Page 50 of Rebel Summer

Dax smiled, resigned. “I’ll be there.”

They were almost out the door when Trudy stopped and turned back to me. “You’re welcome to come too, Ivy. The more the merrier.”

It took some willpower not to widen my eyes in shock. Instead, I gave the polite response when someone gets a pity invite. “Oh, thank you. I’ll take a look at my schedule.”

“Okay, bye now.” She blew a kiss to Dax.

“Enjoy your dinner,“ Mark said, with an eyebrow raised toward Dax.

When they were gone, Dax looked over at me with a knowing expression on his face, which had my defensive nerves kicking up a notch.

“I’m not eating in here with you. I was just coming to clock in and drop off your food. I didn’t know your parents were here.”

He huffed out a laugh while he pulled out a hamburger from the bag and sat down on a barstool. And because I was still lingering and watching him with a fascination that should be illegal, he kicked out the other stool with his foot and motioned for me to sit down.

“Just eat here.”

Tentatively, I sat down on the stool next to him. This should be fine. I served him enough at the cafe. Though, sitting next to him alone in his quiet shop while Billy Joel serenaded us with “Piano Man” didn’t feel quite the same as at the cafe.

“Your parents seem nice,” I ventured.

He hesitated before taking a bite. “Yup. They’re very nice.”

Seemingly oblivious, he turned back to his burger, effectively shutting down this line of inquiry. I wasn’t in a position to judge so completely, but in a way, it felt similar to how I acted with my own dad. But unlike the senator, his mom had seemed overjoyed to be talking with her son. Still, there had clearly been a distance between them.

I made a note to tell Dr. Barb I would be after her job if this whole mathematician thing didn’t work out.

“Is that a Coke?” Dax asked as he watched me take a sip.

“Yeah, too bad you didn’t spring for one too.”

He smiled and went back to his food.

I took a bite of my burger, and for a moment I gave my thanks and appreciation to the all-American diet. I’d lived over a week with my dad and Angela, and she had no appreciation for such exquisite cuisine.

“Why do you listen to this music?” I asked Dax as the chorus of “Piano Man” picked up.

He listened for a moment before saying. “Because it’s the best. You’re embarrassing yourself, Books.”

“You’re a disgrace to our generation.”

“Our generation is the disgrace.”

“How’d you get into it?” I asked, pointing toward the speakers in the corner of the room as I dunked a few fries in ketchup.

“It’s good,” he said simply.

“Yeah, well, my dad thinks ‘80s rock is the best because it’s the music he grew up listening to. That makes more sense than this. Do your parents love it or something?”

“Probably.”

We were silent for a few moments.

“Is it a big deal?” I asked when I couldn’t take it any longer.

“Huh?” He turned to me.

“Why can’t you tell me where you started to like it? You’re the only person our age that I know of who listens to this stuff.”

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