The Little Of Oz Series

#Chapter9-01

#Chapter9-01

Ding-A-Dine was a quaint little diner on the north side of town. It had withstood more winters than I had been alive, and was solid enough that it granted the promise of surviving many more.

With a neon flashing sign above, and the car lot bordered off by high rising shrubs that concealed the flow of traffic that existed beyond, it had an old-timey feel to it. The inside décor was a sweet, honey-suckle shade, and the booths were brown leather that complimented it splendidly. It wasn't particularly busy, holding enough customers that the waitresses were not standing by idly, but it was empty enough that we entered without my chest constricting in panic, and finding a vacant booth was as easy as a sweeping gaze.

"This will do." Ushering me into one of the booths, the one furthest back and residing next to the front side window that over-looked the settling streets, the busy build-up of pedestrians finally dying down to mere dregs, he waited for me to sit before he took a seat of his own. "Do you know what you want?"

Shrugging nervously, knee having adopted a soft jig that had it bouncing up against the table, I tried my best to meet his gaze. It was harder than it had been before I had outed myself to him. It was harder, but not impossible. Emeralds twinkling beneath dark, curling lashes, every blink he took causing them to dance like the delicate flutter of a butterfly's wings, his eyes were oddly beautiful, in an intense, and tongue-tying kind of way.

He had assured me the other night that we were good. Nothing more had been said on the issue, the drive here consisting of him giving me a front-row seat to his mini rock-out as AC/DC had come on the radio. We had made polite conversation, exchanging pleasantries, but that was all.

I was still waiting for the other shoe to drop and the issue to be brought up, presented as a problem that would shatter what feeble friendship— if what we had even counted as that— we had obtained over the years.

"What is there?" My voice came out as a pathetic mewl. Coarse, as though I had spent the night screaming, and almost without the ability to pronounce each syllable. It took three attempts to clear my throat.

"There's a menu there, Odd Bod." Index finger jabbing towards the condiments holder, his eyes switching between the laminate print out and my face, the left side of his lips curled up into a half-smile.

So there was.

"I don't—I don't read so good," I admitted. Blake already knew I was dyslexic. He and Isaac had stayed up many nights trying to help me with my homework, reading the questions out to me so it was easier. It didn't make it any easier to say out loud, though.

"Oh." His eyes widened a fraction before he gave an apologetic smile and lifted it from the holder. It wasn't so bad that I couldn't read at all. It would have taken me perhaps a while longer than the average person to scan through it all, but I would have, after much frustration, managed. But adding a bottle-load of nerves and the way his presence was making it hard to concentrate on anything but my own incessant worries, I knew I would have struggled more than usual. "Sorry. I forgot about that. Want me to read it out to you?"

"You'd do that?" I asked, head tilting. "For— for me?"

Even Isaac drew the line at certain things. He would have granted me the time I needed without rushing me, but I don't think he would have read it to me.

"Sure."

"Do they do nuggets?" I asked. I was sure they did. It had been years since I had last been in here, but it was a family-friendly diner, and nuggets were a winner for little kids. Plus, if they did do them, it would save him having to read the thing out to me.

"They sure do. Is that what you want? They come with large fries and a drink of choice."

"Do they do milkshakes?" My favourite thing to drink was smoothies. They were sweet, flavourful, and they made my throat feel all lovely, but milkshakes were a close second.

"Banana, right?"

I gasped. "How did you—"

"You always order banana. Eyes always jokes that you're part monkey. Would you like me to order for you?"

If I were a superhero, awkwardness would have been my superpower; staring at him in awe, I couldn't help but wonder if I had heard him wrong. Isaac would order for me sometimes, but only if I begged him enough. My mother never would. She pushed me to do things myself, especially the things that made me the most uncomfortable. Not to be cruel, but to try and help me overcome it.

As though it were that simple.

Blake nodded. "You get all stuttery when you have to talk to strangers, and I know you don't like doing it."

"I—" What was there even to say to that? Without making myself look like a bumbling, babbling fool, at least. Swallowing hard, adverting my gaze, the little cluster of sugar granules that scattered around the shakers became all the more interesting, presenting a place to look. Maybe it was rude, but he was making my brain malfunction.