Page 25 of Mixed Signals
“Not exactly.” Last year I helped Oliver push through all of his permits to get the place up and running for the roller derby season. He tried to give me a season pass toSkate It Easyas a thank you, but I didn’t see the need. This was supposed to be the favor he owed me. “Ah, it was supposed to be closed for everyone else.”
“For just me and you?” Layla’s eyebrows raise high.
I nod. “Yup.”
She looks at me for a beat, and then back to the front of the skating rink. “I don’t think anyone has ever reserved anything for me before,” she says quietly.
Did I overdo it? I scratch roughly at the back of my head and then try to smooth my hair back down. I didn’t think a roller rink for one hour on a Friday night was that impressive. Or maybe it is, I don’t know. Maybe it’s too much.
Maybe I’m trying too hard.
“What you deserve, remember?” I ask gently.
She beams at me, the hazy summer sun making her glow.
“It is,” she says with a quiet sort of joy.
My feet move without my explicit consent—two steps forward until I can make out the faint freckles over the bridge of her nose. She tips her head back and welcomes me in her space. I nod towards the doors. “We can do something else if you want. We’ll probably see something traumatizing in there.”
“How bad could it possibly be? You’ll be with me.” Her chin lifts half an inch and I get a whiff of golden, flaky pastry dough, fresh from the oven. Cotton candy and rainbow sprinkles. Christ, she smells likedessert.
“I will be,” I assure her. “Though I guess I should have asked if you can skate.”
“I haven’t skated since I was a kid.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “But we’ll figure it out together.”
At least she’s wearing something appropriate for roller skating, if not completely inappropriate for me to maintain the guard rails around this situation. Cutoff shorts with frayed edges. A bright orange tank top and a teal scarf twisted through her cropped hair. Layers of gold necklaces that catch the light and scatter it. Living, breathing technicolor.
“We can play arcade games instead,” I try.
“The night is young. We’ll see how it goes.”
Her hand reaches for me and loops around my arm, tugging me hard towards the building. The closer we get, the louder the thumping pulse of bass pounds. I wince again. It sounds like …The Electric Slide? Maybe?
Layla opens the door and I’m overwhelmed by the smell of fried chicken and disinfectant spray. Leather and popcorn. The rink is filled with what looks like the entire population of Inglewild High. I see Jeremy cruise by, weaving in and out of the other skaters at breakneck speed. I bite back a groan.
“Please don’t evaluate me on this.”
“No promises,” Layla laughs. Her hand on my arm squeezes again. I like it probably too much. “You’re doing fine, Caleb. You didn’t try to lint roll me or whip out a blindfold from your back pocket. So far, so good.”
I look down at the top of her head in concern. “Who tried to blindfold you?”
She ignores me and moves us forward. “Let’s just go skate.”
Making our way through the crowd of teenagers, it feels like everyone is either glued to their phone, crying in clusters, or screaming at the top of their lungs. By the time we reach Oliver at the counter, I’m agitated and irritated. Oliver takes one look at me and his eyes widen.
“Oh shit,” he whispers. “You meantthisFriday.”
Layla hums and takes her skates from the top of the counter, patting me once on my hip before disappearing to find a bench for her shoe change. I probably like that too much, too. I need to find some sort of pressure relief valve in my brain if I’m getting this worked up over an arm grab and a hip pat.
I turn back to Oliver and try to keep a lid on my frustration. “Of course I meant this Friday. Those are the exact words I used. This Friday.”
“I’m sorry, dude. It’s high school night.”
I look over my shoulder and count at least seven of my students. Jeremy is already hanging over the rail waving like a lunatic. A headache starts to pound right behind my eyes to the beat ofboogie woogie, woogie.
“Did you at least remember to put the food in the oven like I asked?”
Oliver winces and scratches at the corner of his mouth. There’s a red stain by his collar that looks suspiciously like the marinara sauce from Matty’s. Specifically the marinara sauce Matty uses in his eggplant parmesan. The kind that I bought, brought over here, and stashed in the fridge behind the snack bar for dinner later.
