Chapter 12

Priscilla didn't ordinarily go to Dega Street—in fact, she didn't ordinarily go much of anywhere unless she had to—but that Sunday was an exception.

"Oh, thank you so much!" the old homeless woman exclaimed, as she took the $50 bill from Priscilla's outstretched hand.

"I hope it helps," she said.

Walking away, her lips tightened into a grim little smile. She'd done it.

Victor decided he did not like the borrowed clothes he wore. They fit him more closely, but not always well. The shirt pinched his shoulders and the pants ended farther above the ankle than they should have.

The worst part came from the way people stared at him as he walked by. They never stared for long, just a few moments, but he felt each gaze at his back. He sensed their unspoken questions: who does this kid think he is?

Since he wasn't a preppy and couldn't even fake being one.

Victor arrived at Pizza King as night stole over the town, the lampposts springing to his life as he closed the last few feet. He looked around for any sign of Jane, not quite able to stem the terror of being stood up, him in this ridiculous outfit waiting for a girl way above his station.

He shivered and blew into his hands for warmth, the early November cold cutting through the gray bomber jacket he'd thrown on over the shirt. Looking to the left and then to the right, he still saw no sign. Cars zoomed past him, their engines too loud for comfort.

This did not seem like a good place for the first date.

Hugging himself, he sighed and waited, conscious of the frigid air on his cheeks. Maybe she got held up.

He checked his watch. Or maybe he was ten minutes early and being ridiculous in his assumptions.

The door opened and warm air from inside the pizzeria washed over him.

"Hey, Victor!" came Jane's voice.

"Oh!" He spun around to face her and almost slipped. She stood in the doorway, observing him with amused curiosity.

"I got here early and decided to wait inside. Boy, you sure dressed up nice for this. Hope you don't mind these old things," she said, pointing to her worn red jacket and gray shorts.

She looked better in those old things than he'd look in the finest Italian suit.

"You look fine! Great, actually."

"Here, come on in."

Victor stepped inside, the air hot and peppery with spices. Bright lights shone down on the tile floor and greasy tables. "So, what do you want to eat?" he asked.

"Can't go wrong with pepperoni. Let's split the bill," she said, already getting in line. There weren't many people ahead.

The statement disappointed him a bit. "Are you sure? I don't mind covering you."

"Yeah, it's fine."

"Okay," he said, falling in behind her. Dimly, he was conscious of just how close they stood, and for a moment he feared he'd pass out from sheer nervousness.

"Uh, how was your Saturday?" he asked.

"Pretty routine. Did some art, listened to my brother try and incorporate a fourth chord in his music."

"Great! Uh, what kind of art?"

"Lately I've been on an impressionist kick. They have abstract expressionism right, so why not abstract impressionism? But it's not working the way I'd hoped. Impressionism's probably a better fit for representational art. Oh well, at least I got some nice blurry shapes out of the deal."

Victor understood none of that… but he wanted to. He recalled Priscilla's advice about asking questions.

"What's impressionism?"

Her eyes brightened. "Oh! It's this style of painting where you go more for light and color than detail—but when you see it, it's like your brain puts all the detail in there. It was real big back in 19th century France…"

She explained some of the principles of impressionism as they waited in line. They ordered the pizza at the counter, along with a few drinks, and then sat down at one of the tables to wait for their number.

So far, so good.

"Anyway, you don't want me to go on some boring art lecture," Jane said, after explaining the difference between impressionism and expressionism (the former being a matter of technique, the latter being more about the artist portraying the world through their own eyes). "What are you into?"

Victor took a sip from his drink, giving him a precious half-second to figure out a response.

"Uh, I actually do some painting as well," he said, speaking slowly. Too stressed to maintain eye contact, he let his gaze fall to the table. "Not art, though. I, uh, paint…"

Did he really want to say this?

"You paint what?" Jane asked. "Houses?"

"Miniatures," he finally answered, nodding.

"Miniatures?"

"Yeah."

Victor reached under his sweater vest and into his shirt pocket, taking out the small pouch he'd taken with him from home. He'd decided not to follow all of Priscilla's advice—and now he'd see whether or not he was a fool for going his own way. Opening the pouch, he took out two Imperial guardsmen and a commissar, setting them up on the table so she could see.

"These," Victor said. His voice trembled—so did his body, and he forced himself to stop, to look normal, to look like he knew what he was doing. He gulped, his mouth dry, as Jane peered at the small plastic figures.

