Flashes of Inspiration

Clash of the Tartans

"Are you going to wear that?" Mom asked skeptically.

I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling, then looked down at my tan tartan suit. "It's all the rage now, I saw it on American Bandstand! It's edgy; it's—"

"'All the rage', eh? I know you can't wait to show Heather how hip you are, but Arthur—you look like her couch!"

I had to laugh at that. I thought the image was funny; my mother did not think getting laughed at was funny. Not at all.

"Don't you sass me, young man. Unless you want to walk to your girlfriend's house in that ridiculous outfit. If you sass back at me, you may not use the car."

"I'm sorry, Mom, I didn't mean it. Just the thought of me being a couch..." This time, the corner of her mouth twitched in a smile, and I knew I was out of hot water. "Besides, if I walked there, I'd arrive with every girl in town following behind me! I look downright snazzy." I pretended to brush dust off the soft flannel shoulder and winked at her jokingly. "Even if you can't tell."

Now Mom's eyes rolled toward the ceiling as she handed me the keys to our old Ford Biscayne. I took them happily and headed for the door.

Although Heather actually only lived a couple blocks away, I felt like a million dollars climbing out of that big red car and walking up her front steps, buttoning my jacket with suave.

She answered the door, and I smiled at her, holding my arm out to escort her to our land yacht.

She didn't take my arm, though. Instead, Heather looked me up and down with an all-too-familiar skepticism.

"Arthur!" she said in a shocked voice. "You look like my couch!"