Superior

I hate this place. I can't believe I got myself into a situation where I have to come back here- to Richards. I've been here before, but avoiding it has been pretty easy for me lately. And I certainly wasn't planning on coming here today, either. Sigh. But when a cute girl is sitting close to you on the couch with her hands separated on her lap, and the one nearest you is blatantly upturned on her thigh, what are you supposed to do? She knows darn well you can see it. You'd have to be blind not to. So yes, of course I grabbed it. My friends would have made fun of me all night if I didn't. She had something different about her, also, that I haven't seen much of. It was good, though. Anyway, she said I looked fun. And then, of course, she wanted my number afterward so she could call me up and we could get together and do it all over again. That's when I found out she lives here. Man. Curse my innate sense of commitment. What would my friends say about this? 
Our house is over in Tempe, not far from the law school. It's not that great. I had a friend who lived near here before they built the Richards development with the golf course and all. We used to catch lizards out in the field until his family had to move to make way for the 9th green. When I was 15, I got a job with my cousin as a groundskeeper for the new country club after school, but I never saw any more lizards. People from the brand new neighborhood would come in all the time, and I would scowl at them behind their backs. I've never played golf, but I've watched it a lot, and I definitely know to replace my divots and to never ever carry my bag onto the green.
So now I'm on the brink of a relationship I don't want to be in, with a girl from the Landing, of all places. Richards Landing is the gated community on the east end of the course. It's the epitome of my greatest resentments, but here I am pulling up to the sentry as if I came here all the time. No doubt this girl's shallow. We just barely met that one night, and I barely even know her, but I can guess. I know Richards. RICHards. It's the ultimate stereotypical perfect mega-upper class development, where everyone has a pool and a tan and nice Hollister clothes assembled by poor starving children like me. I make it a point to lock my 1990 Nissan Stanza, even though it's the only car more than three years old within sight, and I have absolutely nothing of value inside.
I don't know what I'm going to say to get out of this little dilemma. I definitely don't need to hurt anyone's feelings, but I do need to let her down somehow. Make it quick and easy. On her end, she's going to expect something. There she is, waiting near the front door. That's a bad sign. She could at least pretend like she's busy with something. Well, now it's awkward. Honestly, she is pretty, though, I guess-if you're into that sort of thing. In my mind, Jon Bon Jovi gives me hearty pat on the back and a thumbs-up for scoring that, at least. I'm sure he's better at this sort of thing. I force a calm, but excited "Hey!" and walk straight into her arms. She offers an almost imperceptible squeeze, followed by a genuine smile.
"Hi!" She sure is happy to see me. It's not like she did anything wrong, per se, in holding my hand. I mean, it's not like I blame her. She just doesn't know how much I loathe her kind.
         As she finishes up with the quick house tour, my ok-with-everything face must look more convincing than it feels. I draw attention away from my true convoluted feelings with feigned excited conversation about trivial things- like how I wholeheartedly support the recent proliferation of re-sealable bags for things like cookies and cheese. "I've been waiting years for that," I say. I'm surprised nobody can tell it's all an act... Her siblings seem nice. They're definitely clean. There are two slightly younger ones, a girl and a boy-twins, probably-and an even smaller girl. She's cute. The twins drag her away after slipping out themselves, in order to give us our privacy and make it easier for me to blow it again. I will not kiss her, I tell myself, and strangely, I don't even want to. That's too much. Even my carnal self can tell it wouldn't lead to anything good. Then I'd just have to keep coming back.
         This place looks more like the Richards clubhouse than any house on my street. It even smells fake. I tell her it's nice, trying half-heartedly to conceal my disgust, or jealousy, or whatever. While she hops to the TV and puts in a movie, I strategically position myself on the white leather couch close enough to her seat so that when she returns, I don't send the wrong impression right off, but not so close as to make excessive contact inevitable. Man! I should be really happy about this. I dream about situations like this all the time-just me and a girl and a semi-decent movie to curl up to together under the blanket. I haven't been with a girl in months, and I've come dangerously close to lowering my physical standards on a couple of occasions, but the honest truth is that I never had an opportunity as golden as this one, even if it is with a stuck-up rich girl.
         Her name is Betsy, which fact I've intentionally failed to mention, because-come on. She's like 18. The only other people I know with that name are probably old enough to know who Richards is, or was. Betsy seems to have overcome the geriatric nature of her name pretty well, though. A single glance at her perfectly smooth, toned, country club arms reveals nary an ounce of fat. She's quite shapely. A good portion of her long, streaked hair rests in a ponytail, and that coupled with the casual air about her proclaim immediately that she's an athlete. Actually, to be exact, if I recall, she's a lacrosse player. Heh-heh. Lacrosse.
