Scheduled for Friday
by Anton M.

3: Talk


Thursday, January 12

"Oh my God." I pressed my face between my knees as I waited for the sweet release of death. A sad moment of no spontaneous combustion later, dad returned to the car, fastened his seatbelt and rubbed my back.

"Relax, honey. I don't think he's here."

I thwacked him with my jacket four times. "That, was, not, nice."

Grinning, dad held his elbow in front of his face as protection. "Sure would've sped things up a little, huh?"

"You ever do that to me again and your retirement home will be a closet. A closet full of enormous daddy long-legs."

I grabbed my backpack and stepped out of the car, slamming the door. Dad opened the window.

"You are a cruel man."

"Love you too, sweetie," dad replied. I began to walk towards the school when he shouted, "Remember to smoochie smooch smooch with boys in dark alleyways only if they have a second helmet for you!"

I turned and made a furious cross with my index fingers.

Dad laughed.

He wouldn't have minded if I flipped him off, but any teachers passing by definitely would have, and my parents and I had developed a secret sign language of sorts on set.

With the me too movement, with what happened to Brendan Fraser (among countless others in the business), and all the stories about how ruthless and abusive Hollywood could be for underage actors, my parents had always kept a keen eye on me on set. But even with that, they knew they could be in the same room across the room, unable to know what was being said to me, so we'd agreed on signals that could be recognized from a distance. If I felt uncomfortable in any way, I snapped my fingers three times (which I've only used once), if I wanted to get away immediately, I stretched my thigh with my foot pressed against my butt before accidentally-on-purpose stomping it on the ground (never used it, though), and if I agreed or disagreed with something, I'd curl my index fingers around each other (for agreement) or formed a cross with my index fingers (for disagreement). We could've used our thumbs, but sometimes, it was better if others didn't understand our intent.

While we ended up using the last two rarely on set, they proved to be quite useful outside of it: when I didn't want to go out with friends but didn't have an excuse not to go, when mom wanted to invite a relative over but I needed an evening to chill, or when we just wanted to strongly disagree. Although we'd never said it, forming a cross with our index fingers became our soft, teasing equivalent of fuck you, and we used it almost on a daily basis.

Nevertheless, with dad no longer breathing down my neck, I walked across the parking lot rather than beside it, eyeing the few arriving bikers with newfound interest. There weren't many. When a guy arrived on a massive, shiny motorcycle, his joking around with a few friends as he got off and removed his helmet made him feel friendly enough to approach.

I gathered my courage and squeezed the straps of my bag.

"Excuse me, are you Edward?"

Blond locks flying, the guy turned around, blinking at me. He had blue eyes, a nose that had definitely been broken recently, and he was tall enough to be my fake crush.

Not a bad choice if the guy turned out to be Edward.

"Edward?" he repeated, squinting. "Ahh, you mean Masen. No, no. He should be here soon, though. Do you want me to give him a message?"

"No, thanks. I'd like to talk to him myself."

"Sure thing. He has a dark red '79 XS 650, you can't miss it. Parks here, next to me, or if it's taken—across that patch of grass over there." He motioned across the parking lot before he removed his leather gloves, shot me a smile, "Have a good one," and joined his friends across the parking lot.

I found a lamppost to lean against as I flipped through my songs on Spotify, posted a funny video of Jake on TikTok, scrolled through Instagram and prayed that Edward made it to school before Alice, Jane, Kate or Skylar caught me standing next to the parking lot like a regular Creepy McCreeperson.

My heart thumped wildly in my chest every time a motorcycle passed, and by the time one pulled to a stop next to the blond guy's, I was lightheaded with nerves.

White YAMAHA contrasted against red background on the worn, dirt-covered motorcycle, and the guy on it, presumably Edward, turned it off and removed his helmet (nice, I wasn't lying after all). He had a buzz cut, a straight nose, and a barbell that went through his eyebrow. He looked tall and lean in black jeans and a grey hoodie, and I watched him curse as he got off his bike, sat cross-legged on the pavement and started fixing his bike. The blue knitted scarf around his neck looked home-made.

Feeling my heartbeat thumping in my ears, I pocketed my earphones and stepped closer to him. He didn't look up.

"I have two minutes," he said, his hoarse voice deep but annoyed. "Talk."

I froze. Talk or die was not my intended approach, and, ever the people-pleaser, I did not like to annoy people if I could help it. I took a step back.

Maybe I was not an ice queen. Maybe guys didn't even have to look at me to know they didn't like me.

That stung.

I'd picked this totally random guy and approached the whole thing as if it was only up to me who my first kiss was, but suddenly I realized it might have to be Mike. No way could I find anyone I'd find attractive who also found me attractive who'd be single and happy to kiss me.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, throwing away my original intention to see if he was up for helping me. "I just—" I just want to die. "Nice ride."

