Chapter 6

Two weeks later I was going to eat dinner with Melissa, her little sister Megan, and her parents at the Samuelson house. All week long Missy was coaching me about her parents, desperately wanting me to make a good first impression. I was pretty desperate, too. I was having nightmares about dribbling ice cream down the front of my suit, or sneezing a big goober out all over the table, or some such other calamity during dinner with her parents. I was nervous as hell about it, but no matter how bad it got for me, I knew it was worse for Melissa.

She was getting a lot of flak from her parents about bringing a boy to dinner, and her sister was incessant in her taunting. For an 11-year-old (never a good age anyway, in my book), Megan seemed to be particularly annoying and spiteful, and I hadn't even met her yet.

"Missy," I finally said in exasperation, "you're 15 years old. What do they want to do, keep you in a convent until you're 21?"

"Probably," she muttered. We were in the library, having gotten passes out of our respective study halls so we could be together for a little while. "But until I can talk some sense into their thick heads, we've got to do it this way. So lighten up, Raymond."

We had only been seeing each other for a couple of months, but I knew when she called me Raymond, that I had better pay attention. Who says a 16-year-old hormonally charged jock couldn't learn anything?

"Remember. With my dad, a firm handshake is necessary, but don't squeeze so hard you crush his fingers. Look him in the eye when you're shaking his hand, but not in a challenging way. Don't disagree with him if he says something you think is wrong; just keep your mouth shut. I know it isn't right, but just do it, for my sake, okay?" She looked at me with those big blue eyes, her head down so she was looking askance through her eyelashes. Who could resist?

"Okay, I've got it. Meek and mild, that's me. Agreeable right down to my shoes."

"And don't let Megan get on your nerves. She will try, you know."

"Yeah, I know, but really, how much trouble can an 11-year-old really be?"

"Hoo, boy, do you have a lot to learn," she said.

So there I was that Friday night, driving in my dad's car over to Melissa's house for dinner with her family. I had a fresh haircut, I was showered and shaved, and so nervous I thought I'd sweat right through my suit coat. I kept on wiping my sweaty palms on my pants, vainly trying to will myself to calm down. I managed to park in her driveway without knocking down any trees, or driving over any rose bushes, which, considering my mental state, was an accomplishment. I knocked on the door, half hoping they had forgotten about this and had gone out somewhere. I was relieved when the door opened and Missy was there. She was dressed in a simple black sweater with gray pants. There was a fine gold chain with a small pearl pendant around her neck. She had curled her blonde hair so that it lay on her shoulders, soft and lustrous. She had never looked lovelier.

"Pow," I said, gazing at her in awe.

She blushed, shook her head, and dragged me into the house by my arm. She looked around quickly, then reached up and gave me a quick peck on the lips, careful not to smudge her lipstick.

"Take it easy, Ray. You look like you're walking to your own execution. It's only dinner," she said with a bit of a smirk.

She led me into the living room. Her father stood up and strode over to us.

"Daddy, I would like you to meet Ray Kennedy. Ray, this is my father."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Samuelson," I said as I held out my hand.

"Ray," he acknowledged, as he grasped my hand and shook it. 'Melissa has been telling us about you."

"Only the good parts, I hope," I said. I glanced at Missy, but she seemed fairly calm, not really nervous at all. Maybe, I thought, things will go okay after all.

"Sit down for a moment, Ray," said Mr. Samuelson. "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Melissa, would you like to offer your guest something to drink?"

She jumped slightly, caught by surprise, and asked what I would like.

"Uh, just water is fine with me, thanks," I said.

"I'll take a glass also, please, Melissa," said her father. He turned his attention back to me. "So, Melissa tells me you are in the 11th grade."

For the next half hour he grilled me on school, my grades, football and basketball and baseball, my college choices, my career choices, and a dozen other subjects. About the only thing he didn't ask me was my hat size. By the time he was done, I felt like I had been wrung out and hung up to dry. Missy's mother dropped it briefly to be introduced, and then she hustled back toward the kitchen to finish preparing dinner. Missy sat by me on the couch when she was not needed in the kitchen, which probably tempered her dad's questioning somewhat. I was grateful for her presence. There was still no sign of her sister Megan.

Finally, Mrs. Samuelson announced that dinner was ready to be served. We all stood up, and Mrs. Samuelson ushered us out of the living room and into their dining room. There were only four places set at the table.

"Oh, by the way," said Mrs. Fergus, "Megan is eating dinner at Ivy's house tonight. She'll be home at about 7:30."

We sat down, and Mr. Samuelson said grace, and we started passing food around the table. The conversation became lighter as we ate, now that the ice had been broken, and I started to relax a little. Missy gave me a quick secret smile as she passed the vegetables.