Kids These Days

Chapter 39: Becca

I'm stretching in my room when the landline rings. I let it go off for another minute before I give in, wincing at my achy ankle as I limp into the hallway to answer the phone.

"Hello?"

"Perfect, just the person I was hoping to speak with. Are you free this afternoon?"

"Kiran? How'd you get this number?"

"The lord works in mysterious ways. How do you feel about pancakes?"

"Morally? Ethically? I think lunch is a little late for pancakes."

"I know a 24/7 diner that I guarantee will change your mind, as well as your outlook on, like, life itself. Pick you up at noon?"

"In what? Your sister's truck?"

"Ha! I'd have to pry the keys out of her cold, dead hands." Kiran laughs, the carefree, boyish sound crackling over the phone lines like lightning. "No, I have my own car. What's your opinion on convertibles?"

***

Two hours later, all I can think is: what the hell am I doing?

The wind tears through my hair, thwarting my attempt to wrestle it back into a ponytail. (I'm going to look like I stuck a fork in an electrical socket by the time we reach the diner.) Meanwhile, Kiran shouts the words to a Springsteen song as we hit eighty on the highway, his convertible vibrating like it's about to come to life.

I used to think that I had morals. Dignity, even. Then I got into the passenger seat of a neon yellow Corvette drop top with the vanity plate "U W1SH".

Kiran turns to me and yells something, but the roar of the wind is so loud, I can't tell if he's asking me a question or reciting more Springsteen lyrics.

"WHAT?" I demand, hopelessly.

In response, he cranks up the volume until it sounds like the speakers are going to achieve nuclear fission, and shouts, "IT'S THE BOSS!"

We peel off the highway, skidding into the parking lot of a boxy diner that looks like it was constructed entirely out of fun-house mirrors. "Frankie's Flapjacks" glows luminously above the entrance. In the windows, an even brighter, strobing sign proclaims, "We've got the sausage!" which sounds like less of an invitation and more of a warning to any potential extraterrestrials flying overhead.

Kiran parks the Corvette neatly on the line between two parking spaces, the radio blasting so loud that an elderly couple stops walking to give us a dirty look. If Kiran notices, he doesn't seem to care -- he just keeps singing along, proudly joining Bruce on the chorus:

Mister I ain't a boy, no I'm a man

And I believe in a promised land!

The song fades out, and Kiran yanks the keys out of the ignition. I finally manage to twist my hair into a half-hearted bid at a ponytail.

Kiran opens the car door for me, which makes me roll my eyes, and we head into the diner together. It's just as shiny on the inside, as if an art deco architect decided to take LSD and cover everything with reflective steel and firetruck-red vinyl.

"You're limping," Kiran notices, as the hostess shows us to our booth.

"You should see the other guy."

"The other guy who kicked you in the ankle?"

We take our seats. My bare thighs instantly glue to the leather seat; I wince at the thought of peeling them off later, and regret my choice to wear jean shorts. "It happened on a run," I say, which sounds better than admitting I tripped over a rock.