Spanking Shakespeare Read Online Free PDF Page B

personal awkwardness and insecurity.
    “Screw the movie,” Katie says when I’ve finished. “Just get her drunk.”
    “Yeah, right,” I say. “Very romantic.”
    “Take her to the new Showcase Cinemas,” Neil says. “They have the best bathrooms.”
    Katie glares at him. “Could you be any more fucking pathetic?”
    Neil blows her a kiss. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
             
    Thursday comes, and I spend most of the day making a mental list of everything that could go wrong on our date. I have little hope that things will run completely smoothly, but I am determined to avoid any large-scale catastrophes. Once we make it to the movie, I figure I will be in the clear. I mean, how much can go wrong once the movie starts?
    We have planned to see a new comedy, but when we meet after school, Celeste asks if I’d rather see a South American documentary playing at the art theater downtown. “It’s about the resurgence of Native American cultures in the Americas,” she says. “It’s supposed to be really good.”
    It’s a documentary. It’s probably going to be one of the most insufferably boring movies I have ever seen. “Sounds good,” I say.
    “Have you seen any of Alejandero’s other films?”
    Alejandero? Is that his first name or his last name? “I don’t think so,” I say.
    “He’s amazing. I saw a film he made about the domestic rituals of female Inuits that was so eye-opening.”
    Female Inuits. Sounds fascinating. Can I have a large shovel or a long piece of rope?
    We get on the bus, and I use the opportunity to change the subject.
    “How’s your memoir coming along?” I ask.
    Celeste takes a deep breath as if she’s about to deliver some pronouncement of great consequence. “It’s a challenge,” she says. “I mean, you read Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy, and anything you write seems so childish and inept.” She looks at me expectantly.
    Just get to the theater, I think. Dark room, no more talking. “I try to stay away from writers with long Russian names.”
    Celeste laughs. She thinks I’m kidding.
    When we get to the theater, Celeste refuses my offer to buy her ticket. “You can buy the popcorn,” she says. “I’ll go get seats.”
    I don’t want popcorn. The butter makes me sick.
    “And ask them to put extra butter on it,” she calls back to me.
    The theater is half empty, but Celeste has managed to find us seats in the middle of a nearly full row, and I have to navigate my way over the legs and past the knees of several stone-faced senior citizens who sit rigidly, refusing to make room for me to pass. This is fun, I think as I stumble over a cane. I should go on dates more often.
    The buttered popcorn and my frazzled nerves conspire against me, and just as the movie starts I develop intense stomach cramps. I look down the row. The old people have formed a blockade. On the screen there is tribal chanting, and a voiceover says, “After years of oppression, now the time has come for Montezuma’s revenge.”
    “How long is this movie?” I whisper.
    “About two and a half hours.”
    I close my eyes. Wonderful. I’d say I’ve got about seven minutes before I start to crap all over this seat.
    I actually hold out for twenty before I make a mad dash to the bathroom, where I release a cacophony of sounds that would leave even Neil wide-eyed with disbelief. I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to step over those surly senior citizens again and then realize that my stomach is still acting up. I don’t want to sit through two more hours of a movie without any plot, action, or nudity. But how long can I stay here before Celeste starts to worry and comes looking for me?
    Fifteen minutes later I finally make my way back. “Are you okay?” she whispers as I slide into my seat.
    I nod, though my shin is stinging from a well-placed kick from Mr. or Mrs. Medicare down the row.
    Celeste remains focused on the screen. “I’ll tell you what you missed when