Biggie by Derek E. Sullivan Page B

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    Annabelle opens the door and climbs in the cab. “Nice truck,” she says. “My uncle has a truck like this.”
    â€œThanks,” I say. I don’t say I bought it to impress girls , but I did after reading last year about her love of Silverado trucks.
    If I can be honest, I have never been to McKellen’s and there are no gift certificates. I meant to buy some online but kept forgetting. Hopefully Annabelle will forget that too.
    Before today, I had no idea how to get there. Thank you, Google Maps. As we hit the interstate, I turn up Def Leppard’s “Let’s Get Rocked.”
    â€œI dig this song,” I say. In reality the song is all right, but not as good as Leppard’s early stuff. But I know that Annabelle loves the song. Her cousin just saw Def Leppard in Germany, and they were talking about when they used to do a dance number to it as kids. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only kid at Finch that loves eighties stuff.”
    Annabelle gives me a weird look. She tilts her head like a confused dog. “How would you know?” she asks. “You never ask what anyone likes.”
    The freshly trimmed hair on my head starts to itch, my fingers tingle, and my lips dry.
    â€œI hear things, see things,” I say. “When you’re not talking all the time, all your senses are heightened, kind of like a blind person hears and smells really well.”
    I peek at myself in the rearview mirror. I look clean-cut with just the right amount of chaos.
    I sneak a glance at her. Annabelle doesn’t seem interested in talking about music or even my lack of chitchat at Finch. She’s gazing out the window as we pass combines harvesting October corn. After only ten minutes, Annabelle’s bored.
    The restaurant is dark, which bums me out because I can barely see Annabelle’s green eyes. For some reason, elevator music plays overhead. The table has a small lit candle and a white tablecloth. The waitress brings us a basket of bread and butter. I’m not a big fan of bread and butter, which keeps me from embarrassing myself in front of Annabelle. I can be a messy eater when I’m hungry, and right now I’m starving after a day of skipped meals. I know a person can’t lose twenty pounds by not eating one breakfast and one lunch, but I figure a day of fasting can’t hurt.
    Neither of us says anything, which is nice. I know it’s weird to be on a date, especially a dinner date, where no one talks, but I feel comfortable in silence. If only I could do something about the clang of dishes and glasses or the small talk from surrounding tables about traffic, cold bread, and lack of water. Those noises start to bug me and I notice Annabelle holding in a yawn. I need to do something out of the ordinary and shake things up.
    â€œSo,” I say, “do you come here often?”
    Do you come here often? That’s out of the ordinary. Am I in a singles bar? What’s wrong with me? I’m super intelligent and I’ve planned for this night for years. Why can’t I just be cool?
    â€œUsed to,” she answers. “My family used to come here a lot when I was younger, but then my two older brothers went to college, so we stopped coming. I guess my parents think it’s too nice of a place for just the three of us to go.”
    â€œHow many brothers do you have?”
    â€œJust the two older ones,” she says. “I’m the baby.”
    â€œI’m the oldest,” I say. “My mom had me when she was in high school.”
    â€œYeah, I know the story,” she says.
    â€œWhat story?”
    â€œAre you kidding me?” she asks. “It’s not every year that the star volleyball player and the star quarterback have a kid together. My mom still talks about how your mom got pregnant and cost the volleyball team a chance at a state title.”
    â€œI’m sure my mom’s sorry,” I