His hand released from his bike as he pulled at something, and his elbow hit my shin.

"Fuck," we cried out at the same time. I lifted my leg and squeezed the spot, grimacing.

Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.

"It's fine." I forced a smile, avoiding his eyes, desperate to escape. "Whatever. It was my fault, anyway. Sorry for bothering you."

Two school buses were emptying to the side of the parking lot, and I ran (limped) to disappear in the crowd without looking back. Safely between a river of strangers, I bit my knuckles and forced back tears.

Motherfucker, that hurt.

When Skylar, Jane, Kate and Alice found me at our usual spot on the bench in front of the wall-full of heartleaf philodendron (our biology teacher's favorite house plant and exam question), I was observing the (throbbing) damage.

"Holy shit, Bella," Alice said, crouching beside me to see my leg. "Did you have a hit-and-run with a wild animal?"

Edward's hand had slipped after his elbow, leaving dust, motor oil, and blood in its wake, and I dearly hoped he knew he had to get a tetanus shot. And I had to plain get shot since I'd borrowed my mom's favorite full-cotton, five-button, high-rise white jeans without asking her.

She didn't mind if I borrowed her clothes if I told her, and I could almost feel her smug look of 'see, this wouldn't have happened had you told me you wanted to borrow my jeans'.

Sorry, mom.

Here Lies Bella, the Girl Who'd Rather Die than Admit Her Mom Was Right.

Skylar, Jane and Kate felt sorry that I'd walked into a broken motorcycle while Alice squinted at me, not believing a word I said. I was usually a good liar but I'd had to come up with something too quickly to figure out the details (and I was too tired to act), but thankfully Alice didn't push me.

As I avoided Edward in corridors (for the rest of time), I was cooking up a Plan B. So what if Edward Mr. Talk-or-Die didn't like me. He intimidated the hell out of me, so he probably wasn't the right random choice for my first kiss, anyway. But his blond-haired friend had seemed friendly and not unattractive. Maybe I could approach him?

That idea kept me going for a full hour until Alice and I passed their group of friends (thankfully Mr. Talk-or-Die had his back to me) and she whispered, "Do you know what the blond one's name is?"

No. No, Alice. You can't like him. He's my Plan B.

But, of course, because the world hated me today, Alice had developed a crush on the blond one (even if she denied it), which took him out of my Plan B.

Boo, Alice. Not cool. You'd have never noticed him if it wasn't for his proximity to my fake crush. Find me a guy to kiss, and we're even.

By lunch, I considered giving up. Millions of girls would've killed to have their first kiss with the Michael Newton, and maybe your first kiss wasn't supposed to be special, anyway.

Ugh, but having to tell Mike that we'd have to rehearse the kiss not because of the usual morning rehearsals themselves but because—like an inexperienced idiot—I didn't know how to kiss, that itself would've been more embarrassing than choosing a random guy. Even imagining Mike's smug smile made me more determined than ever to find someone from school.

Maybe I could just walk in a corridor and ask random guys to kiss me until one of them said yes?

I'll be the kiss-slut of the school, whatever. I'll take it.

At the cafeteria, my friends were discussing my favorite topic—why hadn't we heard anything about the filming of Underground Memories after a deal was struck with HBO?

Do you think they're stuck in pre-production? Are they filming already? Who do you think they ended up choosing as the main characters?

Alice was just suggesting what a great Nala Jenna Ortega would've made (thanks, Alice, your death was an accident) when she shut up mid-sentence, eyes wide. A second later, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and my hair stood on end as a bizarre scent of leather, motor oil, peppermint-and-ammonia-on-steroids washed over me, and I couldn't fathom why I enjoyed the mixture but I did. It made me feel woozy in the strangest way, lifting me up and squeezing my heart.

Maybe I had corona.

"Can I talk to you for a moment?" a familiar hoarse voice asked close to my ear, and my heart thumped wildly in my chest as our eyes locked.

No wonder Edward had a barbell, his wide, sharp eyebrows were perfectly suited for it. His eyes were dark greenish, a vaguely earthy tone, and he didn't look upset, just… tired and throat infection-y. His index and middle finger were wrapped in gauge with a pinkish stain, no doubt the blood that had seeped through, and I felt bad for being the cause of it.

"Sure," I said, keeping my voice even, as if talking to strange boys alone was a regular occurrence in my life. I was ridiculously aware of his scent, his height, and his elbow brushing against mine as we squeezed past others and walked to the hallway.

A/N: Thank you all for your kind words. Your thoughts make my day :)