Stuck in the 70's Read Free

be mad.”
    “You better not tell her,” I said. “ She’ll blame you for not watching me close enough, and s he’ll look for another housekeeper or whatever, and y ou’ll be out of a job.”
    “Loca!” Mariel shouted, loca being the first of, like, ten Spanish insults she hurled at me as I sat in the bathtub. I knew exactly what they meant, thanks especially to Guttermouth Gloria. I yelled right back at Mariel in Spanish and Spanglish, louder and dirtier. One good thing about Mom pawning me off to housekeepers all my life is that I can speak Spanish.
    But soon I got a headache. Either from her yelling or mine, or maybe it was the champagne. I closed my eyes and put my hand over my forehead, grinning through Mariel’s attack. Coming from her—all, like, five feet of her, in her high voice—it almost sounded cute.
    That’s the last thing I remember at Jake’s house. Next thing I knew, I was in a different tub, half as small as the Jacuzzi bath. And a boy was hanging over me, and it w asn’t Jake, and he was claiming it’s 1978.
    What the hell was in that champagne?

3
    A beautiful girl has been (1) in my bed for over four hours, (2) wearing my favorite T-shirt, (3) not wearing any underwear.
    This could be a prank. Am I on Candid Camera ? I doubt it. Allen Funt might put a girl in someone’s house, but not a naked one.
    I wish I had this on camera. Recorded evidence that a beautiful girl spent the night in my room would probably do wonders for my social standing, or lack thereof. No one would believe me otherwise. Except Evie, of course, but she doesn’t count.
    The girl stays half under my sheet, propped on one elbow, obviously still braless, and stares at me. She’s gorgeous even in the morning, with her blond hair frizzy and untamed around her face, which is pale as typing paper.
    “What if your mom or dad comes in?” she asks while I load my backpack for school.
    “They respect my space.”
    “What, you mean your parents ignore you too?” She laughs. “I need a toothbrush and a hairbrush. New ones, please. And coffee. I could so use a grande nonfat latte from Starbucks right now.”
    “What’s Starbucks?”
    “Good one,” she says. “Look, if we’re pretending it’s 1978, we should take your Pinto or Ford station wagon or whatever, and drive up to Seattle and see if you can invest in Starbucks coffee.” She bites her lip. “I’m still in California, aren’t I?”
    “Yes, of course. The Valley. But I don’t own a car.”
    “You got to be kidding.”
    I don’t care how sexy she is, my hospitality is wearing thin. I glance at my digital alarm clock. Eleven minutes until I need to leave.
    She sits all the way up in my bed.
    Okay, I do care how sexy she is. Her breasts are fantastic. Like ripe grapefruit. Their shape, anyway. I doubt they have a bumpy peel or sour taste. I can’t think about the taste or I’ll lose all semblance of control. But, man, her breasts.
    Too bad she can’t stay. I’ll tell my parents and they’ll straighten this out. She’s either a runaway or crazy or both. But she doesn’t look crazy. Certainly not like Linda Blair in The Exorcist, or any of the Manson girls.
    “Can you peel your eyes off me for a second and get me a new toothbrush, a hairbrush, and coffee?”
    I force my gaze away, to my Einstein poster on the wall behind her. What would Einstein do? For one thing, if he wanted to impress a gorgeous girl in his bedroom, he wouldn’t hang a picture of a physicist on his wall.
    Think, Tyler, think. Einstein said kindness, beauty, and truth are the most important things in life. So I should be kind to this beautiful girl, but tell my parents the truth.
    I check the digital clock again. Nine more minutes. “I’ll look for a toothbrush and comb.”
    “Brush,” she says. “A new brush if you can find one. And I have to drink some coffee.”
    “How you doing, kids?” Mom calls from downstairs.
    “Fine!” I squeal.
    “Kids?” the girl asks.
    “Has