Teenage Dirtbag

Ch. 11

The following week at school went by quickly. I wasn't quite sure yet how Marcel felt about public displays of affection, but everyday at the lunch he would hold my hand under the table.

            Friday as we were walking to the front doors he stopped before going off down the side walk, "do you have any plans tomorrow," he asked.

            "Do I ever have any plans," I responded.

            "Come over tomorrow," he asked, his face hopeful.

            "I'll have my mom drop me off, what time?"

            "Eleven sound good?"

            "Yes," I answered smiling at him, "see you in the morning."

            "Bye," he said, turning and heading down the sidewalk.

            With a skip in my step I got into the car and put my seatbelt on under my mothers gaze. "How's the boyfriend," she asked, a large smile on her face.

            "He's fine," I answered as she pulled away from the school.

            "When is he coming over again," she asked.

            "I'm not sure, but he asked me to come over tomorrow, so think I could get a ride at like eleven," I asked hopefully.

            "I think that can be arranged," she said, parking the car in front of the house, "do you have any homework this weekend?"

            "Just I bit," I answered as we got out of the car.

            "Well get your homework done tonight and I'll make sure you get there on time tomorrow. Deal?"

            "Deal," I replied smiling. As we got inside I went upstairs with my backpack and spread my homework out over my bed. Getting comfortable I looked over at the photo on my nightstand, it was only a few years old but I felt I looked really different. More grown up now, I imagined my Dad probably looked the same. Maybe some grey hair's now since a few years had passed.

            He'd always said he would hate any boy I ever brought home, but as I thought of Marcel I knew if he were around to meet him, he'd love him. Marcel treated me like he would've wanted. Maybe someday, but I pushed that thought out of my head. Writing an English essay is hard enough without day-dreaming about your Dad suddenly coming back into your life to meet your boyfriend.

            By the time I'd packed everything back into my backpack, my Mom was calling me down to dinner. It had only been a week since I'd briefly told Marcel about my Dad and things being rough between my Mom and I, but I really had been trying to be more open with her. Spending more time with her, talking with her. She seemed happier, and that made me happy.