On Thin Ice
The doorbell rings, and I amble towards the knocking that soon follows. I was regretting this night all week, but the guy deserves a chance, right? After all, we kind of knew each other from Math Club in high school, and going out for a night a couple weeks before we each leave for school can't be that bad.
As I pass my mom in the front room adjacent to the entryway she reminds me in hushed tones, "Your dad's out camping this weekend so you can tell Colton I need you to be home earlier tonight, if you want." Wonderful, all-knowing, rule-making Mother; I'm not ashamed at all that I still use her to get me out of some unwanted situations.
"Thanks," I whisper back as my right hand tentatively turns the knob and keeps turning even after the latch is completely free. There's Colton, staring at me with his thinning prickly eyebrows, eyes that look like they belong to a rabid squirrel, large lips that can't hold another ounce of spit before qualifying as drool, and dark blonde dandelion hair--sticking out in every direction, ready to be blown off his head with the first sign of wind. I give him a quick hug, trying to decide if this is better than having to look at him. Definitely not: the hairs on my back slowly rise as I feel him breathing down my neck.
"Where do you want to eat dinner?" Colton asks as we climb into his blue Mustang.
"Anywhere is fine with me. Is there something that you haven't had in a while that sounds good to you?" I ask, trying to be a good date.
"No. You decide."
So, he's going to be one of those guys. Well then, I will be that girl. "We'll eat at Rome's Pizza," I say with authority. He starts the engine, and we're off. At least I think we are. It seems as if twenty minutes pass by the time we exit my neighborhood that's not even a quarter of a mile in diameter. Alright, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt; it was probably ten minutes. Regardless, a slow driver is a slow driver and I can't stand that in any situation--especially if the vehicle is a Mustang!
By the time we finally get onto some real roads, the conversation is completely dead. It takes all of five minutes to ask the usual "where are you planning on going to school in the fall," "what are you studying," "when are you leaving," etc. Maybe I'm a little bitter in deciding that since I had to choose where dinner would be, he would have to make conversation. Maybe he is thinking that since he is driving I should direct the flow of dialogue; whatever the case, nothing more is said until we are walking into the pizza place.
"Do you want to get personal pizzas or split one big one?" Colton asks while we stare at the menu on the back wall.
"Separate." There is no hesitation in my answer.
We sit down, waiting impatiently for our food to be brought out. Colton starts giving me a brief history of Rome's Pizza, the restaurant, and then branches off to how many there are in the city, who owns them, and what the family is like. Even when I interrupt him to tell him that my best friend's family is neighbors with the owners, he continues on, ignoring my comment, telling me everything about them. Trust me, I know, I think to myself. I wanted to date their son whose little brother is buddies with my best friend's younger brother. I've paid attention to this place and the owners. Our food is served, and I wonder if I should be polite and use a fork and knife to eat my pizza as I stare at the steaming pepperonis. I look up and see Colton, who almost causes me to get sick enough to have a few mystery toppings on my pizza. One by one he picks up pieces and strips of chicken, bacon, brisket, other meat-lover's chunks, and drops then into his Grand Canyon-sized mouth like the claws from and arcade room that drops stuffed animals in the winner's grab-hole. Before I can look away, the blood-red tomato sauce dribbles down his fingers and out the sides of his mouth as he plunges into his pizza to terrorize another innocent piece of meat. Never mind. Obviously he doesn't care if I eat this with my toes.
We finish our food and both stare the clock down with dagger eyes as if threatening it to move faster. Realizing there is a good half hour before the ice-skating rink five miles down the road opens, I start looking at the walls for anything that I can bring up to break the silence. Out of complete boredom I even start asking the same questions we already went over in the car, but try out how many different ways I can reword them.
"Ready?" Colton asks as I'm already half way out of my seat.
"Sure!" Finally--a change of scenery and possibly more conversation opportunities.
We arrive at the Ice Center and Colton brings out his personal skates. Apparently he was an amazing hockey player back in the day. I lace my rentals up, and we slide onto the slick ice.
"My favorite thing to do while ice skating is to play tag," Colton informs me. Perfect. I can play tag on ice and I won't have to talk to him.
