Page 35 of Forbidden Dance
This is a pretty poor part of town, mostly families. We don’t see cars like that around here. There is only one person who could be driving that car.
Blitz.
I squint at the windshield, but I can’t see inside. There’s a glare from the sun and the rolling reflection of leaves from the trees overhead.
So I wait, sitting primly on the bench. The car slows down as it nears and sidles up next to the curb.
And stops.
The driver-side door opens, and a familiar black head of hair pops above the roof. He’s wearing sunglasses that obscure his eyes, but I’d know him anywhere.
“I think I’m having a dream,” he calls out. “About rescuing a princess from a dystopian land.”
I glance around. It’s true. The park is mostly broken concrete and the paint on the bench is peeling. The grass hasn’t survived the summer.
“Are you a white knight or a black one?” I call out.
“The blackest,” he says as he comes around the car. “But I’ll scrub myself clean for you.”
Then he’s in front of me, tall and strong. He’s changed into jeans and a loose button-down shirt, pale yellow and expensive looking.
“Well, I guess I’ll take my chances,” I say and lift my hand.
He pulls me up from the bench, then brings my fingers to his lips. “At least my chariot is fancy.”
We turn to it.
“I’m afraid of getting it dirty,” I say. “Should I take my shoes off?”
He opens the passenger door. “Uh, you haven’t seen the inside yet.”
I peer in. “Oh!” I exclaim. The interior is fancy, black leather and a dash that looks like an airplane cockpit. But, wow! There are cups and papers and crumpled clothes and wrappers everywhere.
I sit down and try to make room for my feet. “You need an intervention,” I say. “Or a maid.”
He bends down and peers in. “It’s really bad, isn’t it? I should have stopped somewhere to have it cleared out.”
His face is very close to mine. I could turn my head and kiss his cheek.
“I guess you need to have some sort of flaw,” I say.
This makes him laugh. “Oh, I have plenty,” he says. He stands up and closes the door. A moment later, he appears on the other side and slides in.
“So where are we going?” I ask.
“My private helicopter to fly to Mexico for lunch,” he says.
My heart hammers. “What?”
He laughs again. “I’m kidding. I’m not that crazy.” He fastens his seat belt. “I was thinking the San José Mission. I haven’t seen it in years. It was my favorite.”
“It’s my favorite too,” I say. My father had us visit all the missions, including the Alamo, as part of our homeschooling.
“There’s a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant nearby, owned by the most amazing lady. She’s a friend of my family.”
The car zooms forward, and I resist the urge to clutch the door handle. “That sounds good,” I say.
We drive toward the freeway. I glance around at the debris in the car, trying to get a feel for what Blitz likes.