         Wait! No! No thinking! The more I think about her, watching her out of the corner of my eye, the more I realize that she is a pretty good catch- at least physically. But the last thing I need is to get attached. Better do something. Twenty minutes into the movie, I suddenly bring my knee up and around and spin out away from Betsy, facing her on the couch. A playful smile starts across her face as she hangs waiting for my next move, and it takes everything in me not to notice. I could pounce right now, and she'd be down for it. I restrain and refocus my efforts, realizing that she's still waiting for something. I have nothing to say, but before I have a chance to stop it, something comes out anyway. "Let's go for a drive!" Hmm. A chance to talk, not progress further, and above all, leave this wretched place. Turns out, that's actually a pretty good idea. I wish for a second that I would have thought of that myself, and then realize I did.
         "You mean after the movie?" asks the rich girl.
         "No, I'm falling asleep." I lie, although too much longer in front of "Weekend at Bernie's" would have indeed yielded that result. This is perfect proof that being wealthy doesn't necessarily correlate with being cultured after all. "Let's go now... Maybe you can teach me how to play lacrosse."
         Minutes later we're outside the city winding through the Arizona desert at well over the speed limit. Betsy is cradling her lacrosse stick, and is passing the end with the head back and forth between her hands, the other end pivoting on the mat between her flip-flopped feet. There's another, cheaper stick for me, along with a ball, in the back seat. "Where are we going?" She asks. I tell her it's a surprise, which is true. I'm interested to find out myself. All I know is that I need to be in a friendlier environment. The car finishes a drawn-out deep breath, exhaling as the road straightens out, causing our speed to rise fluidly and naturally until we're going 90. The mountains ahead in the distance don't seem to be getting any closer, though. The wide expanse of nothing is mesmerizing. I've always loved the desert. Such a feeling of liberty exists. Freedom from expectations. Sky goes on forever unassuming, and red plateaus rise up that have probably never even been completely walked by man. It reminds you of why you tolerate the heat. It gets up to 120 degrees in the daytime sometimes, but still it's all worth it if you chance to be outside late at night to taste the desert breeze. At this point in the evening, the dry heat still pounds pretty hard. Hopefully I'll be alone by the time the breeze comes, so I can fully enjoy it. Fleeting sinister thoughts tempt me to leave her out here somewhere, alone. Would she even survive?
         Betsy hasn't lived in Phoenix very long, so I'm sure she doesn't know the local highways too well. In the beige summer night, she probably has no idea we're heading east on Highway 60 to New Mexico. I realize that it's a good thing this girl likes me, or so it seems, because she doesn't seem too concerned about the fact that we're now thirty miles from home and still going. I really thought she'd be more worried by now. I would be. I guess she gets whisked out into the desert by strange men all the time... Hmm... I try not to carry that thought any further. I still don't know where we're going-or really even why, for that matter. We drive a few more miles in silence. Soon, Betsy removes her thin, gray cotton jacket and drapes it over her bare knees, then finds the lever and eases the seat back, all the while watching the portion of the expanse of stars available through the closed sunroof. If she's bothered by the heat at all, this is the extent of her reaction. It's starting to get to me more and more. The racket of driving with an open sunroof or windows would wreck the serenity of the desert, though, and the air conditioning just wastes gas. I'm starting to sweat. She seems just fine, though, interestingly enough, which kind of bothers me. Her display of confidence all evening long has had a draining effect on mine. I open my mouth in an attempt to regain control, though again, with nothing in particular to say. The words come from the girl's mouth instead. 
         "What's on your mind?" The question catches me off guard.
"What?"
I stutter around for a second, and Betsy continues. "You seem nervous tonight. What's going on? I promise I won't leave you out here in the desert alone." That's ironic. How can she be so confident? She thinks she's in charge of this whole operation. She must have seen me sweat. What nerve. I want to tell her off, but decide it best not to make a scene right now. I don't know where I would even begin, anyway. Before her.
         "There's a park out here I really like with a good view of the city. I thought we could toss the ball around there," I lie for at least the second time tonight, then quickly change the subject, launching into a whimsical story of a recent experience my friend had with a girl who was stalking him at work. We trade a couple more similar anecdotes, and I feel a little more at ease after laughing some. She runs through the basics of lacrosse with me: all the positions on the field, elementary strategy, and some other things, and I'm not really listening. Girls aren't even allowed to hit each other with their sticks, evidently, which she says makes the game prettier than men's lacrosse. Doesn't make much sense to me, though. I like to see a good hammering.
