Chapter 11: Booth Four

The Lighthouse Diner sat at the bottom of a hill, close enough to the harbor that the windows fogged every time a freighter went by.

Rhett had picked it because nobody from school went there on Wednesdays.

"Booth four," he said, holding the door. "Best view."

"Of what?"

"The parking lot."

"You really know how to treat a girl."

"It's a fake date. I'm saving my money for the real one."

I stopped in the doorway.

"Did you say real one?"

"No."

"You did."

"I said fake. You misheard."

"Rhett Kolstad."

"Sit down, Lindahl."

I sat.

The booth was red vinyl and cracked in two places.

The waitress brought us menus.

A basket of crackers, and gave us the look of a woman who had seen a lot of teenagers pretend to be in love.

I ordered pancakes.

Rhett ordered three eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast, and a side of pancakes.

"You can't eat all that."

"Watch me."

He could, and he did, and I watched with horror and some admiration.

In between bites he told me about the hour Coach made the team skate laps.

Somebody had left a banana peel in the locker room.

I told him about the time I wrote a column calling the cafeteria's tater tot hotdish a human rights issue.

He laughed so hard he coughed.

"Did they change the recipe?"

"No. They gave me a plaque."

"You collect those."

"I collect all of them."

He smiled at me across the table.

For a minute it felt entirely real, and the fake part was a thin sheet of paper somewhere I could easily ignore.

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