step, one I could have done without, but I am able to have conversations about many different subjects and want to prove that I’m not so immature after all. I try not to make a face as I add, “Oh, I-I-I know all about periods and tampons and PMSD. My dad refers to my sister’s periods as ‘exclamation points.’”
She, too, seems uncomfortable with our current topic. She raises her eyebrows and says, “That’s a good story, Carter.”
After an awkward moment we bust out laughing, and she finally hops on my axle pegs for a ride home. I think we’re back on track so I divert our course through Merrian Park. The sun is going down and the huge park is almost deserted as she attempts to explain why she liked C. B. Down’s award-winning/terrible movie.
“They weren’t in a foreign country. . . . The language barrier was just a metaphor. He’d lost his ability to communicate.”
A lightbulb goes off in my mind, and I’m glad Abby is riding behind me and can’t see it. She is so much smarter than me! “So he was just losing his mind throughout the story? I get it, but I’m still not entertained by it. I wouldn’t see Cheer! The Musical again if you paid me, but it was at least amusing.”
She asks, “Could you believe Hilary Idaho’s boobs?”
“Yeah, where did those come from?”
“The silicone valley,” she replies judgmentally.
“You think they’re fake?” I ask, and offer up a reverse high five for the quick boob joke.
She slaps my hand and says, “Totally! I read all about her surgery in US Weekly . She was completely flat in her last movie and then all the sudden she’s a C cup? Come on!”
I don’t have much to say about Hilary Idaho’s movies, but I love the fact that Abby and I are discussing cup sizes. “Isn’t she our age?”
Abby replies, “She’s sixteen! What kind of message does that send to her fans?”
“Tits are important!”
She whacks the back of my head and says, “Exactly! It’s ridiculous, dangerous, elitist and—”
“Totally awesome!”
She whacks me again because she thinks I’m joking, so I add, “You can’t get too high-and-mighty with your boomin’ natural rack back there.”
She doesn’t have a rebuttal for that one. She may not appreciate having her breasts used against her in an argument. I’d like to stay on this subject for as long as possible, so I try to clarify my position. “I might actually agree with you. I happen to have a love/hate relationship with boobs. I’d probably get a lot more done if you guys didn’t have ’em, but then I think . . . would I even get up in the morning?”
She doesn’t say anything again. I believe that’s the typical reaction when someone says something super profound.
We’re rolling past the duck pond when she starts telling drama camp stories. She tells me how much fun she’s having and that two kids have already fallen into the orchestra pit (I’m not the only one). She’s really into the “coolness and maturity” of the college drama majors. She mentions one of her coworkers in particular a few times. She tells me, “His name is Carter, like you,” and how he’s “super funny” and “totally smart,” and how much I’d “love him.” Which is odd because hearing about the guy, and the tone of her voice, makes me think that I would not even like him, and I might want to punch him in his face if I saw it. But I don’t want to be one of those guys who’s always accusing his girl of stuff and acting immature and picking fights, so I just quicken my pace instead. She tells me about all the plays this College Carter Dumbass has starred in and how Ms. McDougle was talking to him about trying out for my part in C. B. Down’s movie. And how she’s going to rehearse with him too.
My legs are burning as we fly past the picnic area. I pant, “I thought it was a high school movie.”
She explains, “Yeah, but he’s such a good actor that he can easily pull off being younger.”
“Is
She, too, seems uncomfortable with our current topic. She raises her eyebrows and says, “That’s a good story, Carter.”
After an awkward moment we bust out laughing, and she finally hops on my axle pegs for a ride home. I think we’re back on track so I divert our course through Merrian Park. The sun is going down and the huge park is almost deserted as she attempts to explain why she liked C. B. Down’s award-winning/terrible movie.
“They weren’t in a foreign country. . . . The language barrier was just a metaphor. He’d lost his ability to communicate.”
A lightbulb goes off in my mind, and I’m glad Abby is riding behind me and can’t see it. She is so much smarter than me! “So he was just losing his mind throughout the story? I get it, but I’m still not entertained by it. I wouldn’t see Cheer! The Musical again if you paid me, but it was at least amusing.”
She asks, “Could you believe Hilary Idaho’s boobs?”
“Yeah, where did those come from?”
“The silicone valley,” she replies judgmentally.
“You think they’re fake?” I ask, and offer up a reverse high five for the quick boob joke.
She slaps my hand and says, “Totally! I read all about her surgery in US Weekly . She was completely flat in her last movie and then all the sudden she’s a C cup? Come on!”
I don’t have much to say about Hilary Idaho’s movies, but I love the fact that Abby and I are discussing cup sizes. “Isn’t she our age?”
Abby replies, “She’s sixteen! What kind of message does that send to her fans?”
“Tits are important!”
She whacks the back of my head and says, “Exactly! It’s ridiculous, dangerous, elitist and—”
“Totally awesome!”
She whacks me again because she thinks I’m joking, so I add, “You can’t get too high-and-mighty with your boomin’ natural rack back there.”
She doesn’t have a rebuttal for that one. She may not appreciate having her breasts used against her in an argument. I’d like to stay on this subject for as long as possible, so I try to clarify my position. “I might actually agree with you. I happen to have a love/hate relationship with boobs. I’d probably get a lot more done if you guys didn’t have ’em, but then I think . . . would I even get up in the morning?”
She doesn’t say anything again. I believe that’s the typical reaction when someone says something super profound.
We’re rolling past the duck pond when she starts telling drama camp stories. She tells me how much fun she’s having and that two kids have already fallen into the orchestra pit (I’m not the only one). She’s really into the “coolness and maturity” of the college drama majors. She mentions one of her coworkers in particular a few times. She tells me, “His name is Carter, like you,” and how he’s “super funny” and “totally smart,” and how much I’d “love him.” Which is odd because hearing about the guy, and the tone of her voice, makes me think that I would not even like him, and I might want to punch him in his face if I saw it. But I don’t want to be one of those guys who’s always accusing his girl of stuff and acting immature and picking fights, so I just quicken my pace instead. She tells me about all the plays this College Carter Dumbass has starred in and how Ms. McDougle was talking to him about trying out for my part in C. B. Down’s movie. And how she’s going to rehearse with him too.
My legs are burning as we fly past the picnic area. I pant, “I thought it was a high school movie.”
She explains, “Yeah, but he’s such a good actor that he can easily pull off being younger.”
“Is