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Butterscotch - Chapter 1 - Preview
🕑 Added 2019-10-30 07:01:01 +0000 UTC
I always hated yard work. Sweaty all over, itching from grass clippings getting inside your clothes, working outside in hot weather or cold—what’s to like? I’m a ginger, so the day I went over to mow Dr. Herlihy’s huge lawn, I wore long pants and long sleeves, sunscreen, gloves, and a wide hat. The forecast for late June in the Hollywood Hills topped out at seventy-eight because of lingering June gloom.
I wouldn’t smother in the heat—save that for July and August—but the worst thing about the outfit I put together had to be the hat. My own baseball caps wouldn’t cut it, not enough neck or ear protection. Collar-length red hair (I hadn’t had a haircut since school pictures in October) would not stop the burning sun. But the hat!
One of Mom’s, of course, a wide-brimmed, paper-straw yellow confection with lace and a pink ribbon, it sat on my head that morning and mocked me. I had debated tearing off the ribbon and lace, but I couldn’t mutilate Mom’s hat. I’d just have to put up with it and hope none of my ruder friends saw me wearing it.
But a lot of them were out of the area for the summer, anyway. Off on vacations or making trips to college campuses.
Me and a few of the other stay-behinds would be gaming at Marty Busch’s later. I looked forward to it. We had a long-running role-playing game going and my main character, Eleanor of Caledonia, was going to be leveling up soon and eligible to claim her family title of Countess of Skye.
We were all nerds in the group, friends in high school, and already some of us had left the group to go to college. This might be the last summer enough of us could gather every week to game, eat nachos and make excuses for our inability to get dates.
I planned to attend junior college in the fall, probably LA City College, the main campus of which was less than two miles from home. It was straight down Vermont Avenue, which was only a block from my house and had a bus stop right there and a subway stop too. Yeah, LA has a subway.
Tuition was cheap, about $1000 a semester, Mom said she could afford that with help from my dad. I’d probably still have to have a job like lawn care or flipping burgers, but I could live with my mom to save money. It was so close, I could take the Metro, get a bus, ride a bike or even walk. I didn’t have a car or even a license but living in central LA meant I didn’t really need one.
The only thing about going to college was, I had no idea what I wanted to study. Certainly not lawn care. I paused in the shade of a cypress hedge and wiped sweat off my brow. I took the hat off to let my head cool a bit, then put the silly frou-frou thing back on.
Something clued me in that I was being watched. I scanned my surroundings and spotted a white Mercedes convertible cruising slowly down the street with a blonde in big sunglasses looking right at me. (Well, with the glasses, it was hard to tell what she was looking at, but she faced me directly.)
I debated waving, and ended up making some vague gesture with my hand. She immediately sped up and looked away. Nice car, I thought. Nice looking girl, too. Probably way out of my league. It was good that I had scared her off. Right. I went back to running an edger around the bricked-in bases of the podocarpus trees.
Ms Mercedes had been heading up the hill, toward where the real mansions could be found. Up where people had full-time gardeners, or contracted gardening services—not just some kid hired out of high school because his mom worked in their office.
I sighed and fantasized briefly that the blonde would come back and offer to take me somewhere for a nice cold drink. I’d like to get a better look at her, but I wasn’t sure I didn’t want the cold drink more.
Ten minutes later, while bagging some of the lawn waste, I looked up again. And there she was, about forty feet away on the sidewalk. Blonde hair fell around her shoulders in waves. Her big sunglasses hid her eyes, but her lips were red, and sparkling hoops hung from her ears. Flat multicolored stones made a necklace. Her blouse was simple, sleeveless, and bright yellow, like her hair.
Her waist was trim, and her arms bare except for a bracelet on her left wrist that matched her necklace. She wore pale blue shorts that somehow reminded me of an old movie. Her shoes were white leather but flat-heeled, and she had a clutch purse—also white leather—in one hand.
She put one hand up to shade her eyes and called out to me. “Are you—,” she began, but changed her mind. Instead, she asked, “What’s your name?”
I was really beginning to regret wearing Mom’s hat. Maybe she thought I was a girl. How embarrassing. I answered, “Davey,” and then wanted to just shoot myself. Why hadn’t I said Dave or David? Davey was some kid’s name. Okay, I’m not very tall—in fact, this girl wearing flats was at least a couple inches taller, but I was nearly eighteen, a grown man.
She smiled at me, and I smiled back. “You’re out of high school, aren’t you?”
I still smiled, nodding. “Sure,” I said. I’d graduated in early June.
“You’re not one of Dr. Herlihy’s kids or—or grandkids, are you?” She glanced up at the doctor’s house then back to me.
