snapshot taken from above by her own hand. Celine was real.
And she was perfect, in a little pink dress that showed the golden-brown skin on her thighs and all up and down her arms, her chest. What a tan! This girl was a melanin goddess!
Improbably, she walked toward me.
The men in the restaurant turned to watch her. The women in the restaurant turned to watch her. The scientists turned to watch her. Then they all watched her walk over and hug… me. Yes, me, the slumped-over boy with the sweat under his arms and his legs jiggling. I could see the scientists furiously developing hypotheses to explain:
“What is she doing with him?”
I could sense them evaluating me.
“He seems to suffer from a lack of pigmentation,” the oldest scientist would observe clinically.
“And from excessive perspiration,” his younger colleague would add eagerly.
“He doesn’t appear very fertile,” the only female would surmise. “I wouldn’t select him as a mate.”
But the scientists could suck it, because Celine came up and hugged me! As her head pressed against my chest, her dark brown hair felt like ribbons. She smelled like she wore deodorant over every inch of her body. God. Wow.
“How great to meet you!” Celine said, pulling away. “And—the restaurant! This is… well, a surprise.”
“Do you like it?” I asked, pulling out Celine’s chair for her.
“It’s certainly a surprise!” She laughed, folding her little pink skirt under her tan legs. “I thought we were just having coffee.”
“I thought we could have dinner instead.”
“Oh! Well, great!” Her voice was so high-pitched that I couldn’t tell if she was excited or faking enthusiasm in a high-decibel range.
After I took my seat, we sat facing each other like chess opponents. I was looking at the napkin I was folding in my lap, but Celine was staring unapologetically at me.
It made me uncomfortable, seeing as I’m unusual-looking. Well, not unusual looking. I’m not a van Gogh or anything. But my dark hair is kind of shocking because my eyes are really light blue. Like, really light blue. Think Siberian husky. And, as I’ve told you, I don’t have the greatest tan.
“You’re very pale,” Celine informed me.
I was startled by her saying that, just straight out.
“Oh, yeah,” I fumbled. “Well…”
“I didn’t know you’d be this pale.”
“I described myself as looseleaf…” I began. We had exchanged physical descriptions via Facebook message. I had been honest, but focused on my height—my best attribute.
“I didn’t understand the extent.”
“… covered in Liquid Paper,” I finished.
“Right. Well.” Celine sipped her water. “This is a lovely place!”
For a lovely lady, I thought. Nope. Censored. Don’t spout that weak shit, Finbar. You are already unworthy of her.
There was definitely a Beauty and the Beast situation happening here. Celine was even a French brunette who liked to read, like Belle. I could picture all these little bakers popping out of their houses singing “Bonjour” to her. Of course, I didn’t have much on the Beast. He was über-manly and could kick some ass. Also, he was abnormally hairy. I’m not even normally hairy, judging from brief and frightening glimpses in the St. Luke’s locker room…. Okay, I needed to stop thinking about body hair. And Disney movies. And how Celine was way beyond my league.
Man up, Finbar! Get in the zone! Keep your eye on the ball! Get your head in the game! Get your, get your, get your, get your head in the game…. No! Do not sing the songs from High School Musical in your head! That is another damn Disney movie! Does Zac Efron have more body hair than me?
“So,” I interrupted my own stream of insanity. “What are some places I should check out in Manhattan?”
Knowing my interests, or perhaps based on her own interests, Celine began to talk about bookstores. I was mesmerized by the movements of her mouth, picturing it on my mouth, so I didn’t speak much. Luckily Celine was content to talk, giving me the poser quotient of every bookstore on the island. It wasn’t until the waiter interrupted us that I realized I couldn’t read the menu, which was written in French.
I gestured for Celine to order first, and she pursed her lips even more to order. God, French was a sexy language. You had to make kissing faces just to speak it! Celine ordered two different dishes. They sounded sexy but later turned out to be snails and exploded duck liver.
Was there anything written in English? Or anything I would actually eat? I scrambled frantically.
“Hamburger!” I declared