"You're it!" I yell as I smack his left shoulder and skate off, expecting a hit in return. But it never comes. As I search the ice, I find Colton on the complete opposite side of the rink in his own world. Even when skating next to him, he doesn't seem to notice me. There is no way I am going to skate unnoticed by his side, so I slow my pace and let him glide on in front of me.
After skating alone for thirty or so minutes, Colton, my date, finally arrives at my side. "Hey, there are some kids over there that are playing tag, is it cool if I play too?"
What am I, your mother? "Yeah--"
"Thanks! Bye!" And there he goes before I can add, "I'll come too." And I'm back to circling the rink, completely surrounded by 10-15 year olds.
After two hours pass, I can't handle it any longer. My feet and ankles ache from the plastic skates, I'm bored to tears, and my date continues to ditch me for ten-year-olds. I leave to go to the bathroom--anything to get off the ice for a bit--and come across the doors leading to freedom. I can't, I think, that's so not classy. Not like he has room to talk, I argue with myself. I do have a friend that lives in the apartment complex across the street... I stand there for a good ten minutes as wafts of fresh air tickle my nose hairs with the opening and closing doors, until I hear a voice that scratches my ear drums.
"There you are. I was wondering where you went." It's Colton, of course.
"Yup, just had to go to the bathroom. Want to leave and get Sonic drinks or something?" I will give anything to leave at this point; if he wants my first child, it's his.
"Well, the rink closes in like an hour and a half. We can go after." And so we are back on the ice. He joins the game again with his new friends. This time I try to be involved by tagging one of the kids, but just like the first time I tried to kick off a game, I end up alone; skating, skating, skating, and going around and around and around the rink with nothing changing.
At 9:55 p.m. Colton finally appears at my side. "I have to be home by 10:00 because my dad is out camping and my mom doesn't want to wait up late for me. Sorry I didn't tell you earlier."
"That's OK," Colton says. "The rink closes in five minutes anyway. We'll skate for a few more minutes and then leave."
The last minute swoops around the oval rink, and Colton and I end up racing towards the exit, the finish line for the night's long and dragging battle. As I near the opening, I am too late in realizing that I can't stop as quickly as I can get up and go. Crash! Right into the wall, leaving a gash and throbbing stiffness in my right pinky finger. This is just peachy. I walk up to the worker that takes the skates and ask for a band-aid, but to my dismay, they don't have one. I'm wearing white and there is no way I am going to smudge blood on my sleeves.
"A band-aid?" What do you need that for?" Colton asks. I show him my poor pinky and tell him what happened. "Well, that's because on ice there is less friction than on other surfaces, so sometimes it can be harder to stop." All I can do is gawk in unbelief at this comment. Thank you for that eye-opening science lesson. Who would have known that I had missed out on all the science class opportunities, not only offered, but required, in thirteen years of grade-school?
Finally we get back in the car, my pinky still refusing my attempts to move it. I blankly stare at my hands resting in my lap, not even caring if I'm being polite anymore, until we come to a stop and park with fluorescent lights and terrible 60's music surrounding us--Sonic.
"Colton, I have to be home--like ten minutes ago," I remind him, completely annoyed.
"This won't take very long. What do you want to drink?" I give him my order and snap my fingers at him when he tries to turn the car off, hinting to stay longer. As soon as we get our drinks, I point to my neighborhood, just across the street. The tension only gets worse with every rotation of the tires. We are driving literally 5 miles per hour down my street, and I consider for a moment just opening the door and jumping out. His foot probably isn't even on the gas; the engine is most likely just pulling us forward. It's obvious that Colton has something to say but is reluctant to spit it out. We pull into the driveway and I immediately reach for the door handle that will release me from this prison.
"Wait, I want to tell you something. I want you to know that I had a really great time tonight. I've only ever had a crush on three girls in my life and you are one of them. I've liked you for a long time and have wanted to go out with you for a while now." He completely pours his heart out to me; he's a giant pitcher of pink lemonade, and I am a sippy-cup with the lid still on. It is a complete mess. First of all, why don't you tell all your new skating friends that you had a great night? How can you even say you thought tonight was great? Second, how can you have the nerve to say that to me? When have I given the slightest hint that I like you back? That's it! No more pity dates.
Completely dumb-founded, I have only one choice. "Thanks, I'm flattered," I respond, and leave without another word.
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