“So he bought an AK47, like, just for fun,” he said.
Peter and Megan were at Starbucks, where they stopped for Frappucinos nearly every day after school. The place was crowded with soccer moms with kids in tow, fueling themselves before hauling their kids to practice, and a host of teenagers who had nothing else to do until dinnertime.
“What’s an AK47?” she asked absently, not really caring but wanting to kill time until their order came up.
“An assault rifle,” he said. “AK stands for Automatic-Kalashnikov. It’s made in Russia, and it’s one seriously badass rifle. The barrel is grooved, which makes it so that the bullets…”
Peter launched into a long, technical explanation of how the gun was manufactured, and the details of its killing potential.
Their drinks were ready. The barista called out their names. Peter collected their cups and handed Megan her order. They found a table. He kept up his monologue throughout.
Megan listened with half an ear, her mind wandering. She was thinking about her outfit for Tolo, which was coming up in only five days. She wasn’t sure about the silver sandals, whether they would stay on her feet when she danced. Maybe she should go to Nordstrom and see if she could find anything better. Megan had invited Peter to Tolo over a month ago, as soon as tickets went on sale. Back then she had been in the throes of a crazy crush on him, but as the month had worn on, her interest had started to wane. She still wanted to go to the dance, of course; after all, she was on the planning committee. She had to go, had to show up in her finery on the arm of a handsome boy, whether or not she still liked him.
“Interesting,” she said, when he finally paused for breath. He opened his mouth to continue his lecture, apparently not understanding her ironic use of the word.
She blurted, “So, Peter, did you book the limo yet?"
“The limo?” he asked, staring at her gap-mouthed as if he’d never heard of a limousine.
“You know, a large vehicle driven by a chauffeur, engaged for the purpose of riding in style to a formal dance,” Megan said, striving to keep her tone light and flirtatious.
“Wait, I was supposed to book a limo? But I thought Tolo was, you know, girls invite boys."
The boy who could riff for thirty minutes on nearly any topic, whether or not he knew anything about it, apparently had not the first clue about the logistics of a high school dance. Or maybe he was feigning ignorance. Megan looked at him incredulously.
“We talked about this,” she said.
“I think I would remember you telling me that I had to hire a limo,” he said.
“So, I take it the answer is no,” she said.
“What’s wrong with going in my car?” he asked.
She ignored the question.
“What about dinner?” she asked. “Did you make reservations?”
His blank expression told her the answer. She was starting to hate his ugly mug. How could a boy who was so smart be so incredibly dumb?
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