The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)

Dinner with Brenda

Previously: "Date with Another's Destiny" 

Brenda—no surprise—lives in one of the older and shabbier parts of town. The door is answered by a woman who looks like an older version of your date: fatter and more tired-looking, with gray in her light-brown hair. She smiles at you even as you introduce yourself: "Hey, I'm here to pick up Brenda. My name's Steve."

"Hello, Steve, come in." She stands back from the door, and on an instinct not your own you tilt your head so you won't chance hitting your head on the top of the doorway.

"Brenda's still getting ready," the woman says as she closes the door behind you. "So you're on the basketball team, Steve?"

"Yes, ma'am. She told you that?"

"I would have guessed," she laughs. She seems tired, but sweet-tempered.

You're not the only ones in the place, and you turn your attention now to the skinny bald man with the patchy white beard who is slouching in an easy chair with his face to a large-screen TV, on which is blaring a sports-news show. He gives you a beady-eyed, sidelong look before turning his attention back to the TV.

"This is Brenda's grandfather," the woman says. She goes over to bend near him. "This is Brenda's date," she tells him in a very loud voice. "He's here to pick her up. He plays basketball for the school."

That gets you a longer look from the man, though not much friendlier. Curiosity and wariness mix in his expression.

"You getting a lot of action?" he asks, loudly.

"Sir?"

"Dad!" the woman exclaims.

"Action!" he repeats.

"We're working hard, sir. Gonna have a winning season, going to state."

His expression darkens a little, and he turns back to the TV with a loud grunt.

"Maybe we should sit and wait in the dining room," the woman says.

* * * * *

You chat a little bit with Brenda's mother as you wait, explaining that you share an English class with her daughter. I don't like the class especially, you tell her, but Brenda makes it a lot easier to get through. The compliment pleases her.

It's another fifteen minutes before Brenda comes out of the back. Her face is pink and shining under her makeup; her hair is done up in a bun; and she's wearing a modest but becoming blue dress that covers her chest from the neck down. But so prodigious are her breasts that there's no hiding their shape and heft, no matter how modest the outfit.

"Hey," you greet her with a smile. "All ready?"

There's a panicked light in her eyes as she nods.

"Where are you going?" her mom asks.

"I was thinking of Buon Cibo," you reply. "If that's alright with you," you say to Brenda.

Her mom answers for her: "Oh, I don't think I've ever been there."

"It's on the top floor of the Mobley Building, it's pretty good. It was nice meeting you, sir," you shout at the old man, you blanches a little at your voice.

"Oh, would ten o'clock be a good time to have Brenda back?" you ask her mother as you're going out the door.

"That would be fine," she answers brightly. "Have a good time, you two."

Outside, on the sidewalk: "My curfew's not until midnight," Brenda breathlessly mutters.

"That's alright," you reply. "I didn't say I'd have you back by ten, I just asked if that would be a good time. But it's nice to know your mom won't scream if I have you back later." You tickle her back between the shoulder blades with your fingertips.

* * * * *

The Mobley Building is a solitary seven-story office building on the edge of the city's older commercial district. It's a very plain building that, with its concrete facades, looks more like a grain elevator than an office building. There are a number of cars in the parking lot as you pull in, but it does not look covered up. The restaurant will be the only thing in the building still open, and though it's still a nice restaurant, it lost its freshness a long time ago, and the clientele is on the older side.

"What kind of restaurant is this?" Brenda asks as you lead her up the steps to the lobby doors. "Bone ... Seebo?"

"Buon Cibo," you correct her. "It's Italian." You pull open the glass door for her. "It's not as good as Locarno, I'm afraid. That's kind of out of my budget range. But it's good, you can a lot of different kind of things there. Salads if you want, or pasta. Even a steak."

"Is that what you're going to have?"

"I haven't decided. You can have anything you want, though."

In the elevator: "That was your grandfather at your place, he lives with you?"

"Yeah. Um, my grandmother died about five years ago, and he was lonely. And my mom and dad are divorced."

"I'm sorry," you say. She only shrugs.

