He stared into the spoon, checking his insane hair. Which was held up by so much gel one doubted it could even move, much less be out of place. Meanwhile, she gripped tightly at the cheesy red-and-white-checkered tablecloth her mother had bought and put down special. Because she knew her little girl was having a boy over, and everything must be perfect (by her warped and dated standards, at least).

Despite trying to look anywhere but at him, she caught the idiot grinning into his spoon, wiggling his eyebrows "attractively." What, was he trying to seduce himself?

She cringed. What were her friends thinking? Setting her up with this– this– moron who clearly couldn't get a girl otherwise! With ridiculous hair, too. Absolutely ridiculous.

Of course, she was no supermodel or pageant queen herself, but at least her hair was normal. Obnoxiously straight, dramatically plain, yes, but normal. Held out of her eyes by a normal lavender hairband, and maybe a bobby pin or two. But not seven bottles of mousse and what must have been a mixture of toilet bowl wax and olive oil (because nothing should be that thick and greasy unless it was scraped off the bottom of a deep-fryer).

The kitchen door creaked and her mother peered in, hair curled and make-up piled on so thick she almost looked like a clown, or a really happy mime. Finally looking away from his silverware, the boy across from her grinned.

"What's up Mrs. Massey?" he said, rocking back in his chair and balancing it on two legs. Something she'd been berated for a thousand times by the exact woman he talking to.

"Oh, nothing much dear. Just checking on you two," the plump woman said in far too cheery way.

By "checking on," she of course meant "making sure you two aren't sucking face or interacting any way, shape, or form that is not simply verbal, and even that might be dangerous." This was obviously expected of the woman who had told her twelve-year-old daughter she could get pregnant from hugging anyone of the opposite gender. (Of course, she was fifteen now, and sex-ed was mandatory at school. Though she'd learned the truth well before that, much to her mother's horror.)

She smiled and gave a quick look at her daughter, who faked a smile back at her. Poorly. But her mom was gullible, and not very observant (more like not at all). She'd believe anything unless someone explained to her – in great detail – why it was false.

The door shut loudly, as always, and the dark-haired girl went back to staring at everything but the boy across the table. Said boy took this opportunity to start a conversation in what might have been the worst way possible.

"Damn, why are your parents so nosy?" he croaked. She looked up at him, glaring. "I mean, they've already come in, like, sixty times in the past ten minutes to 'check up on us' and shit..."

"That's just the way they are," she snapped, "Don't think about it too much, you might hurt yourself."

He scowled. "Why are you such a bitch- OW!" She kicked him beneath the table, pushing his two-leg-balancing chair back onto the floor, the ridiculous-haired boy with it.

"You know," she remarked coldly, "It's kind of rude to call your date names."

He rubbed the back of his neck angrily, getting up and putting his chair back. Snatching up the spoon again to use as a mirror, he grumbled, "I bet you messed up my hair. I put a lot of work into it, too..."

"Please," she almost laughed, "A tornado couldn't mess up that grease-wad."

He sat back down melodramatically, and clearly too hard for his own good, as he cringed moments after impact. She let out a small chuckle.

The room was silent for a while, the boy having managed to shut himself up by staring into the empty plate before him. Finally, looking up, he asked, "Hey, when's your mom bringing food?"

"Dunno," she replied stoically, "Why don't you go ask?"

"What? No. She's your mom, you go ask."

"No. I'm not even hungry." She paused, "Her cooking sucks anyways."

"Oh," he stared down at his plate again. "So... how many dates have you actually been on before?"

"None... though I'm sure you've been on dozens of them."

"Uh, y-yeah, totally, of course," he said nervously, apparently not picking up on her sarcasm.

She shook her head. Really, she was going to have to have a word with her friends about their choice in men. Or, if they case may be, their taste in practical jokes.

"So... why exactly can't we go outside, or to the movies, or anywhere?" He asked, having apparently brushed off his nervousness from before. "I mean, no offense, but your house is really lame. Especially this tablecloth." He poked the checkered rag skeptically for effect.

"Sorry," she said, wondering why she was apologizing to this dork. "My parents don't want me going anywhere without their supervision. Even less so with boys."

"Wow," he said, taking out a pack of gum and quickly unwrapping a piece. "Sucks."

"A little." She paused. "Though, more like a lot."

He laughed slightly before reaching across the table to her. The gum pack clasped neatly between his middle and index fingers. Suave.

"Want one?" he asked.

She gingerly took a piece. Looking closely a the package, she noticed it was her favorite flavor. Interesting.

"...Thanks."

"No problem." he smiled. Admittedly, he wasn't too bad looking, aside from the hair.

The room was quite for several minutes, amazingly her mother hadn't peered in again. The boy with the ridiculous hair seemed to have become distracted by something behind her, probably the view from the large sliding-glass door that lead to her backyard. She didn't really care, and proceeded to unwrap her gum quietly. Popping the blue stick into her mouth before folding the wrapper until the colored foil peeled off its wax-paper lining.

Distantly, she could hear the TV in the other room, and her dad laughing heartily at some undoubtedly horrible joke one of his favorite sit-com characters had told. After which he would take swig of the coffee beside his chair. Though, unbeknownst to him, said beverage would be several hours old, and therefore dreadfully cold. So he'll gag and spit it all over his shirt, then call his dear wife to make some fresh coffee before rushing off to change. As anyone could see, she knew her parent's routines well. Too well, maybe, but they were very predictable.

"Hey Sabrina?" the boy finally spoke up.

"What, Calvin?" she asked pointedly, using his name for sheer emphasis on how silly a name it was.

"Your back fence has a gate," he said simply.

"Genius," she retorted. "Your point?"

"Well, if you don't mind pissing off your parents, we could, you know, leave," he proposed.

For a reason unknown to her, this actually seemed like, well, a good idea. Honestly, what was the worst her parents could do? Ground her? She already lived like she was grounded. Honestly, what did she have to loose?

So she shrugged. "Sure."

"...Seriously?" he said, surprised.

"Seriously, Sherlock."

Standing up, she straightened out her clothes. Just as the faint sound of her father calling for more coffee reached them, she began towards the glass.

He scrambled up after her, barely getting to the door before she did. Pulling it open, he motioned for her to go out, muttering a quick "ladies first" as he did. She gave him a faint smile, and exited out onto the concrete patio.

Maybe, she thought to herself, this date won't be a total bore after all.


a/n: so. this is what happens when i try to write cute romance.

it's so cringe-worthy, i should just shoot myself now. save you guys the trouble.

anyways, this is also what happens when i try to be clever like billy or that one lady on FF. as you can see, it ends badly, and just turns into "describe scene here, describe action here. 'dialogue' bob said. 'more dialgue' alice said. failed attempt at cleverness here." which sucks, because i wanna be clever and write deep, meaningful things, too. :c with sexy men. very sexy men.

but yeah, i'm just gonna go die in a pit. maybe work on the things i'm actually supposed to be working on, and not this shit. so bye now, bye...

byyyyeeeee...