Castles on the Sand

Thirteen

I arrive at the theater on Wednesday night in the MAV, seated in the coveted shotgun seat, next to Carson. The other girls don't give me any overt grief, but I can tell they're jealous. He may think he's just friends with them, but they seem to think he's their territory. It's not as bad as Tatiana's kick in the face, but it's got the same vibe. I'm unworthy to be interesting to him.

Alex is already at the theater, leaning against his little black sedan. The sight of him shocks me, but I don't know why it should. He's kept on doing the Mormon thing, as far as I know, so of course he'd be here too. I hang back, but Wendy, Rachel, LaDell and Chelsey all bound forward with girly trills of “Hey!” and “How are you?”

Carson puts a hand on my shoulder and says, “Yeah. Let's get tickets.”

“You've got competition,” I say.

“Remind me to care sometime.” We slip into the dim interior of the box office.

But I find myself looking back over my shoulder, watching how Alex treats the other girls. He's nice enough to LaDell, who plays flirtatiously with his zipper pull. I wonder if he talks to them, and if he does, what kind of stuff he says.

He seems his usual, quiet, psycho self as he and all the giggling girls get into line behind us, even though Rachel tries to provoke him by stealing his cell phone. He just stands, looking bored, while she and Wendy flip through his contacts and text messages, which seems really invasive to me. They hand it back before we reach the front of the line.

When we get into the theater itself, Alex strides on ahead and parks himself at the far end of the row, and before I know what I'm doing, I've walked across to sit next to him. Carson plops himself on the other side and squeezes my shoulder. “Nice. These armrests flip up. Noooot that I'm suggesting anything.”

The four other females sit in the row behind us, and I have the sense that they glare at the back of my head. Every time I glance at Alex, he's just staring at his hands. He slouches low in his seat, elbows on both armrests, long legs jutting into the aisle. It's as if we're a group on a field trip and he's the chaperone. He's so adult.

The lights dim and the previews start, and I find myself still glancing at Alex. Finally he turns and looks at me.

O-kay, I think. Madison, you just put yourself in the seat next to Alex in a darkened room. Way to go. I sense his gaze search my face. Nervously, I look back at him.

Our gazes lock for a millisecond, and then I look away.

I realize I can't even follow the plot of the trailers. I'm just seeing flashing images. Get a grip, I think. I shut my eyes and take a couple of deep breaths.

The previews end, and the opening credits of the movie start. There's a voiceover.

Listen to it, I think. Watch the movie. Stop freaking out.

I sense Alex shift in his seat. “So,” he whispers, low enough that only I can hear, “when the voiceover isn't James Earl Jones or Samuel L. Jackson, you know it's not a well funded movie. Who is this guy? He sounds like a high school guidance counselor.”

I can't help but giggle.

He smirks. A few minutes later is a scene of the heroine getting dressed in her room, first thing in the morning. Alex mutters, “That's how you know she's the heroine. Everyone, view her as a sex object now. She'll be eye candy for the rest of the movie.”

I turn to look at him.

“What?” he says. “That's what they're trying to do. I hate movies like this.”