I laughed. “You guys having a party?”
“Just drinking a few beers and trying to stay out of trouble.”
He said it nonchalantly. I’d drunk beer and some vodka with my girlfriends during our junior high years, but not much. My parents also allowed my brother and I to drink a glass of wine on holidays.
More scuffling.
“Guys, knock it off! Damn, you almost made me spill the whole thing. Sorry about that, Anna. These idiots are being hella rowdy over here. I should go before we’re cut off.”
“Okay…” I trailed off.
“My family is going to see the King Tut exhibit next weekend in San Francisco, and I wondered if you would like to, uh, come along.”
He was nervous, and I liked it. He was into me! “That sounds fun. I’m pretty sure I can. Let me talk to my parents and I’ll let you know.”
“Great. Try not to hurt your ears in the meantime.”
“Ha ha.”
“See you in school,” he said.
We said our goodbyes, and as soon as the dial tone buzzed in my ear, I called Michelle and told her the whole story, then Katy. Once off the phone, I sprawled on my back and did a happy dance, kicking my legs in the air. My other slipper flew across the room. I flipped on my stomach and screamed into my pillow. Pete O’Reilly asked me on a date!
3
Crush
I opened my eyes Monday morning, and my insides churned. Would Pete act friendly? Distant? Would he talk to me? Should I find him?
It didn’t take long to find out. Toward the end of nut break, he found me hanging out with my friends and joined in as if he’d always been a part of our threesome. He told us a funny joke, the laughter breaking the ice and helping Katy warm toward him. Unbeknownst to Pete, he was under her scrutiny.
In my futile obsession with Ken, I failed to notice Pete much, but he took center stage now. I studied him as Katy engaged him in her version of twenty questions. He stood at least five inches taller than me, with smooth, unpimpled skin and soulful eyes—green flecked with gold. He wore jeans, a white T-shirt and a bulky red and white letterman jacket with his name embroidered in cursive white letters on one side.
By Friday, Pete had ditched his own friends, joining Michelle and me for lunch instead. His engaging, sarcastic wit kept us thoroughly entertained.
Pete picked me up for our date. He arrived in a large station wagon—the kind with fake wood veneer on the sides—with his mother behind the wheel. After he met my parents, they escorted us out and introductions ensued. Pete opened the car door like a gentleman, and I slid into the back seat next to his friend, Tony Chavez, a soccer teammate. Pete introduced me to his younger sister, Janie, her resemblance to her brother unmistakable.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Mrs. O’Reilly told my father.
“Enjoy the exhibit. It’s supposed to be amazing, a once-in-a-lifetime event.” My father leaned down through the car window. “Have a good time—and be careful!”
Embarrassed, I responded with a weak smile and Pete waved at him. As the car pulled away from the curb, Pete smiled at my eye-roll, a mutual understanding of how parents could be such geeks.
“Anna, I understand you’re Italian,” Mrs. O’Reilly said, but it sounded like eye-talion.
“I was born in Oakland, but my father’s family is from Italy.”
Mrs. O’Reilly stared at me in the rear view mirror. “Your mom, too?”
“No,” I said, laughing. “My mom’s a regular ol’ California girl. My Dad was attracted to the blonde hair, that whole stereotypical beach girl thing.”
“We’re Irish,” she said. “And we are one big bunch. I have nine brothers and sisters.”
“Wow.” I couldn’t handle one sibling, let alone eight.
“I’m Mexican,” Tony said. That explained his dark complexion and onyx hair and eyes. “Bring on the enchiladas!”
“I’ve never eaten one,” I said.
Tony’s mouth dropped. “Tamale?”
I shrugged. “Nope.”
“Taco?”
I grinned. “I love tacos!”
“Phew.” He pretended to wipe his brow. “I was getting worried.”
“My turn. Manicotti?” I asked, pronouncing it the Italian way, like mann-a-goat.
Tony scrunched his face. “What?”
“You would call it mannacotty, the Americanized version.” My father would shake his head in disgust.
“Still in the dark,” he said.
“Pasta fagioli?”
“You’re speaking Greek now, girl. Give me something easy.”
“Spaghetti and meatballs?”
“Now you’re talkin’.”
“Try not to pay Tez much attention,” Pete said, “or he’ll never leave you alone. He’s like a seagull waiting for breadcrumbs on the pier.”
“Tez?”
A wide grin spread across Tony’s face. “A nickname, but everyone calls me that.”
We bantered on the way to San Francisco, helping quell my nerves at being on my first date with Pete. His mom and sister treated me nicely, and Tez was a trip.
We exited the Bay Bridge and drove through city streets, finally arriving at the museum, where a huge banner advertised Treasures of Tutankhamun. This was the first time King Tut and the artifacts buried with him had toured the world.
As we walked through the exhibit, we learned Tutankhamun was one of the last kings of Egypt’s 18th Dynasty, dying under mysterious circumstances. He was only eighteen years old and likely murdered by his successor.
Although I found the displays and history fascinating, I could hardly concentrate. Pete stayed close and the tension between us magnified my senses. When his deep voice whispered in my ear, I inhaled his musky cologne. When his hand brushed against my elbow, I experienced a jolt. He grew handsomer each second, making my heart flutter with his shy smile.
The grand finale of the exhibit was spectacular: King Tut himself in his ornate sarcophagus. As my eyes sought out each detail, I experienced a pang of regret for
