Alex, Approximately
Page 22

So what if I’ve changed my mind twice? I’m really doing it this time. I mean, come on. It’s Alex. At least, I hope it’s Alex. And if it is, I’ll know, because I know him. I should, shouldn’t I? I’ve been talking to him online for months. We’re practically soul mates. Okay, maybe that’s a little much, but we’re at least friends of some sort or another. We have a bond that stretches beyond our common interest.
Then there’s the whole Porter situation. After the cops came and picked up the thieving kids yesterday—two run-of-the-mill officers, not my dad’s Sergeant Mendoza—Porter was involved in paperwork to do with all that, so I didn’t really see him again. Which is good, because all these crazy feelings I was feeling about him . . . they were just a byproduct of adrenaline and elation over capturing those two boys.
Anyway, I’m not thinking about Porter Roth right now. I’m especially not thinking about his fingers twined through mine after the victory high five. That’s banned from my brain. As if to underscore the matter, a low foghorn bellows offshore, making me jump. Here be dragons, Rydell. Keep away, if you know what’s good for you.
I clear Porter from my head and continue walking. The orange and blue of the Killian logo appears. We’ll show you a whale of a good time! Gee, if this really is Alex’s family, I already see why he hates working here. Lame-o. The business is situated between two others, Shoreline Bicycle Rentals, and the booth that sells tickets to the Ferris wheel. I hover by the bike rental place until I spot Patrick’s blond hair.
He’s working. And it looks like he’s alone.
I wait while he points someone down the boardwalk, giving them directions through the fog somewhere, then before I can lose my nerve again, I take three long strides and slow near the carved whale bench outside the ticketing window. A couple of seagulls scatter when I approach.
“Hi,” I say. “Remember me?”
“From the Shack,” he says. He’s wearing an orange Windbreaker and white shorts. His sideburns are cropped shorter than they were in the diner, and the morning breeze is blowing blond hair across his eyes. “I never forget a film buff. But I do forget names. Remind me . . . ?”
I’m sort of crushed. “Bailey.”
He snaps his fingers. “Bailey, that’s right. Patrick,” he says, extending his hand, and I pretend that I didn’t remember his name either as I shake it.
Now I’ve got to play it cooler than I planned, so I say, “I was just taking a walk, seeing if there were any used-DVD stores on the boardwalk.” I know there’s one. I’ve already been inside it three times. “And then I saw you, and I thought, Hey, maybe that guy would know.” Ugh. So awkward, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Yeah, there’s a little place called Video Ray-Gun, right in the middle of the promenade. Giant sci-fi ray gun outside. Hard to miss.”
Crap. This is going to be harder than I thought. Didn’t I give him a hint online last night? Unless this really isn’t Alex . . .
“So, do you get a break here any time soon? Maybe you’d want to go browse some DVDs with me?” I hear myself saying. “You mentioned getting coffee sometime, but, you know . . .” My voice is getting smaller and smaller.
Come on. If this is really Alex, surely he’ll remember me dropping the horoscope hint last night . . . won’t he? I mean, he’s always so attentive online. He remembers everything I say. Always gets my jokes, even remembers punch lines to gags from months back. But now he can’t even remember my actual name? Maybe it really was a good idea that I didn’t tell him I was moving out here, after all.
Hesitating, he leans over the counter and looks one way, then the other, peering into the fog. “All right. Yeah, sure. Why not. Business is slow. The current tour won’t be back for a bit, so I guess I can take thirty. Hold on, let me close the gate and put up the sign.”
I let out a long breath.
He jumps off his stool and reaches above his head to pull down a rolling metal shutter over the window, disappearing for a few seconds. When he reappears through a door on the side of the booth, he’s got a GONE WHALING! BE BACK IN A FEW MINUTES sign, which he hangs on the shuttered window.
“Okay, Bailey. Let’s go,” he says with an inviting smile.
Feeling better, I fall into step with him, and we make our way to the promenade. He asks me polite questions—how long have I been in town? Where am I from? Oh, DC. Have I seen the president or toured the White House? Have I been to Dupont Circle?
By the time we get to the giant ray-gun sign, the only thing I’ve been able to ask him is how long he’s lived in Coronado Cove (all his life), and where he goes to school—Berkshire Academy. The private school. This throws me for a loop. I never pegged Alex as a private-school kind of guy. I’m trying to figure this out as we step inside the shop.
Video Ray-Gun has one of those great dusty-musty smells that come with old stores, though most of their inventory doesn’t date back more than a few years. They specialize in campy sci-fi movies, and because that’s my dad’s catnip, he’s in love with this place. A few movie-related collectible posters and and toys grace the walls around the register, behind which hangs a TV where a Godzilla movie is playing. Two middle-aged long-haired men are paying more attention to the movie than to us when we walk past. Thank God, because I was just in here with Dad a couple of days ago, and I don’t want them to recognize me.
The store is busier than I expected—not exactly the best place for a quiet, romantic get-to-know-you date, but what can I do now? It’s all I have to work with. We stroll past oversize boxes of candy in retro theater packaging and a rack of upcoming Blu-ray DVDs available for preorder, and I try to pretend like I don’t know where I’m going as Patrick leads me to the Film Classics section.
“They don’t have a lot of stuff right now,” he tells me, turning the corner around a bay of shelves. “I was just in here yesterday. But check this out.” He grabs something off a shelf and hands it to me. “Boxed set of classic gangster films from the 1930s. It’s a steal.”
I accept the box and look at the back. “I’m not a huge fan of gangster movies.”
“Are you kidding? White Heat? The 1932 version of Scarface? That was insanely violent for its time, really pushed the envelope.”
“Yeaaah,” I drawl, handing him the box back. “Not a big gun fan.”
“Oh,” he says, reshelving it. “One of those, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
He holds up both hands. “Hey, whatever you’re into is fine. No argument from me. I just think film is film, and that you shouldn’t paste your political views onto a piece of art.”
Jeez. This isn’t going well. I take a deep breath and pause for a moment. Maybe this is my fault? I don’t really think so, but I strive to be the bigger person. “It’s not that. I had a bad personal experience, so it’s just . . . kind of a thing for me. Just not my cup of tea.”
“Oh, God,” he says, resting a sympathetic hand on my shoulder—just the tips of his fingers, actually. “I’m so sorry. I assumed. I’m being an ass. Forgive?”
“Forgotten,” I say with a smile.
“Oh! What about Breakfast at Tiffany’s? Everyone loves that.”