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“Milo can’t help his breathing problem,” I say frankly. We’re in the lot now, and Dave’s searching for a spot; he’s focused on turning into one that’s too small for the car.
“He sounds like a pig,” Dave says distractedly.
“He does not,” I say, shaking my head. Dave turns off the car and looks at me, and it’s like a lightbulb goes on in his head. He backpedals.
“Naw, I’m just kidding,” he says. “Milo’s a good guy. I know he can’t help it. Did you know he’s getting an operation to fix it?”
“Really?”
I want him to tell me about how he and Milo go way back. I want him to tell me that they hang out sometimes, and that’s how Dave knows about the operation. I want him to redeem himself, because as much as I don’t like him, Ella does. And I don’t want her to like a bully.
Instead, Dave just nods, then opens his door. “You ready?” he asks.
No, I think. But I say…
“Can’t wait.”
Dave lets me pick the movie; I go for the expected romantic comedy. I could’ve acted cool by choosing the sci-fi thriller or the indie about the druggie race-car driver, but I haven’t seen anything in the theater in over a year and I’m taking the opportunity to girl out a little.
We sit in the middle, just off the left aisle, and Dave immediately stands again to go buy snacks. I turn off my ringtone, then alternate between rocking preshow trivia and watching the other moviegoers choose their seats. There are couples of all ages, from the cutest old man and woman I’ve ever seen to parents with an afternoon babysitter to a pair of tweeners who probably got dropped off at the mall by one of their moms. There’s a four-pack of girls from school; I’ve seen them around, but I don’t know any of their names. One of them keeps turning around and looking at me, probably because I’m with Dave, who everyone seems to know. And there’s one scruffy-looking guy sitting alone who makes me nervous until an even scruffier-looking woman sits down next to him.
There’s someone for everyone, I think to myself as Dave reappears.
“Here you go,” he says too loudly for the quiet theater.
“Thanks,” I say, taking my frozen Junior Mints and water from his outstretched hands. I rip open the candy box and start munching.
Dave eats some of his popcorn and we don’t talk for a few minutes. I wish the movie would start so the silence wouldn’t seem so obvious. Instead, Dave clears his throat.
“So you live with just your mom, right?”
“Uh-huh,” I say warily.
“What happened to your dad?” he asks, catching me off guard. It seems surprisingly bold until I remember that he and Ella have probably chatted about family before. Even still, I don’t feel like making up a story when the truth is that I don’t have a dad. The Original did—she had the happy family—but then she died and her parents contracted my mom’s lab to bring her back from the dead, and our mom stole us and said it didn’t work. End of story.
“Uh, he’s not…” I begin, my voice trailing off because I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to lie, but I can’t tell the truth. I try to think of something appropriately vague. Finally, I say, “I don’t really know what happened to him. It’s not something my mom talks about a lot.”
“Oh, okay,” he says, and I think I see a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to bring up a bad subject. Sorry.”
“It’s no big deal, I just don’t know,” I say. “It’s sort of embarrassing.”
“Sorry,” Dave says again, looking embarrassed himself. It’s amazing how he can go from looking like an overconfident ass to a sheepish kid in under ten minutes. He faces front toward the screen and eats a few handfuls of popcorn. I consider that I might be messing this up by being too… me.
What would Ella do?
“Thanks for bringing me,” I say quietly as the preview-rating screen lights our faces green. I shove doubts about Dave from my mind and just smile.
Dave smiles back at me in a way that, for maybe the first time today, feels perfectly genuine. “No,” he says, leaning in a little closer to me and lowering his voice to a more theater-appropriate volume, “thank you. You picked the movie I really wanted to see.”
When the credits roll, Dave and I leave and go to the massive two-story bookstore and browse. I make a beeline to the music section; Dave follows. As we walk the aisles, he interviews me like he’s a journalist. Ella warned me that he likes to play Twenty Questions.
“What’s your middle name?”
“Violet.”
“Pretty,” he says, nodding his approval.