For the first time tonight, I make a conscious effort to push money to the back of my mind, but only until I notice the fuel gauge. Unbelievable. We've driven a lot longer than I thought. Now miles from anything, we're about to run out of gas. I sure didn't take any of this into account when I left home tonight.
         Green highway signs pass by with greater meaning now. Sixteen miles to Superior. That's not too bad. Surely there's gas there. I tell Betsy we need to be stopping off, without mentioning how low we actually are. She says that's fine, she needs something to eat anyway. My hands grip the wheel tighter as I will my little Nissan along. What a disaster it would be to putter to a stop on the side of the road at this point- the middle of the night in the middle of the desert. We've even got the dashing young protagonist and token blonde girl. Sounds like a horror movie. One of us would have to die.
         As it turns out, the horror is wasted on anticipation, and we make the sixteen miles just fine. Not only is there gas, but a decent-sized Chevron truck stop right there off the exit. I pull up to the pump, step out, and bend backward at the waist, letting out a barbaric groan as my muscles ease back to their rightful functions. I've had a lot building up inside me. Betsy's already inside as I proudly select my regular unleaded and insert the pump. She's back in the pastry section itching her stomach, brooding over what to get. "Are you hungry?" she calls over the midget aisles as the bell signifies my entry. I sure am, but I'm barely going to have enough to pay for gas as it is. I tell her I don't think I should, and she offers to buy a box of jelly donuts, for she must eat.
There's no way I'm going to let her pay for anything. This is a date! I tell her I'll take care of it, that I don't need money, and she shrugs, thanks me, and sets the box on the counter. "This and fuel?" asks one of the greasiest cashiers I have ever seen. He's got a short-sleeved black shirt that I think has every single condiment from the hot dog counter impressed somewhere between the threads. I'd rather touch that than his slicked-back hair, though. Something tells me it's not gel. I nod in affirmation at his question and try my hardest not to look surprised when he mumbles the total- $45.35. My entire mechanism comes to a halt. The cashier stares ahead into space unabashed as I shift my weight to the left to free up my favorite pocket. How I hate him so. I reach for my wallet as slowly as ever, knowing full well that there's not nearly enough cash in there, regardless of the absence or presence of donuts. Still half in shock with the most perfect possible shame ready to burst out of me, I fumble in my wallet and stall. Peripherally, I see Betsy fluidly reach into her handbag, produce a credit card, and pass it to the cashier. She's careful not to touch his hand, just in case. "No!" I blurt out desperately, louder than expected. "Don't even think about it."
"Well, what are you going to do, then?" she pleads. For the first time since I've known her, a lilt manifests itself in her voice. "You already pumped the gas!" Completely defeated, I lower my head, nod, and return the tattered wallet to my shorts. Without a word, we walk separately out of the gas station and toward the car. I plop back down into the driver's seat and figure that at this point, the night can't get any worse. Before my better judgment gets the best of me, the speech I'd been subconsciously preparing for years comes out all at once.
"So, now you know what it feels like to date a poor guy, I guess. Congratulations..." I hesitate, but not to think. "You know, it's not like that's the last of my money or anything. I just didn't plan on needing so much tonight. So now I guess you can go back to Richards and tell all of your really hot, perfect friends by the pool, while... while I'm working my butt off, how you were so generous to this guy. You saved his life." I stop short when my voice starts to tremble. It didn't come out like I thought it would. Betsy had previously begun to slide her thumb under the flap of the donut box to open it, but now it's sitting still on her lap.
Just then, it came to me what it was that I saw in her the other day, and liked. It was innocence. Staring dead ahead, I reach up and force my key into the ignition. The two other keys on the ring slap in turn against my pocketknife, which dull clank resonates through the car, the only sound to be heard.
"Wait... Is that what's bothering you? Ben!!!" She pleads. She didn't deserve that at all. "First of all, I won't be lying by the pool with anyone but my family anytime soon. I don't have that many friends in Richards. Some people there are pretty cool, but it's not like we all just hang out with each other all the time and bash on the rest of the world! Besides, I don't have time for that, because I work all mornings and afternoons at Sugar Bowl. I work a lot, Ben." She's a lot calmer about her speech than I was about mine, but she still needs a pause to summon up the words. "People treat me differently sometimes, but I've never done anything to deserve it. It's like they expect me to be arrogant. I envy you if you don't have to worry about that. You can be normal."
