Don't Date the Golden Child
1420 Words
They were still there. I freeze at the voices; I really didn’t want to get into it. Sebastian was a real jerk today, and I wasn’t properly equipped to deal with him.
“What are we hiding from?” A deep voice asks, whispering. His hot breath fanned over the exposed skin of my neck. I am very proud of myself for not jumping and whacking him across the face.
Turning I let my hair shield my face from view. He didn’t need to know how affected I was by that innocent question.
“We?” I croak out.
Dario shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m hiding too?”
“Why?” I ask, retying my hair. This scrunchie was useless. It was too smooth and slipped, it did nothing to hold my hair back.
“I asked you first.” He bantered, a grin bringing out his dimples.
“I’m not.” I retort, a little too sharply. I straighten my spine, and his eyes take in my outfit.
“Michael Jackson?” He raises an eyebrow at the Thriller shirt I was sporting. “I pinned you for more of a metal head listener.”
I nod quickly and make my way back to my dad. I don’t get why I was so shy; I didn’t get shy often, and especially not around boys. Maybe it was because I was out of my usual environment, or because my face was bare and I probably looked like a troll. My face was pale, my cheeks were often pale. My hair was pale. The only thing that wasn’t pale were my eyes, which were a darker blue. But without my mascara they probably looked pale.
Not that I cared whether he found me pretty or not, I didn’t.
In another world, I might’ve been gaga over the star varsity athlete, Dario would have been top notch boyfriend material. But in another world, he wouldn’t be pining for his ex, he wouldn’t be this sweet. And he wouldn’t be best friends with one of my pettiest ex’s. Not that I was considering it. I just knew that some boys where better off untouched. Getting involved with a boy still pining with his ex, that was stupid and would make me a rebound.
I was not a rebound.
“Sup teach.” I acknowledge. And put the pasta in the cart.
My dad frowns at the box, “You chose a different pasta?”
I can feel Dario’s surprise and Sebastian’s annoyance. “Yes, I want to try something new.” I say, still a little shy from my encounter with the soccer star.
“It’s plain, kid.”
I smile and grab a pack of mozzarella cheese. “Not when I’m done with it.”
My dad gives me a distrusting look, and Mr. Mans whispers loudly to my dad “It’s okay, I got frozen pizzas.”
I shoot him a wounded look “You like my pasta.”
He shrugs innocently “I like that pasta, not the mystery cheese dish you are trying.”
I shoot my dad the look and he relents.
I beam and I think of anything else that can go in the pasta. What meat? Maybe ham. In the background I can hear Mr. Mans say “She’s got you wrapped around her perfectly manicured finger.”
I flick my wrist at them, flashing everyone my nail job, including the boys.
“I try.” I tell him, he erupts in loud laughter while my old man grumbles some non-sense about dying from pasta poisoning.
Dario spoke up “So...” he clears his throat “you guys are related?”
“He’s my dad.”
Sebastian agrees “Can’t you see the family resemblance?” he asks seriously.
Dario misses the joke and studies us intently. “Umm they have similar noses and chin.” he mumbles; his eyes pleading for me to put an end in his t*****e.
I was about to speak up and explain that I take after my white mother when my dad intervenes. His face no longer stony but open and genuinely pleased.
“What’s your name young man?”
“Dario, sir. Dario Guaman.”
My dad’s grin widened, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I don’t know if it was an Ecuadorian thing or if all countries do it, but every time someone hints at being Hispanic or more precisely Ecuadorian my dad lights up like a Christmas tree.
“Ecuadorian?”
Dario nods slowly, steals a glance at me, I raise my eyebrows.
I imagined him seeing it as a challenge; You scared?
He grins widely at my dad, then says “The Guayas.”
I take it as: Not in the least.
My smile falters seeing Sebastian’s expression.
...
After plenty of pleading and whining, we come to a compromise. Mr. Mans was only to buy one frozen pizza and a pack of microwaveable mozzarella sticks.
I had the kitchen to myself to cook. I don’t claim to be a brilliant chef, but I had enough sense to know my way around one. I know how to counter something salty with something with more substance. Small things like that, and my dad didn’t cook much. And when he did it was rice, beans and meat. Not that it wasn’t good, but I had broader culinary tastes beyond rice with beans.
The pasta ended up okay but the bits of ham made it seems more like mac and cheese. It needed something else, something to give it a zing.
But my audience was more than willing to eat it, even going for seconds. My dad spent most of the table time complimenting Dario, the food or both.
I just thought of Sebastian’s face, the hurt and shocked look on his face. My dad never liked Sebastian, even less after we broke up. I can only imagine how my dad must have been treating Sebastian, giving him the cold shoulder, a strained smile, or simply looking at him with disappointed eyes. He was one of the only boys that got to me enough to provoke tears. Not because he himself hurt me with his words. More like, how the audience of his jeers quickly believed them. How I was annoying and clingy. How he was going to dump me anyway.
Whatever, he was way in the past.
Mr. Mans went on about how I was so quiet in class. I zoned out until something caught my attention.
“Dario doesn’t participate much either but his grade is fine.” he assures my dad
“Wait what?” I interrupt
“What?” Dad presses “Is the pasta poison starting to kick in? I told you!” but he says this is Spanish.
I wave my fork at Mr. Mans “What did you just say?”
Mr. Mans “You already know this, Dario doesn’t participate much in class-”
“You only teach one class for Juniors, advanced.”
Shooting me a weirded out look he continues “Yes, he is in your class.”
He is?
I dodged their questions gracefully.
What is the big deal?
Nothing.
Did you know he was in your class?
Obviously.
Are you going to eat that?
Yes, so back off.
“Do you like him?”
I look up from my pasta, unlike the men before me I ate my food slowly. Something that always caused debate between Sydney and me. She, being an athlete demanded more nutrition and didn’t waste time in acquiring it.
“Dario?” I ask
My dad looks like an excited puppy as he nods excitedly.
“No.”
Mr. Mans looks up from his pasta, frowning like I suggested murder. My dad now looked like a kicked puppy.
"See? See!? My dad who barely knows Dario and he's already fired up and upset on his behalf. Imagine teenage girls? I would be murdered by soccer fans in my sleep.
There were plenty for reasons some that I've already listed in my head. But even then, I didn’t even scratch the surface. You just don’t date the school’s Golden Boy, or at least of the 11th grade.
He started ranting in Spanish, something he does when he has an argument that needs to be expressed. Almost like he needed to express himself before he forgets his argument.
I only catch the last part: “First guy who looks half decent and you write him off. Why?” Which I was able to translate.
I answer in English “He’s not my type.”
And that was that imagine if we broke up, the pandemonium it would cause-the uproar of indignant girls going on about Dario perfect-ness. His buddies wouldn't let this go, they would wrap their arms around him at the hallway and shoot me glares.
No one would date me then. Not after that criminal offense.
But that was even to over the worst part (No, i'm not referring to his scary gal bestie Yuri), the worst part would be Dario. He was heartbroken when his girlfriend of a year dumped him at the end of her junior year. I was a little too....intense for his taste. I would tear him apart.
There were plenty for reasons some that I've already listed in my head. But even then, I didn’t even scratch the surface. You just don’t date the school’s Golden Boy, or at least of the 11th grade.
No matter how sweet or handsome he is.
- Writer
