“Do you speak French?” he suddenly asked.

Pete's Vagina
57. Moving the Chain
by Erin Halfelven

It felt awkward waiting by the passenger door of the van for Lee to come around and open it for me, but I felt it would be more embarrassing to open it myself.

Especially since it turned out to be locked. A giggle escaped me when he opened the door and offered a hand for me to hold while getting in.

The van was really no taller than Jake’s pickup, and I clambered in and out of that truck almost daily, but this was different. This was a date.

I’m on a date with Leland Frick. I marveled to myself for maybe the twentieth time. And I’m having fun!

I took Lee’s hand and felt his strength as he lifted me enough that I easily put my foot on the nearly-imaginary running board, then levered myself up, turning to slide into the seat—slightly confused by but grateful for the fact I wasn’t wearing a skirt.

We locked eyes for a moment before he swung the door closed, and I felt myself smiling back to his—what else to call it?—shit-eating grin.

As quickly as he might with his handicap, Lee raced around the front of the truck to the driver’s side while I blushed and giggled at a private thought. If I’d been wearing the cheerleader skirt I had on at the ice cream party, Gentleman Lee would have gotten flashed while helping me into the van.

I hadn’t sorted out how I felt about that idea before he slid into the driver’s seat, showed me another grin, and twisted the key to bring his machine to life.

Late fall afternoons in the Arizona mountains can be spectacular. The deep green of the pines set-off the reds, yellows and oranges of the aspens and cottonwoods, and the smell of the mixed forest and desert coming in the vents was almost intoxicating. The road twisted and turned as we climbed away from the man-made lake, now and then giving us views of the sapphire water before we topped the ridge and started down to the main road.

Neither of us said anything until we were on the highway again. The drive back to Friendly, climbing more than half a mile, would take most of an hour, especially since we were going to the El Tesoro Drive-in on the far edge of town. We stayed quiet for a while longer. Time to think?

I didn’t want to think. There was way too much to consider--including Mrs. Frick’s plans for me. I really was the only girl in Arizona, and probably in the whole country, who was a regular position player on a high school boys’ football team. And I’m a star player, too!

I really hadn’t considered such a result when I went out for football back in freshman year. The thought hadn’t even occurred to me. Of course? But things had changed. I had changed… even if no one else remembered.

Lee’s mom was too much of a politician not to see how my new existence could be used to get publicity for the town, and for several of her pet projects in the area. I didn’t have to like it, but Mrs. Frick was a professional at getting people to come around to her views.

I sighed, and Lee flicked his gaze in my direction, not for the first time. Back at the restaurant, he had called me beautiful. I’d seen myself in mirrors. My black hair, pale skin and blue eyes were striking, but they had been so back when I was a boy. No one had called me beautiful then.

Lee let go of the steering wheel and lay his right hand on the console between us, palm up. Quite deliberately, I noticed. An invitation, surely.

I put my left hand atop his, palm to palm, and worked my more slender fingers between his. We clasped hands, palm to palm, briefly, before he had to let go to put his hand back on the steering wheel.

I sighed again. The Beeline Highway is called that because, for most of its length, it is arrow-straight. There would have to be a turn in just the wrong spot to put an end to our handholding. We were in one of those deep cuts through a hillside created with high explosives by the WPA back in the 1930s when the road was first built.

There would be another slight turn when we emerged from the cut, and then the road would be straight for miles. I kept my eyes on Lee, but I put my hand on the console between us as he had done before. He glanced sideways at me before releasing the wheel and covering my hand with his.

He tugged slightly when we clasped, but the van had bucket seats, unlike Jake’s pickup, so I was as close as I could be. Damn, I didn’t know how I felt about that.

“You’re distracting me,” he commented with a smile. But he didn’t let go of my hand.

I smiled back and felt myself blushing.

“Like that,” he said. “Such a pretty blush.”

I tried to pull my hand back, knowing that I was turning even redder, but he didn’t let go.

The miles rolled by, and we still held hands.

“Do you speak French?” he suddenly asked.

“What? No,” I admitted. “Some Spanish and a word or two of Navajo.” I narrowed my eyes a bit. It had been a very odd question to spring up. “Why?”

“Because you remind me of Carolyn Jones,” he explained.

“Who?”

“Morticia Addams on the old TV show,” he said. “And you make me feel a bit like Gomez.”

I laughed. “You don’t look a thing like what’s-his-face! You’re a blond, and they were both brunet!”

“Cara mia,” he said, lifting my hand to kiss my fingers, sending shivers all the way up to my ears.

He smiled a crooked smile directly at me.

I had to admit, with the smile, he did look like Gomez after all.