“Hello?”
“Hi. Is Stacy there?”
“This is Stacy.”
“Hi, this is Mark Ratner.”
“Oh, hi!”
They talked for a while, one of those conversations with lots of long silences. They decided they didn’t know each other too well. Then The Rat popped the question.
“Stacy, would you like to go to the movies with me this Friday?”
“I can’t.” He knew it. She had a boyfriend.
“Okay . . .” Then, an afterthought. “How about Saturday?”
“Saturday would be great.”
A Date with Stacy
Mark Ratner had borrowed his sister’s car. It was the result of an intricate negotiation process involving several past and many future favors, but the final factor had been Mark’s holding over his sister’s head her sex quiz answers in old copies of Cosmopolitan. That won him the car.
The Rat arrived to pick Stacy Hamilton up at the prescribed time, by the mailbox. Led Zeppelin IV was on the cassette machine.
“Thanks for coming to get me,” she said.
“Sure thing.”
Now what else would he say for the next four hours? The Rat sure didn’t know. All he knew was that their next stop was the Charthouse Restaurant, and after that they were going to the Strand Theatre to see Phantasm.
“I hear this movie’s pretty good,” said The Rat. “They were talking about it in English today.”
“Do you have Mrs. George?”
“Yeah. She’s pretty good.”
“Yeah. She’s pretty good.”
They drove along in silence until they reached the Charthouse Restaurant. The Rat’s boss at Marine World had recommended it.
“I hear this is a pretty good restaurant,” said The Rat.
“Yeah. Me too.”
They took a seat at a table with a view of the ocean. A waitress handed them each a large wooden menu.
Damone’s Rule Number Four, said a voice inside The Rat’s brain: When ordering food, find out what she wants, and then order for both of you.
“What do you feel like eating?” asked The Rat.
“Well,” said Stacy, “I think I’m going to have the Seafood Salad Special.”
“That should be pretty good,” said The Rat. He was starting to feel in control now. He was starting to feel like this could be the place, the very place. The lights were low. The view was good. The prices were . . .
Oh, my God.
The Rat reached back and checked his pants pocket. Then, casually, his jacket pockets. Empty. He had left his wallet at home on the dresser.
Jesus.
Cool. Cool was the name of the game. The Rat sat there, enjoying the view, smiling at Stacy. Inside he was dying a slow and miserable death. Stay cool.
“Do you mind,” said Mark, “if I excuse myself for a moment?”
“Not at all.”
The waitress bustled up to the table. “Are you ready to order?”
“Sure,” said The Rat. “She will have the Seafood Salad Special.”
“Okay. How about you?”
The Rat stared at her blankly. Of course. He had to eat too.
“I’ll have the same.”
“Okay. Anything to drink with that?”
“Sure. I’ll have a Coke.”
“How about for the girl?”
“Iced tea, please.”
The waitress left the table. The Rat got up to make his phone call.
“Yo?”
“Damone. It’s Mark.”
“Mark. What happened to your date?”
“It’s happening right now,” said The Rat. “I’m here at the Charthouse. Everything’s fine, except . . . I left my wallet at home.”
“Did you go home and get it?”
“No. It’s too late. The food is coming and everything. Damone, I’ve gotta ask you this favor, and I’ll never ask you for anything again in this lifetime or any other. Will you please go by my house, get my wallet, and meet me back here?”
Silence.
“Hello, Damone? Are you there?”
“Just be glad I’m your bud,” said Damone with a world-weary sigh.
Ten minutes later there was a page. “Telephone call for Mr. Ratner.”
“Excuse me,” said The Rat. “I’ll just take this call and be right back.”
The Rat picked up the phone at the front desk. “Hello?”
“Rat. It’s not on your dresser.”
“Did you look in the bathroom; that’s where I was last.”
“Hold on.”
“Okay, I’ll hold,” said The Rat. The maitre d’ gave him a nasty look.
“Okay. I found it.”
“Okay. Thanks, Mike. I’ll see you here.”
“You owe me your life.”
“Okay. Thanks, Mike. I’ll see you here.”
Mike Damone strolled into the Charthouse forty-five minutes later. Stacy and The Rat were still picking at their dinners and trying to make conversation out of life at Ridgemont High.
“Hey Ratner! Is that you?”
“Damone! What are you doing here?”
“Hey, you know what, Mark? I found your wallet the other day. You want it back?”
“Wow. What a coincidence. I’ve been looking for that thing!”
The evening was a complete disaster. Only a few sentences passed between them after the wallet incident. They had gone to the theatre. The kid right in front of them hauled off and puked right toward the beginning of Phantasm. It smelled up the whole row.
By the time the movie was over, The Rat was wondering if he should even try the next step of the game plan—maneuvering her to the Point, where he would slip on the first side of Led Zeppelin IV.
They reached the car again. Something was wrong. The Rat had remembered locking his door. The Rat opened Stacy’s side of the of the car, then she leaned over to open his and found it . . . already open. The Rat knew something was wrong. He looked at the dashboard of his sister’s car.
The tape deck was missing. In its place was the steel bolting ensemble. The machine was gone.
The Rat turned pale, didn’t mention it to Stacy. He drove her straight home, without even asking her about the Point.
He pulled up in front of Stacy’s house. “I had a really nice time,” he said like a zombie.
“Me too,” said Stacy. “Do you want to come inside?”
“Aren’t your parents asleep?”
“No, they’re away for the weekend. Brad and I are watching the house.”
It’s midnight and she wants me to come inside.
“Okay,” said The Rat sullenly. “Sure.”
He followed her inside.
“Where’s your brother?”
“I don’t know. Probably out.” She set down her purse. “Want something to drink?”
“No. That’s okay.”
“Well, I’m going to change real quick. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Naw. I don’t mind.”
She turned her back and pulled up her hair. “Will you unzip me?”
This cant be what it seems.
He unzipped her, past the bra and down to the small of her back. It was the first time The Rat had ever done that.
“Thanks.”
Stacy walked down the hall to her room, easing out of her dress as she walked. She left the door to her room open. “You can come in if you want.”
She wouldn’t be doing this if she hated me.
He followed her into her room, his heart pounding in his throat. He turned the corner and stepped into the room. She stood there in her bedroom in a diaphanous white house dress. He pretended not to notice the difference.