Rocky Road

                                                     ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM

***BIO*** GERALD SO is Fiction Editor for The Thrilling Detective Web Site. His recent work appears in AsininePoetry.com, Flash Pan Alley, and AntiMuse.

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Rocky Road

by Gerald So

Even as I pulled up to Wendy Waters' house, I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe anything I'd done since finding Wendy's photo in my locker. A 4x5 of her sophomore yearbook picture: blonde hair quickly pinned up, yellow tank top, eyes looking sleepy and sad. On the back, she'd scrawled her cell number and the question, *Can you make me happy?*

Wendy spent all of sophomore year attached to Joe Delaney, captain of the baseball team. No way I had a shot with her. But I called and she answered. I asked and she promised she was serious. She wanted to see me, but couldn't say exactly when: "My dad was in the Marines. He says I'm restricted to quarters after nine P.M."

I gulped.

"Can I call you tonight?" she asked.

"Sure."

"What's your number?"

"Oh," I said, and blurted my sister's cell.

"Great. We'll go cruising."

"Definitely."

Definitely. As if I had a car. As if I had more than a learner's permit.

Before panic set in, I told myself: I'd called her. I'd made a date. I could make the rest happen.

And I took Mom's keys to Stacy's car.

Easy enough with no one home. Which reminded me, who knew when Stacy would get in? What if Wendy called before I actually had the phone?

I prayed to the god of lust and waited. And waited--until I heard Stacy snoring--and took her phone.

Four missed calls, none from Wendy.

Maybe Wendy wouldn't call and I could return the phone before Stacy woke up.

But Wendy did call, and I said I'd be right over.

I'd been out past dark for Driver's Ed. Three A.M. looked about the same, minus the traffic.

Parked in front of Wendy's house, I took a breath. And gagged on nicotine and Old Spice. I buzzed down the windows, but there was no breeze. The phone's vibration made me jump.

"Scott?" Wendy said, savoring my name.

"Here."

"I'll be right down. Turn on your headlights."

"Sure."

"See you soon," she said. Behind it I heard, *Sex, sex, sex.*

I popped the glove compartment looking for air freshener and saw an open box of Trojans.

God, Stacy.

The passenger door opened and there was Wendy, wearing the yellow tank top, hair pinned up like her picture.

She buzzed the windows up and locked the doors. "Hi, Scott."

"I love the way you say my name."

She said it three more times, leaning closer each time, and kissed me on the mouth.

My first kiss. Tasted like Altoids. I didn't know what else to do, so I went right into my second.

"Do these seats recline?"

I reclined them as far as they went.

She straddled me and unpinned her hair, saying breathlessly in my ear, "I'm so hot."

"Yes. You are."

"You know what I want?"

"What?"

"Rocky Road."

"Ice cream?"

"Don't you work at a Cold Stone?"

"Is that why you picked me?"

She blinked. "So what if it is?"

"Buckle up."

There were no cars. I didn't bother with a parking spot. I bobbled the store keys out of my pocket before I heard the short whoop of a siren.
Then I felt the beam of a flashlight.

"You must be Scott," the cop said.

I was speechless. How did he know my name?

"I'm guessing you work here," he went on. "Free samples for the lady?"

"Yes, officer."

He told Wendy she could go, and she did, as fast as she could. To me, he said, "Are you scared shitless?"

"Yes, officer."

"I won't tell Stacy."

My mouth formed the word *how* as I caught a whiff of Old Spice.

Aug. 2007