Stuck in the 70's Read Free Page A

anyone seen my pocket dictionary?” Heather yells from her room.
    “Not me!” I respond in my new, unintentional Mickey Mouse voice. “Your dictionary’s definitely not in my room.”
    “You have a sister?”
    “Shh. Yes. Let me find those things for you.”
    I leave the room and run downstairs. I see Mom in the kitchen, but I can’t bring myself to tell her about the girl I’m hiding, not just yet. With four minutes to spare until official school departure time, I manage a new toothbrush, a used comb rinsed out in the bathroom sink, a can of soda, and a sesame seed bagel.
    I race upstairs. She’s still in my bed, the sheet now lowered to the level of her hips. I try to suppress my grin while handing her the bagel. “I couldn’t find coffee.” I give her the soda. “I think this has caffeine.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Tab.”
    She peers at the hot pink label. “That’s a diet soda? Huh.”
    She takes a bite from the bagel, scattering crumbs all over my blanket. “I need some underwear at least, and a bra would be nice.”
    No bra! I plead silently. “You could try my sister’s room for, uh, a brassiere. It’s right next to my room. Heather goes to school the same time I do.” I avoid looking at the girl’s chest, which I know will never squeeze into my sister’s bras. Or my mom’s for that matter. Ugh. No boy should have to picture the girl he lusts after in his mother’s brassiere. “Just stay in my room. You can come out after ten forty-five. My mom always has a hairdresser appointment at eleven on Wednesdays, and then lunch with her girlfriends. The house should be free for two and a half hours at least.”
    What am I saying? I’m going to leave her alone in my house? What if she steals everything we own? Our nineteen-inch color TV? My Commodore computer, which took me over ninety hours to construct?
    “Don’t leave me alone,” she says.
    I shake my head. “I have to get to school. I can try to help you afterward.”
    “Please.” She stretches her legs beneath my blanket. Holy cow, they’re long.
    “Maybe I can leave school early,” I tell her.
    “It’s easy. I cut classes all the time. Caveat emptor .”
    “Buyer beware?”
    She shakes her head. “Seize the day.”
    “That’s carpe diem .”
    “Whatever. Just act like you have somewhere important to go. Walk fast through the halls and hold your head high.”
    “I’m applying to colleges soon. I can’t afford to get in trouble.”
    She bites her lip again. It’s an alluring look for her. But then again, what isn’t?
    “Okay, I’ll try to get home early for you,” I say. I mean it.

4
    After Tyler leaves, I snoop around his bedroom like I’m on Room Raiders . A girl can learn a lot from the contents of a guy’s room. For instance, Jake has Penthouse magazines and baggies of weed in his closet, and condoms hidden under his bed.
    Tyler has a poster of Albert Einstein’s hairy head, and another of a very young Robin Williams with a perky brunette girl, captioned Nanu, Nanu . The bed I slept in is covered by a Star Wars blanket. Under the bed is a teddy bear. Sweet. A neat desk is occupied by a humongous, antique computer. Above it are shelves crammed with books—literary crap, textbooks, and a bunch of books about Einstein: The Man Behind the Math, Albert Speaks, The Greatest Mind Ever.
    Just when I ’ve pegged him for a total dweeb, I see a Charlie’s Angels calendar. It’s from the old TV show, not the movie remake, and it’s definitely from 1978. There’s nothing here—no iPod, DVD player, cordless phone—to prove I’m not in 1978.
    I’m getting freaked out.
    I open and close dresser drawers. He wears briefs. I knew he w asn’t the boxers type.
    I move to his closet and leaf through a few boxes containing a baseball card collection. All the cards are really old, nothing later than 1978.
    In the back corner of the closet I find a plastic pitcher. It’s heavy. Coins clank inside it. I ’ve hit upon Tyler’s