anywhere and it won’t cost either of us a cent.” He beamed at me. Clearly the only decent thing about our whole afternoon together was that he didn’t have to pay for it. “Okay,” I said wearily, “then let’s go to Howard Johnson’s.”
I was starving. Daddy and I eat at Burger Chef all the time. I might as well calm my growling stomach and my aching head with a new menu.
“I’d take you to my house,” said Ted, “except that there’s never any food there. We all work and nobody ever gets around to doing a big grocery shopping, so we never have more than enough food for the very next meal. If a war ever comes, we’ll be the ones who starve first because all we’ll have in the house is a bar of soap and a jar of pickles.”
I burst out laughing. A boy with a mixed-up household just like mine. Well…no, really, not at all like mine. Starving is probably my father’s greatest fear. Our house is stuffed beyond belief with canned ravioli and frozen waffles. “I’ll pass on your house then,” I told him.
And spent the rest of the drive scolding myself for saying that. Ted might think I meant I’d skip him, not his jar of pickles.
When we got to HoJo’s, I shoveled my stuff out of my lap and tried to plan how to remove myself from the seat belt without falling on the pavement. Ted walked around the car to open the door for me. “Leave all your garbage there,” he said, properly identifying my belongings. “I’ll lock the car.”
Just in case I was flattered that he was worried about my possessions, he added, “After all, my camera is in there.”
Ted helped me out of the car. Now I don’t normally require help anywhere and even if I did, nobody has ever offered it. Can you imagine Ralph asking me if he could open the door for me? Unless the door smashed
I waited for him to make some sort of snide remark like did I require assistance in getting dressed each morning, but he didn’t. He just gave me a rather determined smile. I could just hear his mother Hildegarde telling him if you’re going to have to do something anyway, best to do it with a cheerful smile. Mother’s well-trained boy Ted gave me a glued-on, cheerful smile.
We climbed into Ted’s car. After I accidentally distributed his neatly stacked pile of my music all over the floor of the front seat, and after we had fished my Bach out from under his gas pedal, and after he had helped me figure out all over again how to fix his crazy seat belt, I was definitely ready for an early death.
Here I had spent my whole silly life learning how to impress people with all my super skills, and the one boy I wanted to impress…you’d have thought my body consisted of old Jell-O.
“Well, I think I’ve got enough photographs,” said Ted brightly. “All we need now is a place to talk. You want to go to the Burger Chef or Howard Johnson’s on the turnpike and sit in a booth?”
I had no money on me. This wasn’t exactly a date, and I had no idea if Ted planned to pay. I’d been so hard on him already—literally—that I didn’t feel up to asking what the financial arrangements were on this. I rubbed my skull where it still ached from whacking his.
Ted, no doubt, was regretting he had ever gotten started on this interview. He was probably thinking it was truly miraculous that a girl could be a musician and still be a completely uncoordinated jerk. He had probably fastened my seat belt so that he wouldn’t have to worry about me writhing all over the seat every time he made a left turn.
The more I looked at Ted, the cuter I thought he was. Sort of solid-looking. Friendly. The sort of guy you could snuggle up to and tell your troubles to and move on from those to…
“Don’t worry,” said Ted, “the newspaper pays for it. We can go anywhere and it won’t cost either of us a cent.” He beamed at me. Clearly the only decent thing about our whole afternoon together was that he didn’t have to pay for it. “Okay,” I said wearily, “then let’s go to Howard Johnson’s.”
I was starving. Daddy and I eat at Burger Chef all the time. I might as well calm my growling stomach and my aching head with a new menu.
“I’d take you to my house,” said Ted, “except that there’s never any food there. We all work and nobody ever gets around to doing a big grocery shopping, so we never have more than enough food for the very next meal. If a war ever comes, we’ll be the ones who starve first because all we’ll have in the house is a bar of soap and a jar of pickles.”
I burst out laughing. A boy with a mixed-up household just like mine. Well…no, really, not at all like mine. Starving is probably my father’s greatest fear. Our house is stuffed beyond belief with canned ravioli and frozen waffles. “I’ll pass on your house then,” I told him.
And spent the rest of the drive scolding myself for saying that. Ted might think I meant I’d skip him, not his jar of pickles.
When we got to HoJo’s, I shoveled my stuff out of my lap and tried to plan how to remove myself from the seat belt without falling on the pavement. Ted walked around the car to open the door for me. “Leave all your garbage there,” he said, properly identifying my belongings. “I’ll lock the car.”
Just in case I was flattered that he was worried about my possessions, he added, “After all, my camera is in there.”
Ted helped me out of the car. Now I don’t normally require help anywhere and even if I did, nobody has ever offered it. Can you imagine Ralph asking me if he could open the door for me? Unless the door smashed
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