Page 26 of Mixed Signals
“I thought you brought me a snack.”
I stare at Oliver. “You thought I brought you a snack?”
I like to think I’m a patient person. Kind, for the most part. But I’ve never had more dark and dangerous thoughts than I’ve had this week. When it feels like my family, the population of the high school, the skate rink owner, and the rest of the living world is conspiring against me.
Oliver takes two steps away from the skate rental counter.
“Caleb.” Layla calls to me from her bench, one skate on her foot and the other in her hand. She picked a pair with tiny skulls and crossbones, bright pink laces and neon purple wheels.
They suit her.
I pick up my skates. Mine have dancing hot dogs, because of course they do. I narrow my eyes at Oliver. “You owe me two favors now. Three if we include the eggplant parmesan.”
He swallows and nods nervously. “You got it, man. Enjoy your skate.”
I don’t bother responding. I’d enjoy my skate more if it were the private rink I asked for, and I could try and hold Layla’s hand without Jeremy Roughman bellowing at me from the other side of the room. Now I’m going to have to dodge my third period Spanish class and yell over the Cupid Shuffle.
I collapse in the seat next to Layla. “I’m really sorry.”
I’m supposed to be showing her how good things can be. Not giving her incentive to dive right back into the dating pool.
“They have nachos here, Caleb.” She slips her foot into her other skate and fumbles with the laces. I nudge her hand away and prop her ankle up against my knee, untangling the knot of string. She exhales a shaky breath and watches me. “Your score is holding strong.”
I tug and tighten her laces until they’re perfect, focusing on the task instead of my hand looped around the bare skin of her ankle to hold her steady. “That’s good, I guess.”
Layla nudges me with her perfectly tied skate. “Seriously, Caleb. Everything is great. Let’s have some fun, okay?”
Unfortunately for me, I can’t quite figure out how to do that.
I don’t know who to blame. Oliver, for not doing exactly what I told him to do. Or myself, for thinking this was a good idea in the first place.
Or Jeremy, for skating approximately three feet behind me and Layla the entire time, offering his colorful commentary and suggestions.
“My dude, you have to balance.Balance.It’s four wheels under your foot, I don’t understand why this is so difficult for you.”
I ignore him and lever myself into a seated position, arms hung loosely over my knees. Layla skids to a stop in front of me and then backtracks to where I’m splayed on the floor.
Again.
“Why did you bring me to a skating rink if you don’t know how to skate?” Layla asks, trying to help me up. But she’s laughing too hard and my feet slip out from under me every time I get a bit of leverage, like one of those cartoon characters stuck in place, legs spinning beneath them.
“I thought it would be easy to figure out,” I pant, slapping her hands away and rolling onto my side. I brace myself on my knees and try to find my balance. I might stay down here. Live out my days on this greasy, shiny floor.
I’m going to have bruises on my ass for the next two to five years. I’ll consider it a win if I make it out of this rink alive. Death, frankly, sounds more appealing than this continued humiliation.
“Use your arms,” Jeremy bellows from the opposite side of the rink, his hands cupped around his mouth. “It’s about baaaaalance.”
Christ.
I ignore him and tilt my head towards Layla. Layla who is standing perfectly balanced—perfectly still—at my side.
“I read online that roller skating rinks are nostalgic and romantic,” I confess. In retrospect, I probably spent way too much time on this idea. “I thought you’d like it.”
A kid from my third period Spanish class skates a little too close to my fanned fingers and I curl them into fists. Somewhere in the distance, there’s a chant beginning among my students.Get up, Señor Alvarez. Get up.
Wonderful.
“I do like it.”
