He pushed open the heavy oak door with both hands. Store lights lit up the narrow sidewalk. The street was narrow too. Everything seemed narrower in Europe. He craned his neck and looked up. Sexy Tractor Hotel. His parents had a sense of humor. Why did his parents have to have a sense of humor? It creeped him out. At least the sign wasn’t in neon pink or radioactive green.

He hoped the uniform made him look his age. He didn’t aim to look like a teenager who looked like an adult man. He just wanted to look like a sixteen-year-old who looked older than thirteen. Being half Asian was a mixed blessing. Thanks, Dad. For once it would be nice if a girl called him “baby” instead of “baby-face.”

A stone statue of a knight stood guard at the Sir Lancelot restaurant next-door. The guy had his sword ready and his visor down, like he was about to go into battle. There was no King Arthur restaurant nearby. A fast food joint on the street corner sold Vietnamese noodles. He couldn’t believe an Eastern European country had a fast food joint on a street corner that sold Vietnamese noodles.

Two currency exchanges stared at him from the opposite side of the narrow street. They must’ve been competitors or something. There was a liquor store between them. What a strategic location.

He missed his two best buddies. No guy should have to brave his first bar adventure alone.

A pretty girl with straight black hair walked by. Her hair fell to her lower back. Her eyes looked straight ahead. She didn’t even look his way. Of course she didn’t.

He was sixteen-years-old. He knew falling in love every other day was part of the contract.

The beautiful ladies of Budapest weren’t making the contract easy. This was awesome and not awesome at the same time. They were there, but they acted like he wasn’t. The Hungarian capital also had awesome architecture that made him feel like he could skip Italy. The Parliament building resembled a final dungeon from Final Fantasy.

About a block away from the bar, he noticed a place that sold souvlaki. Perfect spot for drunk food. Pita bread instead of a tortilla, lots of meat and vegetables instead of rice and beans and cheese, a souvlaki was like a Greek burrito.

A group of other tourists filed into the bar (how many languages were they speaking?), and he strolled through like he was one of them. His legs were totally not trembling. He was strutting. His heart wasn’t hammering. He just naturally had a high heart rate.

No cover charge. No bouncer demanding ID. Europe. What a wonderful place.

It would be even more wonderful if his legs steadied and his heart slowed down.

Instant—the name reminded him of ramen—had an interior like the inside of a kaleidoscope. A kaleidoscope that happened to be a renovated Soviet building. If he had super hearing like the elves from The Lord of the Rings, he might be able to sort the chaos into order. Someone shouted something. Probably translated as “Cheers!” or “You want a piece of me?”

Mom liked to say his growth spurt wasn’t over. She never worked her lawyer magic when she said this, so he never believed her. True, his growth spurt wasn’t over, but it hadn’t started either.

Which made weaving through the crowd pretty tough.

Shoulders. Armpits. Elbows. So many of them.

Finally, the bar counter, the light at the end of the tunnel. The shininess of beer mugs and beer taps reflected off the ceiling lights.

The bartender was cute. Why did the bartender have to be cute too? “Hi, what beer would you like?” Good English. Budapest was a tourist city.

“Um... beer?”

She smiled, did not call him an idiot, and pointed to one of the taps. “This one okay?”

He mumbled some kind of yes and forked over the money. She handed him the beer in an actual mug instead of a Solo cup. He almost felt like a grownup. Thus concluded their interaction. She would never bother to speak to him again. Unless he ordered another beer. Had Mom given him enough money?

He turned around.

And nearly tipped over the barstool.

It could’ve been worse. The mug could’ve slid from his hand. Not finishing his first bar-bought beer was something he would never live down.

He saw her.

Across the room. Leaning against the wall. Behind the pool table. She didn’t see him. Of course she didn’t.

His brain understood that all it took to catch his attention was a pretty face. There was totally nothing special about her. He tried to look away.

And failed epically.

There was something special about her.

She wore a black dress. Not a little black dress. It reached her knees. Not particularly tight. Didn’t accentuate any features. Modestly cut. Horizontal neckline. Not plunging. Thick shoulder straps. Not flattering, really. Complexion as smooth as milk. Bare arms. Probably the most provocative part of her outfit.

No, wait. Her shoes. Not high heels or flats or boots like most of the other girls. Black platforms that went well with her dress. Pretty retro. White socks. No handbag. No drink.

Wavy hair grazed her shoulders; bangs splashed across her forehead. Obviously not her natural color. It didn’t try to fake being natural, didn’t try to be socially acceptable, didn’t try to hide in darkness and only showed itself under the sun.

It said, “Yeah, I’m the result of some combination of chemicals, but I still look good, I match this girl’s face, and you know it.” If ruby was melted by lava and then shaped by dragon fire, it would be that color.

Girl was hot.

And obviously older than him. And naturally with one of those douchebags too busy playing pool to appreciate his lady. Why did angels always choose devils?

Taking one last look and sighing dramatically, he leaned away from the barstool and made his rounds around Instant. A dance floor rumbled downstairs. He came back upstairs.

He found the attached cafe in the back. Two guys wearing berets debated what was going to happen in the sixth book of Harry Potter. After the death of Sirius in The Order of Phoenix, what could possibly happen in the next one to top that?

A discovery dawned on him: Going to a bar alone sucked. His beer swam at half tank. He drank like the Titanic sank. Very slowly. He would just finish this and go. He rather missed that barstool. He went back.

And she was still there. Not the cute bartender. The hot and beautiful and angelic ruby/lava/dragon fire girl. She hadn’t moved an inch. A new group of players had laid claim to the pool table.

His pulse raced like a sprinter at the Olympics in Athens.

She wasn’t taken? What was wrong with those guys? Why hadn’t one of them tried chatting her up? Had they tried and been shot down? She didn’t look stuck up. Those dudes needed to grow a pair and stop acting like she didn’t exist.

His feet grew a mind of their own. Why were they taking him towards the pool table? He didn’t want to play. Oh, his feet were taking him around the table. But why?

Oh.

Oh, my.

He was no longer standing where he had been standing. In the safety of the barstool. He was now standing where he was standing. Behind the pool table. Leaning against the wall. Even without the platforms, she would’ve been taller than him.

“Hi.” How was his mouth making sound? How was he holding his beer with a hand that trembled like a twig?

She looked at him.

Her eyes! Holy Sephiroth!

Snowflakes swirled with blue and green and gray flecked with prisms of brown. Maybe the lighting was playing tricks on him. Maybe her eyes were lightning about to strike him. He would be more than happy to be struck.

Dad sometimes suggested hypnosis for Mom’s clients to get the truth out of them. Of course, it was always a joke. Dad liked sleeping not on the couch.

This angel wouldn’t need a pen or a pocket watch to hypnotize anyone. Her eyes would be enough. They were enough for him.

It was rude to stare, but if being spellbound broke society’s rules, then he would just have to be a rebel. There was surprise in her eyes. At least there was nothing that asked, “Are you kidding me?”

She was obviously hapa. Like him. Biracial. Mixed. Whatever the accepted term was.

“Hi, I’m Melina.” Her voice.... Oh, her voice. His knees shook.

“Hi, I’m in love” popped into his mind, but since there was no chance she felt the same way, he said, “I’m Eli.”

Next Chapter: Summer 2004: III