TÇ hÇàÉÄw gtÄx
Dedicated to Red and Natalia-a sweet tale of new love blossoming
A date . . .with Elena Gilbert!
Matt nervously opened his wallet again and counted his cash. A ten dollar bill and six cents left over from what the six neighbors on the cul-de-sac had given him to rake all the autumn leaves from each yard into a giant bonfire-pile. The rest had gone into buying this crisp new pair of casual/formal dress pants. Seven dollars and twenty cents left over from cleaning attics and mowing lawns-the rest of that money had been carefully invested in the jacket he was wearing right now-a letterman's jacket wouldn't do, not on this occasion, and he'd heard that Elena didn't like them. A ten dollar bill from helping Mr. Muldoon carefully change all the light bulbs in his house that the old gentleman couldn't reach any longer.
Twenty-seven dollars and twenty-six cents . . . plus . . .
He turned the wallet around and pulled it out from its special place of honor-a concealed compartment in the wallet's side. And there it was, folded in half, as crisp and new-looking as when Uncle Joe had given it to him.
A hundred dollar bill.
He could remember Uncle Joe-Great-Uncle, really, but always called Uncle, pressing the bill into his hand while the nurses were out of the room. "Don't blow it on just anything," Uncle Joe had whispered in his grating voice. "Keep it till a special
occasion comes. You'll know when the time is right. An' fer God's sake"-a pause, while Uncle Joe had a long and racking coughing fit and Matt held him up-"don't y'dare spend it on cigarettes, right? Don't you get the habit, boy, cause it's only going to bring you grief."
Then Matt had gently lowered Uncle Joe. The glass-shattering coughing was beginning and Matt wanted a nurse to check on Uncle Joe's oxygen saturation level. It was 85 when it should have been 100-maybe Uncle Joe needed more oxygen.
That had been exactly two years ago and two days ago. Exactly two years ago today, Uncle Joe had died.
Matt found that he was grinding one fist into his thigh, painfully. It was hard, hard to remember how Uncle Joe had gone.
But now, looking at the hundred-dollar bill, all Matt could think about was the old man's mischievous smile and his rasping words, "You'll know when the time is right." Yes, Uncle Joe had known, hadn't he? Matt would have laughed himself sick if Uncle Joe had told him what he'd be spending the precious money on. At just-fourteen young Matt's thoughts about girls and cooties had not entirely separated. Okay, so he had been a late bloomer, a slow learner. But now he'd caught up. And he was going to wear his new pants and an ironed shirt, a real tie that his mother had given him last Christmas, and his brand new sports jacket to the most wonderful event he could imagine.
Blowing over one hundred dollars in one night with Elena Gilbert.
Elena . . . just thinking her name made him feel as if were bathed in sunlight. She was sunlight. With that marvelous golden hair that floated halfway down her back, with
her skin, the color of apple blossoms, even after tanning season, with her eyes like luminous, gold-flecked blue pools, and her lips . . .
Those lips. Together with the eyes, they could turn a guy upside down and inside out in no time. At school those lips were always in a model's slight pout, as if to say "Well, really! I expected more than this!"
But Elena wouldn't be pouting tonight. Matt didn't know where he'd gotten the courage-he'd as soon have dumped an ice bucket over football Coach Simpson's head after they'd lost a game-but he had managed to work his way up to asking her out. And now, with Uncle Joe's hundred-dollar bill, he was going to take Elena Gilbert on a real date, to a real French restaurant: a date that she'd never forget.
Matt glanced sharply at the clock. Time to go! He certainly couldn't be late.
"Hey, Mom! It's quarter to seven! I'm out of here!"
"Wait, wait, Matt!" Mrs. Honeycutt, small and round and smelling of cookies, came at almost a run down the hall. "Going without at least letting me see you?" she scolded, her eyes beaming. "Who ironed that shirt, may I ask? Who heard about the sale on jackets in the first place?"
Matt gave a mock-groan and then stood, genuinely blushing, as she looked him over.
Finally, Mrs. Honeycutt sighed. "I have a very handsome son. You look like your father."
Matt could feel himself going an even deeper red.
"Now, you're going to wear your overcoat-"
"Yeah, of course, Mom."