First date, revisited.

He picks me up, all smiles and courteous, a nice American boy, flannel and sweet. We each have our type, the ones we go for. He fulfills my expectations to the T. But then again, I knew who he was before I agreed to "hang out to catch up and stuff". A hastily typed message sent over Facebook, full of emoticons, acronyms, and teen-boy phrases. An old friend, from way back in middle school. A little boy then, but not anymore. And a redhead, as anyone who knows me has come to expect. Sure, I type back, but next week, this week I'm busy with school. Within an hour, a date is set and most of the details solidified. I'm excited. "I'm going out Friday, Ma. I won't be in till late." We're going to a dance concert, a fantastic end-of-the year event and excitement is high. Dance concerts are terrific ice breakers, I've come to realize. Unlike a movie, where there is privacy and the unexpected can happen, a dance concert is a room packed with students, parents, and teachers, with not a stitch of "private time" available. Perfect.

The phone rings, a short burst of sound, loud and insistent. "I'm outside" he says, a soft deep voice. "You coming?" Sure, I answer, gimme a sec and I'll be out. Shoes, purse, $50 in my wallet, sunglasses, I'm ready. One last look in the mirror and I'm gone, heading for the door and the boy I hadn't seen in several years. "I got a haircut", he'd told me the day before. How short? "You'll see", a smug reply. Buzz cut? Oh say it ain't so. "Just wait."

He waits patiently at the door, his back to me and gazing at the slowly-darkening sky. "Hey, how are you?" Great, I think, now that you're here. I'm thinking mushy, teenage-girl thoughts. We exchange a semi-awkward hug and I reach out to feel his hair, shorter than the last time I saw him, back at our eighth grade graduation, but nonetheless thick and luxurious. I can imagine my fingers tangled up in his hair, gripping tightly, and the thought catches me unawares. "Let's go" jars me out of my thoughts and I follow him down the street.

An hour and one salad each later, we're in his father's car, heading for Fort Mason and the dance concert when his phone rings. A murmured conversation and half a dozen "yeah dude"s later, he announces that the concert is sold out. Time for a new plan. Eek. What to do, what to do? A seventeen-year-old only had so many options in the city. Bowling? Too fourteenth birthday party. Ice-skating? Too fairy-tale princess wannabe.

"Wanna go to the movies?" Sure. We head to his house, presumably to check out the time and movie options. His parents are amazing, the kind of parents any kid would want, lax in discipline but caring, and always there to support you. I liked them instantly. We bond, talking about films and books as he peruses the newspaper for movies times. We settle on a just-out comedy, a crowd-pleaser with just the right amount of celebrities and clichés, which should be fun for both of us. The main problem solved, we head downstairs to the rec room to talk. I notice the boxes of cigarettes instantly, but wait for him to say something first. He notices my furtive glance. "You know I smoke, right?" Sure, no, go ahead, doesn't bother me. "Cool". He lights up. We stand in the doorway to the backyard, side by side, watching his dog frolic in the early evening sunlight. It's hot outside and the wind diffuses the smoke coming out of his mouth in a matter of seconds. I wonder what smoking is like and why people do it. The vulnerability of being dependent on a drug is beyond me, the girl who values total self-control above all else. We talk and laugh, and the whole time the smoke curls around us and dissolves, slowly permeating my clothes and hair. He is snaking his way into the safe little cocoon I built around myself for protection against bad boys who smoke cigarettes like men do.

I'm starting to not hate the smell so much....



He goes through cigarettes pretty quickly. That's not to say that he's puffing on them nonstop, but in the half an hour that we spent downstairs, he went out two or three times. Each time, I stood in the doorway, watching his face get illuminated with every inhalation. He looked sinister and sexy and not at all seventeen, the orange tip of his cigarette highlighting the copper undertones of his hair.