"Well, you sure didn't seem to want to touch that cashier more than necessary." At this point, even I don't agree with what I'm saying, but it's my last-ditch effort to save face.
"Did you see him?" Her voice rises more than before. "You're not in the same category as him, Ben, that's not how it works... Besides, his issue had nothing to do with money. He was disgusting... Shampoo's not that expensive. I think I saw some in back by the Tums."
I'm not really in the mood for humor right now. I'm still just trying to process what's going on. I turn the key, pleased that I'm not disgusting, but more embarrassed than anything, and we pull out of the parking lot. In attempt to defray the awkwardness of the situation, I continue on eastward into Superior. Betsy rolls down her window, takes a jelly donut from the box and flings it out into the desert with frustration and remarkable accuracy, assuming she was aiming for mile marker #223. Reddish-purple gelatin obscures the last digit as we pass. "There's no park or anything out here, is there?" she asks.
"Not that I know of."
"All right. I've got an idea." She starts, a second later, a gleam in her eye. "Let's go back to the city." At the first opportunity, I obediently point the car down the highway in the opposite direction, and we're on our way.
Well, this night is over. Or it would be, if there wasn't an awkward hour and a half between us and home. That's even worse. Neither of us really knows what to say, I think, so I turn on the radio and start to sing along to R.E.M. under my breath. That's me in the corner. That's me in the spotlight, losing my religion. "You have a nice voice," she offers. My body spasms as she suddenly joins me in song. She will receive no such compliments. Twenty minutes and five songs later, we're screeching loudly to the music, our mouths full of jelly donut. Music. Of course. As it turns out, we both have a particular soft spot for 90's rock. Just outside of Globe, my heart jumps with excitement as I register the inner realization that she hasn't been aware of my internal thoughts all evening long. There was only that one childish outburst. Other than that, I've tried to keep my snide comments to a minimum, and thank goodness for that. I marvel that I might actually be able to salvage my dignity after all, and then that Aerosmith song from "Armageddon" comes on and I promptly forfeit that hope at the top of my lungs.
We have more in common than I previously thought. I find out that her parents moved to the desert from Colorado a couple years ago when her dad landed a huge job with America West. He works hard too. She earned a scholarship to play lacrosse for ASU, and she's planning on signing up for fall classes. I should go to college. More than anything, she wants to be an elementary school principal. I haven't decided what I want to do with my life. I tell her I just want to be rich, and we share a nervous laugh. Betsy wriggles down in her seat belt, flicks off her flip-flops, and places her feet up on the far right corner of the dash. I'm not speeding anymore, but we make it back to the city in what seems like half the time it took to drive out to Superior. It's a sad realization.
"Where to, ma'am?" I ask, approaching the city, withholding my disappointment when she suggests heading back to Richards. We eventually exit the freeway and wind wordlessly and slowly through the suburbs until we reach the famed neighborhood's front gate. Being already after 1:00am, the guard has left, and Betsy tells me the code to lift the arm, allowing us in. We take simultaneous deep breaths, notice each other, and laugh.
With a nod, I reach up and open the sunroof as she strains for her lacrosse stick in the back seat. She unbuckles her seatbelt, and I steal a glance at her tanned legs on the seat beside me, her top half now above and outside the vehicle. We pass house after huge house and lawn after perfectly trimmed lawn and reach the back of the neighborhood along the golf course. Richards looks so peaceful at this time of night, with everyone snug in their huge down comforters on their therapeutic mattresses. These people have had it coming for a long time. Suckers. Now there's not a sound to be heard in any direction, except for the slow procession of the Nissan and the satisfying splat as soft jelly donut meets stucco at 40 miles an hour. She looks so serene up there. The ease of motion with which she snaps her stick makes her appear as a beautiful weapon designed especially for this. When all is said and done, it's a perfect eight donuts for eight houses, including Betsy's own, so as to avoid suspicion.
"Are you tired?" She asks me, her entire body now returned to the passenger seat. The girl brushes the excess glaze from her fingers and licks the rest.
"After that? No." I answer, truthfully and confidently. "Not the slightest bit, actually... Uh, do you want to go back to my place? It's not much, you know. I mean, we do have food, though- that is, if you're still hungry..."
"Sure. I could go for something. Let's get out of here."
We exit Richards a little more quickly than we entered, and toss the empty donut box into the stucco-encased dumpster on the way out. Betsy's buckled up now as if nothing happened, but the sunroof is still open, and the nighttime desert breeze pitches her hair back as it floods in.