The Perfect Escape (The Perfect Escape #1) - Suzanne Park Page 0,33
We threw our coats in the back seat and headed straight toward the swarm of high schoolers standing in a nonlinear line. Lots of unfamiliar faces surrounded us as we moved forward in herd formation.
When we got to the entrance, Raina announced, “I’m Raina. Mishra. Party of two.”
The pretty strawberry-blond attendant nodded, scouring the first page. I leaned in to see if Nate was on the list. My heart fluttered in my chest like a caged butterfly at the possibility, but “Kern, James” was there and “Kolb, McKinsey,” but no “Kim, Nate.”
Deflated, I turned to Raina. “You sure you want to go in? We can go to a movie. My dad’s treat.”
Her warm, copper-colored eyes crinkled with laughter. “No way, not now! Do you hear the music?”
My brain tuned in and listened for lyrics. “Is that Maroon 5?”
“Are you serious? God, how long have you been cooped up at home?”
I was being completely serious. I had no clue about anything when it came to music. Okay, Broadway musical soundtracks, yes, movie soundtracks, yes. Everything else? Nope. No clue.
Raina shook her head and pulled me through the door by the elbow. “You’re hopeless sometimes.” Smugly, she yelled over the surround sound, “It’s Reverse, the newest, hottest band from Seattle.”
“Who?”
“Oh my God, stop it,” she giggled.
Seriously. No. Clue. “Okay, let’s get our skates. Looks like people are headed that way.” I pointed straight ahead, past the restrooms. We followed the flow to the rental counter.
My white cami and Raina’s gray-and-white-striped shirt glowed in the black light. Every few seconds, a primary-colored light would strobe by our faces. Red. Yellow. Blue. Repeat. Pulsing to the beat of the song. A lone disco ball spun in the center of the rink, reflecting and refracting colored lights and spraying them everywhere. Most of the skaters rolled in clusters of two or three. The majority were pretty terrible. There were a few people hovering in the center of the rink, dancing alone, spinning like tops, or skating backward to the music, in their own little secluded world.
All four attendants inside the skate rental booth zoomed around, busily handing out pairs in a disorderly fashion. Impatient girls and guys screamed out their shoe sizes (Seven women’s! Eleven men’s! Thirteen wide, men’s!) while the employees brought out white-and-brown worn leather roller skates, insides damp with freshly sprayed disinfectant. The weighty artificial lemon scent of Lysol, mixed with the dense, hanging layer of dirty sock smell made my stomach lurch. It was like my unventilated school locker room and the local indoor trampoline park had a baby. And that baby farted nonstop.
Breathing from my mouth, I shouted to the male attendant wearing stacked glow-in-the-dark necklaces, “Size eight please!”
“Same for me,” Raina chimed in.
Two girls rolled toward us screaming, “Out of the waaaaay! We can’t stop! Sorry!” Raina and I parted like curtains, just in time to watch them slam boobs-first into the rental counter between us. By some miracle, both girls remained upright, saving their dignity.
The attendant rolled back over to Raina. “I’m so sorry, we’re out of the eights. And the sevens and nines. I checked those for you too.”
One of the traumatized boob-squashed girls said, “You can have my skates. I’m an eight. And definitely returning them. Skating isn’t my thing. Totally done.”
Her friend nodded. “Me too. I’m done.”
They unlaced their skates and leaned on the counter as they wiggled them off. The first girl to finish handed her skates directly to me. “Here you go.”
She bent down to help her friend unsuction her foot from the inside of the skate. I whispered to the attendant, “Hi, can you spray these?”
Out came the Lysol. Pssssssssss! Psssssssssss! A squirt inside each skate. Instant sanitation.
Two squirts and Raina was done too. We carried our skates to a carpeted bench. I got the right one on first. The inside was still warm from the previous wearer. So disgusting.
Raina was having some trouble. “I think my socks are too thick. It’s like trying to shove raw biscuit dough back inside the popped can.”