“Uh, no,” I said. “My mom works in his office down on Wilshire.”
She nodded. “I see.” She peered at me closely. “Your freckles are the color of butterscotch,” she said.
Well, I knew that. Some wit or half-wit in the school annual staff had put down ‘Butterscotch’ for my school nickname, but certainly none of my friends called me that. They would certainly have shortened it to Butt, so thank God for small favors that it hadn’t occurred to them.
“How much longer before you’re done?” She waved vaguely at the lawn, moving closer.
Huh? Why would she want to know? I squinted, judging how much work remained. “Maybe an hour, half-hour? I’ll be done by eleven at the latest.” It’s always good to get an early start on this kind of outside work in the summer.
She came up close enough to stick out her hand. “I’m Marjorie, Marjorie Lords—not the actress.” She showed dimples and perfect teeth.
The actress reference went over my head, but I stuck out my hand and she shook it firmly. “I’m -uh- Davey Kissee.” Davey again, ow!
“Kissy?” she asked.
“Uh- no, it’s ki-ZEE.”
“Oh.” She showed her dimples again. “Kissee, the one who has been kissed.” She said it kiss-EE.
“Uh?” I didn’t want to correct her a second time.
She stepped still closer and kissed me. On the cheek, but still. I almost fainted.
She pointed at herself. “Kisser.” Then at me. “Kissee.” She laughed, a musical gurgle that sounded so sexy.
“That’s…” I wanted to say, that’s not what it means, it’s a place in Scotland, but I found myself grinning stupidly.
She turned and walked away, heading toward her car, which I now saw was parked at the curb. “I’ll be back in an hour,” she called to me. “You can go out with me for a bite to eat then, can’t you?”
“Uh-yeah!” I agreed. I watched her get in her car, wave at me, and drive away. I waved back, just a little late.
“Wow,” I said. A tall, beautiful woman who was probably several years older than me had just asked me for a date. After kissing me and making a joke. “Wow?” I repeated. It was hard not to question my luck.
Then I got busy, determined to finish the yard work before Marjorie showed back up. I was done in less than half an hour, ending up by piling bags of refuse into the correct dumpster. Now that I had the time, I dug my phone out of my pocket and texted Marty Busch.
dude i don’t think i’m making it to game tonite
wassup?
got a date
liar roflmao
dude this older chick asked me out
now I know youre lying
truth
no, whats really happening
i got a date
with a real person
yes damit
wtf dude — davey we need your cleric
you can play her for me
aw shit u serious
please
….
i got a date man
ok ok
thx
your characters are always chicks - you sure youre dating a chick tonite
f u
lolz
l8r
Canceling going to our regular Thursday night game could be premature. Marjorie might not be planning more than just sharing a Coke, but if things developed the way I hoped, I wouldn’t have time to beg off later.
And since Mom knew—or thought—that I’d be heading directly to Marty’s after the yard work, she wouldn’t be expecting me home until late. Besides, I recalled her saying something about her and her girlfriends catching some movie in Westwood.
Maybe I should run home and ditch this stupid hat, I asked myself. We lived four blocks south and twice that many west, almost due south of Griffith Park. Too far, those were long blocks, the round trip might be more than half an hour, and if Marjorie came to pick me up while I was gone, I might miss her.
Why did she ask me out? Had that really happened? I’m not ugly or anything but face it, I’m a short, skinny gamer geek just out of high school. She must be six or seven years older, way richer—she drives a Mercedes—and she’s hot. I’m not, and I know it.
After collecting my pay from the housekeeper, I found some shade under a sycamore near the street and sat on the grass. I pulled back my long sleeves, examining my arms to see if I had picked up any burn, but no. I checked the legs out too, same pale-orangey skin with lots of slightly darker freckles. Butterscotch-color was as good a description as any.
I dug some grass out of my socks, pulled them up, and rolled my pants legs back down. It sucks being a Californian who can’t tan.
Marjorie certainly wasn’t interested in me for my demonstration of any fashion sense. Was she just a cougar on the prowl for young meat? I’d better stop thinking like that, I told myself, or I won’t be able to stand up without embarrassment.
She’d be awfully young to be called a cougar. Usually, that meant a woman who was at least in her thirties. She might be older than she looked, but I didn’t think so. This was LA, the Mecca of plastic surgery, and everyone could recognize the signs that someone had had work done. Her neck was super smooth, the same for the backs of her hands. No, that face is the one she grew into.
Comments
Erin Halfelven at BigCloset
It's here. :) Search on Butterscotch.
Gwen Boucher
Sorry to be a pest. I want MORE!
Jo Dora Webster
Nice! A book in a month writing. More, please?
