Cold Fury

the dress glittering before me, knowing Gina had a point. The best way to describe it is to say that Farrah Fawcett would’ve worn it if she were working undercover, posing as a disco instructor on Charlie’s Angels.

“It’s a spring dance, Mom,” Gina said. “Not a Halloween party.”

“Well, Sara Jane, if you don’t want it. .,” Gina’s mom began.

“No, it’s great,” I said, mainly because it looked like it would fit and because we were more than an hour late. “I’d love to wear it.”

Gina’s jaw dropped. “You would? Okay, but I’m walking into the gym alone. I mean it. I don’t need it getting around that I associate with a disco queen.”

Nothing could’ve kept me from that dance.

I would’ve gone in a suit of armor.

And then, once I walked into the balloon-filled gym and took a look around, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

Right in front of me, encircled by a golden spotlight, Max was dancing with Mandi Fishbaum. A swarm of her look- alikes cruised past me, one of them giving me an up-and-down inspection, saying, “Nice dress.”

I flashed a look at her and said, “Shut the hell up,” as a small, cold flame began to dance in my gut. It was a strange feeling, one that was scary and thrilling at the same time, and I concentrated the sensation behind my eyes. The look-alike froze, her own eyes wide and mouth slightly open, and then I blinked, and she scurried away like a terrified chipmunk. I stared across the dance floor, sure that the right thing to do was exercise my left hook on Mandi’s jaw. But then the flame subsided, the feeling passed, and I turned and hurried from the gym.

“Sara Jane! Wait!”

I was through the double doors and hurrying across the parking lot when Max caught me, touching my shoulder and turning me toward him. “Where are you going?” he said, giving me the same appraisal as the look- alike. He grinned and said, “Nice dress,” except that he meant it.

Without thinking, I pushed him so hard that it made him take a step back. “You were dancing with Mandi Fishbaum!” was the worst thing I could think to say.

“So?” Max said, coming at me with his arms open and grin in place.

“So? Do you like her?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“But you told me she was a knucklehead!”

“That was three years ago.”

“So three years later, she’s not a knucklehead anymore?”

“Oh yeah,” Max said, with his TV-star grin, straightening the lapels of the sport coat he wore over a Triumph Motorcycle T-shirt. He moved brown curls from his eyes and said, “Mandi’s still a knucklehead all right. World class.”

“But you like her?” I said, feeling tears coming, and pushing him away.

“Yeah. Sara Jane. .”

“And she’s a knucklehead?” I said, pushing him again.

“Yeah. Listen, can you stop doing that?”

“You like her and she’s a knucklehead?” I said, and before I could push him again, Max grabbed my arms and held them tightly.

“You know, this is starting to sound like a scene from that movie Doug just showed us. Chinatown, remember?”

“How can you like Mandi Fishbaum, of all people?” I said, trying to yank my arms free while Max held them.

“Because, as I was trying to tell you,” he said, “she’s my cousin.”

“Your. . cousin?”

“Yeah,” he said, with a smaller, more cautious grin. “Everyone has the right to like his cousin and also think she’s an idiot.”

“Max,” I said, the reality of the situation descending on my head like a wet blanket. I had wanted to be so cool, so laid back and funny, but instead I had come off like some type of stalker/maniac. “Max, I’m. .”

“A knucklehead?” he said, and the warm smile that followed made it okay. “I really do like your dress. It’s old school, but not hipster-fake old school. It’s real.”

“That’s for sure.”

“Like you,” he said matter-of-factly. “You just seem like. . you. You don’t try to be anyone else.”

“You mean the look-alikes.”

“The who?” he said.

I explained the term and Max nodded. He understood that I didn’t hate those girls but just wasn’t anything like them-I wasn’t embedded in the type of social circle (or any social circle, for that matter) that dictated how I dressed or who I did or didn’t speak to. Finally I said, “What about the dance?”

“I told my mom I’d be home by ten. I did my servitude and now I get my motorcycle.” He looked at his phone and said, “It’s nine thirty. Why are you so late?”

The day’s drama between my dad and uncle, combined with the anticipation of meeting Max at the dance, had worn me down. I was suddenly exhausted, and said, “It’s a long story. I’m going home, too.”

“Red or brown line?” he said.

“Brown to red.”

“You want to ride together?”

Max talked excitedly about his motorcycle as we walked, and then apologized for talking so much. I didn’t care what he talked about, I was just happy to be together, and then we were at the El stop, swiping our cards and climbing the stairs to the platform.

The train pulled to a silent, breezy halt, sending litter bits cartwheeling in the air.

The doors separated with a zwoosh.

The recorded announcement said, “This is Diversey. Exit on the right at Diversey.”

Max and I climbed aboard the mostly empty car and sat shoulder to shoulder. As the train pulled away, he cleared his throat and said, “Hey, you want to see a movie? I don’t mean a classic one. I mean a go-to-the-theater movie.”

“Which one?” I said, thrilled at the prospect of what sounded like a date.

“See if you can figure it out,” he said. “I’m talking about exploding helicopters, 3-D natural disasters, guys doing the super slo-mo spinning-in-the-air thing while spraying Uzis at each other. Oh, and also a gigantic bomb that could destroy earth.”

“Let me guess. . Ten Seconds to Zero?”

“What gave it away? The gigantic bomb?”

“You like Ashton Willis?”

“He’s not a great actor,” Max said, “but he gets blown up well.”

“Doug would disapprove,” I said. “He’d call it ‘culturally insignificant.’”

“Actually, I think he’d call it ‘cotton candy for little brains.’”

“Doug hates action movies,” I said.

“I know. That’s why I’m asking you instead of him,” Max said, and nodded his head at the Belmont platform that was rumbling into view. “What do you say? Ten Seconds to Zero. . nine, eight, seven. .”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “You can buy me some birthday popcorn.”

Max’s grin made my heart flutter like a baby bird. “No kidding. When’s your birthday?”

“Today,” I said, blushing for some reason. “Which means my family will probably have a cake tomorrow.”

“Which means the world will explode Sunday instead of Saturday,” he said. “Sunday at the Davis, noon?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said as the train eased to a stop. I rose and went to the exit, then looked back. “See you then.”

“Get ready for an action-packed birthday weekend,” Max said with a wink.