God, he'd just admitted he played with army men. What had he been thinking? He closed his eyes, waiting for the mockery.

"Huh, you did this? Pretty good job on the color detail. I guess. I mean, I don't know much about this kind of painting," she said.

Victor dared to look at Jane. And her expression was… curious. Not exactly eager, but far from disdainful. She studied the miniatures with her practiced eye, doubtless seeing them in more ways than he'd ever be able to.

"You think so? Uh, thanks. I have more at home, but I thought I did a good job on these three. Some of the ones I painted earlier looked pretty awkward—I didn't thin my paints enough, you see."

"So, what do you do with these guys?" she asked.

"Uh, they're for a game. Warhammer 40,000," he said, cringing a bit at just how nerdy that name sounded. "It's a little like Star Wars, though much darker and more chaotic."

"Star Wars was always a little too chipper for me. Seems like if you're going with planets blowing up you might as well embrace the horror. These guys are like the defenders of Earth or something?"

"Earth and other planets."

"Can I pick one up?" she asked.

"Oh, go ahead." Victor didn't quite believe that she seemed okay with it.

Jane picked up the nearest guardsmen and held it close to get a better look. "Wow, you even got in the little scorch marks," she said, pointing to some battle damage he'd painstakingly added to the chest plate.

"Yeah! I worked hard on that."

She put the guardsman down. "What kinds of colors can you use? Does it all have to be these army colors or can you get more creative? Like guardsmen in pink and violet or something?"

"Heh, well that might fit pretty well with Chaos soldiers serving Slaanesh—"

Victor was on his first date with the girl of his dreams, and he'd just mentioned Slaanesh, the Chaos God most associated with risqué artwork and miniatures.

"Slaa-what?" Jane asked, her expression quizzical.

She'd think he was a pervert just by association! He should have listened to Priscilla and not brought it up—he had to put his best foot forward, not his weirdest.

"Uh, just a character." Victor grabbed the miniatures and stuffed them into the bag, his cheeks burning as he mentally cursed himself.

"Whoa!" Jane raised her hands as if in surrender. "Did I offend you or something?"

"No!" His mind scrambled for an excuse as he put the bag back in his pocket. "It's just a silly game. Tell me more about art."

Jane frowned. "What just happened there?"

"Nothing!" he insisted. Should he have explained? No, Priscilla had been right. Best to let Jane do the talking and not mention anything else about plastic army men. 40K was a weird and embarrassing hobby. Not even Lawndale's other nerds seemed to think much of it, so why would Jane?

Someone called their number, and Victor jumped from the table, eager to get some breathing space. He fetched the pizza and returned, grateful that the food at least provided a distraction.

As he ate, he wondered why Jane had gotten so quiet.

"So, who are you favorite artists?" he asked, between bites.

"Been big into Bosch lately," she said, not sounding especially interested.

Not sounding especially interested proved to set the tone for the rest of the night. Victor tried to think of more art questions, but he knew so little about the subject that none came to him. He compensated by making observations about school and teachers—observations so trite that they bored even him.

Jane started looking out the window soon after she finished her pizza. Conversation stumbled forward in fits and starts.

"Hey, so thanks for inviting me out," she finally said. "But I should probably go home. Promised my brother I'd make some art for his band."

"Okay," he said. That's fine. The first date had been awkward, but maybe the second would work. "Do you want to do this again?"

Jane was quiet for a moment. "Not really," she finally said.

"Oh. Why?" His vision blurred. His heart pounded. He'd been so close…

"It's not you, Victor. You seem really nice, and you're cute. I'm just going through a lot right now. Not sure a relationship is in the cards for me. My last relationship ended up kind of sucking, anyway."

"It'll be different with us!"

She fixed him with a cool and level gaze. "Please don't make this weird."

Victor's apology sputtered on his lips, and he hung his head. Weakly, he nodded as what felt like the whole world crashed down on him.

Jane got up. "It's senior year, anyway. I mean, all that's really left is for us to get the hell out of this crummy town. There are bigger and better things out there. At least, I sure hope so."

He said nothing.

"Bye, Victor. You paint those little guys pretty well, for what it's worth."

She started toward the door. Best not to look at her, he reasoned. That'd just make it hurt more.

So, naturally, he watched her as she walked out of the Pizza King and out of what passed for his life.