Wait!" the teacher called out. She sent Sarah to the bus and then jogged over to me. "Thank you, mister. . ."

"MacRae," my voice crackled. "Scott MacRae."

I watched Sarah crack open the school bus window with an impish grin. "He thinks he's Prince Charming!" And then the whole bus full of girls giggled and plastered their rosy faces against the glass. 

And while I probably turned red all the way to my ear tips, the stunning Miss Wakefield barely missed a beat. "Well, there's a recommendation." Then her blue eyes—and man were they blue—gave me the once over. She wasn't smiling when she was finished. While I experienced an inner sulk, believing it was because of my ungainly appearance, she turned her head and shouted, "Is there anyone who can get this man some dry clothes?"

Less than a minute later, two different men had come running with clothing—a raincoat, jeans, a T-shirt, a wool hat. She accepted the contributions, and thanked them, eloquently, graciously. Then she brushed one of her long curls off her shoulder and turned back to me. This time her whole freckled face was smiling—I was right about the freckles—right down to her natural, pink, well-pampered lips, slightly to the side in subtle amusement. "It appears you had quite an adventure."

"Yeah, long story."

As she stacked the clothing into a neat pile for me to take, I couldn't help but notice her engagement ring. The diamond was so astronomically H-U-G-E, it could have had planets orbiting around it. Seeing it, realizing what a guy like me was up against, was almost laughably depressing. But, at the very least, there wasn't an equally ostentatious wedding band locking that ring in place.

Since I was distracted by that monstrosity and shivering like crazy, I wasn't prepared for my hands to be so useless. When she placed the clothes in my arms, the entire pile bobbled right out. I scrambled to catch everything and so did she. We ended up bumping together in a jumble of hands, wet and dry clothes, and body parts.

"Sorry," I mumbled as we stabilized everything in my hands. "And thanks. You're a girl who knows how to get things done."   

She shrugged one shoulder, cool and casual. "I try. Well, Mr. MacRae, I have to go, and you need to change . . . immediately. But, you should tell me your heroic tale some time." She pulled out a pen and paper from her coat pocket, and wrote "Skylar" and her phone number. "You can call me and we could get together. I certainly owe you one." She must have read the panic and indecision on my face because her smile fell to a scowl. "You won't call, will you?" she muttered with cynicism the entire male species probably deserved.

"No! I just . . ." This was the moment when I expected everything to go sour. The time when she would regret ever putting that pen to paper. "I . . . don't have a telephone."

"Okay?" Her eyes narrowed with what I hoped was confusion and not disillusionment. "I could meet you here," she offered. "There's a pub around the corner." She pointed over her shoulder, her hand-talking at its best. "I was there once. I'm sure you know it."

"I'm . . . really sorry . . . but. . ."

My eyes wandered, and my hand fumbled into the damp, salty hair at the back of my neck. I did everything to avoid her pointed, thoughtful, calculating stare, afraid she might be able to read too deeply, go where no man (or woman) had gone before. And that place was not meant for visitors.

"Let me guess. You don't go out either."

"I suppose not."

"I suppose not," she teased with a mild laugh. "So, here's what I've come up with: pizza, here, tonight. A man has to eat, right?"

"Uh. . ." My eyes met hers. It was a big mistake. Lost in the blue that was bluer than the sky on a perfect day, I could see myself in their reflection. Not literally, of course, but I became someone tall, fair, mysterious. And even though she was Ivy League and yacht clubs and Kennedys, I had her phone number shaking in my hand. I was suddenly the poor nobody capable of giving her pretentious fiancé a run for his money. "Sure," I said, challenge accepted. "How does seven o'clock sound?"

I brought that invincibility back to the boat with me afterwards. I must have had an air about me, a stupid grin, a swagger. Maybe everyone saw what had happened. Maybe they didn't and just knew. For whatever reason, all eyes were upon me and I loved it. I wasn't me at the time. I was better than me and everyone seemed to notice.

"So?" Mike asked loud enough to pierce through the grunts, the splatter of freezing rain, and the constant whoosh of waves breaking against the dock, the boat, and the sand. "What happened? Did she give you any . . . extra credit?"

Everyone chuckled, at me, I knew, and not with me. But I didn't care. And I didn't feel the need to answer, though I did start singing Aerosmith, because hey, why not? "Dream on . . . Dream on." Then I danced around and waved Skylar's phone number in the air for all to see.

"It would help if you had a phone," someone else snickered.

That one didn't hurt either. Nothing could get me down.

"Get your pansy ass back to work, MacRae!" Brady shouted, ending my dance and reverie. I drudgingly went back to work, but no one, not Mike, not Van Orden, or my condescending boss could take the song out of my head. 

Dream on.

~~~

Aerosmith. Dream On (1973).

https://youtu.be/sZfZ8uWaOFI