We Real Cool 7 A Dare For Red

We are, after all, not only running away from Fenway Park, the supposedly inciting match between the Red Sox and the Texas Rangers, and even the possibly delicious meal at Tasty Burger; we are–at least, to me–also running away from a bubble. The bubble of order and discipline. Safety.

I'm lunging into the great unknown with a man I barely know to a place I know to a place I know not where for reasons I cannot explain. I'm supposed to be a whole lot scared—not excited. However, here I am, fueled by the latter. And I know that it sounds crazy at best and reckless at worst, but instead of doing the rational move of asking him about the questions boggling my head, I keep up with him because for the first time in a long time, I'm having fun. I feel like myself.

"You better have a good reason for this," I tell him in between breaths. Our heavy footsteps against the asphalt and the noise from Fenway, however, drowned my comment.

"Red," I call out–this time, louder. He looks back at me and raises his brows. Thankfully, he slows down to a jog; heaven knows I would probably pa.s.s out if we continue sprinting for another minute.

"Relax," he replied as though he did not need another gasp of air. "My reasons are grand. Trust me."

That's a pretty big word, Mr. Trust. It's a powerful and magical and groundbreaking, but somewhere between the lines, trust can also lead you to a deep, dirty pit. A perfect example of my claim would be my parents. Mom had so much faith in dad that she didn't mind if he went home on the unG.o.dly hour of 3AM. She believed him even when her best friends told her something was wrong even before she herself felt something uncanny going on around my dad's office. She forgave him even when she herself caught him with an unknown lady. She gave him a second chance and believed in his capacity to make it up to our family because "people change". I used to believe her, but over time, I learned that my dad would not change. He could not change. It's just in his blood. To change him was like turning water into wine. Trust, in brief, to me, in something or someone is so special. I think, one should not easily declare having it for just anyone or anything. Getting me to have trust in anything or anyone is tough.

These thoughts suddenly make me feel hot and teary. I badly wanted to tell him about the things going on in my head–why I spent every summer away from home so I'd be spared from dad's big little secrets, why I've always wanted travel to a faraway place and eventually settle there with my mom. And lastly, why I'd only go as far as having a crush, that I don't date, and don't plan to unless I feel like I can.

I'm scared that love and everything that goes with it would blind me, fool me even. And this is my biggest fear: to lose myself before I found the true me. I wanted to tell him all these, but I couldn't catch it quite perfectly. I didn't have the energy, the words, and the guts. I was tired and hungry; my throat was drying up, so never mind, I guess. I no longer responded. I've never told anyone about it, anyway, so why tell him? I never have and I do not think I ever will find someone trustworthy enough to hear my story. So I keep things simple. I stay silent.

I wipe off every bit of negativity in my mind and focus on what Red just said: He had a grand reason for dragging me here with him. This reason, I do not know, but I trust in his goodness and the heavens that wherever we were headed for was worth the effort. Worth the risk.

I free my hand from his, give him a smile, and look away. I don't know if the sudden mood swings are caused by my 24-hour food deprivation, but it's happening. And for some reason (mind reading, maybe), Red must have noticed this.

"Why are you so quiet now?" he asked. "Don't tell me you're scared."

"You wish," I answered in defense. "I'm not scared. I just can't believe that you dragged me along this silly stunt of yours even when I already told you that I was tired and starving. But you do it anyway."

"Thank you for coming," he replied, smiling. "But you're exactly the reason why we're here in the first place. I know I told you about Tasty Burger, but you and I are going to a better food place. We're going to have a proper or maybe even a better meal.
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"We're going to have a conversation that won't be drowned by the cheers and screams of baseball fanatics. And before you know it, we'd be back at the park–maybe even cheering for the Red Sox ourselves. But for now, let's eat

"Right there."

He's pointing at something I can't quite see. The food truck? Ben & Jerry's? Some hotdog stand whose brand I can't read from here?

"Red, seriously. Will you just please tell me," I finally said. "Or you'll regret you ever brought me here in the first place. I'm not kidding and I'm hungry so let's minimize making clever jokes from now on, shall we?"

Instead of what I expected him to do, he grabbed my hand again and quickened his pace. My mean voice and clear-cut words usually work on other people, but it looks like they're powerless in Red's realm. We walk past a few more blocks, crossed the road, and eventually stopped in front of a vintage-themed pizza place.

"We're here," he finally said. He lets go of my hand as he looks at the store's neon-lighted signage bearing the big, bold words Blaze Pizza, and smiles. "We're now here at the best pizza place in town so, you're welcome."

I try to suppress my laugh from his egoism about how I should thank him for bringing me here, but I fail. I laugh anyway, and before I know it, my stomach begins to churn.

It doesn't stop me from commenting, nonetheless.

"You brought me here for pizza when we could have just stayed inline–we would have probably gotten in the stadium now, by the way–and bought some of that Tasty Burger delights you told me about?"

"What can I tell you?" he said. "The only thing that's constant in this world is change. So yes, my plans changed and I'm afraid you have to keep up with my spontaneity."

"Fine," I say with a sigh. "For now, you win."

