Scorched

Chapter Three - Martha's

RAYMOND

I debated with myself all afternoon. Did I meet Jackson in the parking lot? Or did I skip out and walk home as usual? I didn’t trust that this was a real invitation to just go hang out. I was suspicious that he may have some evil, ulterior motive. I bothered Molly about it all day.

“Look at it this way,” she said seriously, “You want to be a writer. In order to write authentically, you need diverse human experiences. So why don’t you go to Martha’s with an open mind, and enjoy an ice cream.” She gave me a hard look. “There is nothing wrong with making a new friend. Don’t read too much into it.”

“Right. Don’t read too much into it.” I told myself again as I shouldered my back pack and headed toward the exits at the end of the day. Other kids were pushing around me, almost running in their hurry to escape the halls. I felt my feet dragging as I moved toward the double doors and pushed my way out.

Jackson drove a beat-up-looking Corolla. But it's Jackson, so he makes it look cool. He was leaning on the hood waiting for me. His lips curved into a smile when he saw me approaching. “Hey. I was wondering if you were going to show.”

“Yeah,” I shrugged, “I was kinda wondering about that myself.”

He chuckled at that and moved toward the driver’s side. “Well, get in!”

I felt weird, getting into his car, but curious at the same time. A lot of kids I know have tons of junk in their cars. Fast food wrappers and empty bottles, even dirty clothes. Not Jackson. His car was exceptionally clean. It looked like it had just been vacuumed out, and there wasn’t even any dust on the dashboard. I hoped I hadn’t tracked any dirt in on my shoes. I dropped my backpack between my feet and reached for the safety belt.

“So,” he glanced at me as he backed out of his parking space and made his way out of the student parking lot. “What do you usually do after school?”

“I just go home,” I admitted, feeling lame. “Get dinner ready for my mom. Do my homework.”

“You can cook? That’s cool.”

“What about you?” He looked like he should be playing sports. He could have been a football player, or a basketball player. He was certainly tall enough.

His mouth quirked up in a half smile. “I have a job,” he said, “But I’m off today.”

“Oh yeah? Where do you work?”

“At the hospital.” He tightened his hands on the steering wheel. “I’m a janitor.”

I got the feeling that he was a little embarrassed about it. It was weird. Jackson didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would ever be embarrassed about anything. “That’s okay, it’s a job, right?” I shifted in my seat. “I wanted to get a job, but my mom is making me wait until the summer. She wants me to focus on my schoolwork.”

“It pays off, right? You are top of the class and all that.” He smiled at me again. I felt my face growing hot. I wasn’t sure if it was because he kept flashing that grin at me, or because he just passed me a compliment. At least I thought it might be a compliment. Why did this guy make me feel so confused?

After a few minutes, we arrived at Martha’s, and pulled around to the big parking lot in the back. It wasn’t too crowded yet. “You can leave your bag in the car,” he said as we climbed out. I didn’t know what to do with my hands though, since I didn’t have the straps of my backpack to hold on to. I was so awkward, I wanted to slap myself. Jackson was totally relaxed though. He swung his door closed, and then took off at a brisk, long-legged walk toward the order window. I practically had to jog to keep up with him. I felt like a dweeby side-kick chasing him around the building. He got to the window and smiled at the grey-haired lady who was taking orders.

“I’ll take a large vanilla creamie, with rainbow sprinkles,” he said, and then he put his hand on my shoulder as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “What would you like, Ray?”

“Uh,” that hand totally distracted me. Why was he touching me? Why was I so aware that he was touching me? “A medium, please. Chocolate. With chocolate sprinkles.”

I reached for my wallet, but Jackson waived me off. “I got this. My treat. Consider it p*****t for plowing you over today.”

“Oh. Okay.” Was that what this was? Was this just some kind of apology for what happened today? If so, it was totally unnecessary. He said he was sorry, and that was enough. Not that I was complaining, because… yeah, who doesn’t love ice cream?

A minute later, the lady passed our ice cream cones back out the window. A large ice cream at Martha’s was a misnomer. Jackson didn’t have an ice cream cone; he had a massive tower of rainbow-speckled frozen dessert that was in danger of tipping over at any moment. The woman handed him a dish and a spoon, just in case. We made our way around to the picnic tables beside the building and took a seat at an empty table. I sat down on the bench, like a normal person, but Jackson turned around and sat on the top beside me.

I watched him run his tongue along the bottom of the ice cream, down near the base of the cone where it was starting to melt, and immediately my mind went into the gutter. I felt my cheeks start to burn. What was wrong with me? I turned away from him and bit the top off of my chocolate ice cream kind of aggressively.

“What do you do for fun?” Jackson asked me.

I looked back at him, and watched him lick a few stray sprinkles off from his lips. He had really nice lips for a guy, kind of full and soft looking. Ahhh, I dragged my gaze from his lips back to his eyes, and prayed that he couldn’t read my thoughts. “I write,” I blurted, and immediately wished I could take it back.

“You write? Like what? Books?” I waited for him to say something derisive, but he just looked curious. He took his eyes off from me to take another, long lick off of his ice cream. I couldn’t look away; I was fascinated by the way his tongue curved across the smooth surface of the dessert. Damn it, since when was an ice cream cone supposed to be an erotic experience?

“Yeah… I mean, mostly just short stories.” I watched a bit of his ice cream drip off the cone and run down his fingers. I had an insane moment where I imagined taking his hand and licking the sweet cream off. Oh God Ray, pull yourself together! “I’ve been trying to write a book.” The word “book” came out kind of squeaky. I shook my head and attacked my ice cream again.

“That’s amazing, Ray,” he said, and his voice seemed sincere. I didn’t dare turn my head to look at him again. “How many high school kids would try to do something like that? What’s the book about? Is it any good?”

I choked on a sprinkle. There was no way I was going to tell him the plot line of my story. “Nah,” I said dismissively, “Its crap.”

“Can I read it?”

I couldn’t help myself, my head jerked back up in surprise. He had an eager, hopeful look on his face, like he really wanted to read my book. I shook my head. “No way. Trust me, it's not worth your time.”

He leaned down, and then to my surprise he reached out to wipe off a little ice cream that had dribbled down my lower lip. His thumb was kind of firm and scratchy, and it made my lip tingle. His expression was very serious and intense. He was a little too close to me, and it was making it hard for me to breathe. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

I opened my mouth, but no words would come out.

At that moment, his top-heavy ice cream lost the battle with gravity, and most of the vanilla tower slipped off the cone and landed with a plop on the bench beside me. We both stared at the mess for a moment before I burst out laughing.