Ugly(8)

“I’d like that,” I say to Trent. When his fingers link with mine, it feels different. He’s so warm. As his skin touches mine it sends a small shiver up my spine, but I can feel a smile tugging on my lips.

Is this how kids feel when they’re touched by their parents? Do they smile because they know their moms and dads want to hold them, embrace them, and protect them? Is this the feeling I’ve been missing out on all these years?

“We’re here,” Trent says, as he opens the door to a small pizza shop. The smells coming from inside are fantastic. I don’t think I’ve ever smelled anything as savory and delicious as the aroma coming from the ovens.

“Hi, table for two,” Trent says to the waiter.

The place is small, fourteen booths and a few scattered tables in the center. The waiter leads us to a booth where I sit, then Trent slides in opposite me.

I look around at the walls and they’re painted in fresh blue and red colors. Pictures of Italy adorn the walls, a huge painting of an Italian flag is on one of the walls, and lots of knick-knack items are on shelves everywhere.

“I’ve never been here before,” I say, appreciating the quirky environment.

“You haven’t? It’s been here for so long, I used to come as a kid with my mom and dad. And my mom used to come here when she was younger. Mom says it’s never changed. Everything is the same. There’s a lady who makes the pizza sauce; Mom said she’s about eighty years old. She still makes it, but now her kids run the business.”

“Really?” I ask, as I lean my elbow on the table and cradle the side of my head as I look at Trent.

“If my mom said it, it must be true.” He laughs, and I smile.

I pick up the menu and begin to look over it. These are all foreign to me, I’m not entirely sure what I’ll like and what I won’t.

I sense someone standing beside me, but my attention is on the menu in my hands. “Why don’t you take a picture, it lasts longer,” Trent says in an angry tone.

Instantly my shoulders come up and I feel an icy, cold brush of fright touch my skin as I recognize the cold, angry tone. I sit back in my seat and put my head down further.

“My apologies,” I hear someone say.

Chancing a look, I peer over the menu to see Trent furiously looking at the waiter who’s standing beside me. “Yeah, you better be, fucker.”

“Trent,” I whisper, too frightened to make eye contact.

Out of my peripheral vision I can see Trent’s face ease, his jaw softens and his shoulders drop as he takes in a deep breath. “We’ll have a large pepperoni and two Cokes,” Trent orders, without asking me.

“It’ll be out in a moment,” the waiter says, then walks away.

There’s an uncomfortable quiet between the two of us. I don’t know what to say. He got angry at that waiter for no reason, and then ordered for me. Lucky he did order, because I have no idea what I’d like.

“Are you angry with me?” he finally breaks the stony silence.

I shake my head. I want to ask why he said what he did, but I opt to remain quiet and not say anything.

“He was looking at you,” Trent answers my unasked question. “And I don’t like it.”

“I’m sorry,” I instantly reply.

“Don’t worry about it, let’s just eat our pizza and enjoy the movie.” I nod and look at Trent. He’s visibly calmed and now he looks like the cute boy I met at the bus stop on the way home.

“What movie are we going to watch?” I ask, trying to make conversation to take his mind off the waiter looking at me. I know we talked about a movie, hopefully he has an idea what’s playing, because I don’t.

“It’s a new comedy. I saw the preview for it and it looks really funny. Is that okay with you?” He reaches over and lays his hand out for me to lay my palm in his hand. Slowly I lift my hand and put it in his. “This feels nice,” he adds with a smile.

“It does?” I ask, chancing a look up at Trent from beneath my lashes.

“It feels nice to me. I like holding your hand. Don’t you like it?”

The same waiter comes back and sets down two tall glasses with Coke in them. I sip mine through a straw and the bubbly, fizzy drink feels funny on my tongue. I giggle when I take a bigger sip and Trent looks at me with his head slightly tilted.

“It tickles,” I say, as I sip some more of the soda.

He scrunches his eyebrows together and asks, “You’ve never had a soda before?”

“I think I have. I can’t remember. It tastes funny. But it tickles.”

“It tickles?” he asks with his own big smile. I nod and take another sip. “Don’t have too much; it’ll make you feel sick.” He strokes his thumb up and down the back of my hand.