He opened the door, we entered the restaurant, and almost immediately, the aroma put me in a trance. The smell alone filled my empty tummy as the open-kitchen greeted us with all kinds of delicious-smelling hunger-inducing whiff. I stood very still, absorbing the priceless moment of nasal o.r.g.a.s.m. Euphoria. Bliss.

Red must have noticed this because he was now smiling and giving me the look that seemed to say, "You'd love this place. I knew it."

"Jeez, Liz. Take it easy. You seriously look like you're in a serious case of drooling," he jokingly said.

"Why, thank you," I respond. "Aren't you so sweet?"

We both smile at our random comments that sound like we've been friends since kindergarten and that all these are normal even when they weren't. To me, everything is new–the outright and shameless flirting, that is.

"What do you want?" he asks, moving forward in the queue.

I'm glad the topic finally s.h.i.+fted to this. Food.

"Anything at all," I answer. "I mean, anything without anything spicy; I've never been a big fan of spicy food so yes, nothing spicy—not even a tiny bit."

"Well then, what do you think about barbecue chicken?" he asks me.

"Nope. I'm not a big fan of barbecue, and you don't think barbecue fits well with pizza, do you?"

"Okay," he replies ever so slightly. "What about the green stripe pizza? It's one of the bestsellers."

"Red, seriously," I say. "It has red bell peppers, and red bell peppers aren't exactly not spicy."

"You know what," he says with a tone of unusual frustration. "Since you refuse to try new flavors and give the ones you're not exactly into a chance, why don't we just make our own pizza?"

With that, he heads off to the other end of the counter; I follow his lead.

I get this weird feeling that he's mad or disappointed, but my hunger is stronger than ever that I no longer want to argue. I just want to focus on making the pizza and eating it. Heaven knows how I almost drooled when its scent greeted me the moment we went in.

Now in front of another queue, we're standing before different kinds of dough. There's the Original Dough, the High Rise Dough, and the Gluten Free. I pick the Original Dough because I'm familiar with it; Red got himself some of the High Rise.

"Original. Cla.s.sic," he says.

I just playfully roll my eyes. He chuckles a bit.

"Why don't you try something else?" he added.

I won't, Red. I won't ask for a bite; as a matter of fact, I'll just go get a bite right away.

"Alright then. Just don't go asking for a slice of mine later," he says.

"You like me so I'm sure you won't mind," I reply. "Will you?"

He just heads to the cheese station, preventing me from catching the look on his face. I follow him, and immediately fall in love with everything in before me. There were so many varieties of cheese to choose from that I felt like if I could, I'd have one of each of them. We could pick from Goat, Gorgonzola, Ovalini, Mozzarella, Parmesan, Ricotta, Shredded Mozzarella, and Vegan Cheese. I got the Mozzarella mainly because I love it more than anything.

Perhaps the most exciting part of the pizzmaking experience is the meat. I say this because I could eat ham for breakfast, lunch, and dinner without anything else. The same is true for my relations.h.i.+p with chicken, bacon, and almost every other meat there is.

In short, I had the hardest time picking which three pieces of meat I'd include in my custom-made pizza. Among the choices were Apple wood Bacon, Grilled Chicken, Italian Meatb.a.l.l.s, Italian Sausage, Pepperoni, and Smoked Ham.

"I recommend the sausage and the pepperoni," the sous-chef said; she must have noticed the look on my face that showed nothing but a complete inner battle with myself as to which pieces to take.

"Thanks," I reply. "Okay, I'll have that I guess."

The lady smiled; I smiled back, and from the corner of my eye, I could see Red shaking his head ever so slightly.

"I'm hurt," he said. "You take other people's recommendations, but when I give mine, you brush them off."

I just give him the biggest smile I could give him before heading toward the next station, which was a whole different section of veggies, but since I'm not a big fan of greens, I skip it and head straight to the cas.h.i.+er.

"Hey," Red suddenly calls. I look back at him. "Come on, the veggies are the best part!"

"I think I'm good," I reply.

"Come on; you have to have at least one of each section to make your first Blaze Pizza experience worth it."

And just like that, I walk all the way back. To the vegetable section. To him. There were Artichokes, Banana Peppers, Black Olives, Cherry Tomatoes, Chopped Garlic, Fresh Basil, Green Bell Peppers, Jalapenos, Mushrooms, Oregano, Pineapple, Red Onions, Red Peppers, Sauteed Onions, Spinach, and Zucchini.

"You can always start out with the Cherry Tomatoes," Red tells me. "They're sweet."

"Like me," I reply, joking. "You better make sure that whatever you put in my pizza is delicious or I'll get myself a new one and you'd have to finish two whole pizzas all by yourself."

"That sounds more like a reward than a punishment," he says with a smirk.

"For starters," I reply, smiling. "Let me settle with the Cherry Tomatoes; don't tell me to add anything else."

He looks at me as though I just performed a miracle.

"Wow," he says.

"Okay, stop it; I know you're either exaggerating or making fun of me."

"No seriously. I'm flattered. Trust me, you are going to love the tomatoes; I'll do a dare if you don't like them."