The Trouble Is

Chapter 15: First Dates and Soap Smells

It's a few minutes before seven when I hear the knock on the door. Skip is in the kitchen with Doug, and Mom is asleep. I grab my purse but hear the door opening before I even make it down the stairs.

"Hello, young man," Skip's voice blasts through the house. Doug leans out of the kitchen doorway in full Jesus mode with a bed sheet and sandals. I silently thank whatever god he's worshiping today that he is not wearing a crown of thorns right now.

"Hello, Mr. Palmer," East says as if he is an old pro at meeting parents. "Theo Easton. Please call me East."

Skip shakes his hand while placing his other hand on East's shoulder like an old friend. I have an immediate urge to grab East's arm and run, but he just acts as though this is all easy breezy.

"We're just going to get dinner and maybe go play mini golf or something, Mr. Palmer," he says quickly.

Skip nods slowly, taking a good look at him. I try to imagine what my dad is thinking. Maybe he's grateful that East looks normal, whatever that is. For parents, looking "normal" seems to just be a surface thing that involves appearing drug-free, clean, with not too many piercings. It also helps to have a general appearance of basic skills, like reading and writing and keeping up with a debit card.

East accomplishes this easily by looking right at Skip, not at the floor or somewhere else. Plus, the whole no piercings thing works in his favor. The next thing I know, East is smoothly taking my hand and nodding back at Skip again, like a silent "Goodbye. All is well; don't worry about your baby girl" kind of nod.

East opens the door of his truck for me, and I climb into the passenger's side. He goes around to his side and sits there for a minute, looking at me. We break into some kind of nervous laughter about everything and nothing at all. It feels good.

The truck is old . . . actually, ancient. It has these thin tires like in the movies, and the steering wheel has no padding. Where the radio should be, there is nothing but a black hole. It smells like dust and feels like it holds a secret or two tucked into the glove box or under the seat. I imagine the ghosts of girlfriends past, knowing that it's a totally unfounded thought. Sometimes I just can't help but imagine the weirdest things.

East sits back in the seat, left arm propped up on the wheel as he turns the key. He looks at me with a question on his face, eyebrows raised. When the engine turns over, he winks at me.

"You've brought good luck," he says. "It never starts on the first try."

The windows are rolled down enough to get a breeze moving around us. His left wrist rests casually on the steering wheel until he turns, and then he grips the wheel tightly with both hands. His hands are strong and already tan from the summer sun. He wears khaki shorts and a faded blue t-shirt. I'm wearing my best white shorts and a black spaghetti strap top with the necklace Katie gave me for my sixteenth birthday. It's a small, lowercase "a" on a delicate silver chain. I gave her a matching "k."

"Where exactly are we going for this dinner you mentioned to Skip?" I ask.

"Oh, I know a place," he says with a grin. "I actually know several places."

"So, which of these many places have you chosen?" I play along.

"Up ahead a bit," he says, nodding his head in an upward kind of way.

I feel my heart beat just a little faster. My back is sweating against the vinyl seat. I'm nervous. But what I am not is anxious. And I'm not counting or tapping my fingers. I'm just normal old nervous. And I'm sitting still.

"What's that smile about?" East asks.

"It's just good to be out of school," I say. "It's good to be free for a while."