The restaurant when you step inside is dim, but the recessed lighting is warm, and a rich aroma of tomato sauce perfumes the air. There are booths along the walls, and next to the windows that look out over the city. When the greeter asks if you'd prefer one of these or a table, you ask Brenda if she's got a problem with heights.

"No," she says. "Do you?" You laugh at that, which causes her to blush. "Oh, I didn't mean—"

"We'll take a booth," you tell the greeter, and she leads you over to a corner seat whose table—like all those in the place—is covered with a red-and-white checked cloth. Besides the salt and pepper shakers, and bowl of sweeteners, there are two large glass shakers, one filled with crushed red pepper flakes and the other with grated Parmesan cheese. She hands you and Brenda two large menus and promises your server will be with you in a moment.

The landscape outside the window is darkening rapidly as the sun sinks below the horizon, and the city is coming to life with lights. You quickly decide what you'll be getting—a pork cutlet with grilled vegetables—and stare out the window as Brenda studies her menu.

"I guess I'll have the spaghetti and meatballs," she finally confesses with some embarrassment.

"The lasagna is better," you tell her. Not that it really matters, but you'd rather not watch her slurp up noodles and tomato sauce.

"Oh, okay," she says, and lays her menu aside.

So far you've not been saying much to each other, but now is the time to talk, and to put her at her ease. You relax into your seat with your arm resting on its back, fix her with your most attentive gaze, and start asking her questions.

* * * * *

Her classes are pretty basic—an Accounting II class is the most advanced thing she's taking—and the highlight of her schedule (to the extent it has a highlight for her) is the Mixed Choir class. She likes singing, she says, though she admits she'll never be a pop star. You ask how she's doing in her Statistics class, and offer to give her some help when she admits Not so good. You extend the same offer of help for her Physics I class. About the English class you share, neither of you say much.

She has friends, whom she names, but you don't recognize any of them, though you pretend to be able to place a couple. She's in choir with some of them; in other classes with others of them; and she says that they all just like to hang out. You ask her point-blank about boys, and she gets a little tense again when telling you that she's gone out with some guys, and that there's one guy that her friend Nancy is kinda-sorta going out with; and that there's some guys (mostly in the choir) that they sort of, y'know, like to hang out with.

You smile at all this, and ask her (again, point-blank) if she and her friends go to school sporting events. She blushes and says that they do.

Your food arrives, and you eat while talking some more, now about pop music and movies. Toward the end of the meal she seems to suddenly realize that she's been doing all the talking in answer to your questions, and turns some of your own questions back on you.

So you explain to her that except for Gordon Black, who is your best friend from way back, you don't have friends on the basketball team because friendship gets in the way of discipline and teamwork. That you're planning on getting an academic scholarship to a good private college somewhere, preferably with a good basketball team—"Duke, if I can swing it, or some other place like that"—and that you plan to major in business or finance and get into corporate/managerial work.

And when she asks you about "girlfriends":

"No I don't have a girlfriend," you tell her, "never had a single one. I just date a lot. I like girls, except when you get them into groups and they start cackling." (Brenda laughs at this, though she also looks a little stricken.) "So I've gone out with lots of girls, but I like to stay on good terms with them. I don't go out with them more than a few times, but I don't go out with them more than once if I decide I don't wanna hang out with them ever again, 'cos I figure on hanging out with them some more even after. You know Kendra Saunders? Cheerleader?"

Brenda, who has been listening to this with a fascinated but slightly horrified expression on her face, nods.

"Yeah, her and me get together every couple of weeks, do it all over again from scratch. I like Kendra, I'd go out with her more, but she hangs out with Chelsea. You know, the head cheerleader?" (Another nod from Brenda.) "Yeah, and Chelsea's a bitch on wheels."

* * * * *

Down in the parking lot, afterward, you put a hand on Brenda's shoulder as you steer her for the car. "Wanna go to a dance club?" you ask her.

"I don't really dance," she says.

"Me neither. We can sit in a corner, though, and make fun of the people who can't dance but are dancing anyway."

Next: "Dancing With Brenda" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 5)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)"