“What?” Marty asked.
“There seems to be a rhythmic ceremonial ritual coming up. Have him take her to that.”
“A rhythmic ceremonial—”
“Dance, to you.” Doc Brown smiled, pointing to a handpainted banner which read: ENCHANTMENT UNDER THE SEA…THIS SATURDAY NIGHT…ADMISSION $1.
Marty grinned and slapped his hands. “That’s right!” he cried. “They’re supposed to go to that dance—'Enchantment Under the Sea.’ That’s where they kiss for the first time. It’s perfect.”
“All right, then. Make it happen.”
Marty frowned. “That’s the problem,” he murmured. “How can we get that yo-yo to summon up enough courage to ask her?”
“And how can we get her over the hots for you so she’ll accept?” Doc Brown added dourly.
“I think we got our work cut out for us.”
They were still considering the problem an hour or so later when George McFly entered the cafeteria, found himself a table in the corner, and began eating his lunch. For a few minutes, he just read; then he took out a pad and pencil and started writing as he finished his sandwich.
Marty and Doc Brown sauntered over to him. He barely noticed them as they pulled up chairs and sat at the same table.
“Hi, George,” Marty said after a while. “What are you writing?”
“Stories.”
“Any particular kind?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind?”
“Science fiction.”
“That’s interesting. I didn’t know you were into that. What’s it about, people visiting strange and faraway planets?”
“No. As a matter of fact, it’s about visitors from other planets coming to Earth.”
“I never knew you did anything creative.”
“What do you mean, you never knew?” George asked in a rare display of any emotion other than resignation or despair. “You’ve only known me for a couple of days.”
“That’s right. I keep forgetting. Anyway, how about letting me read one of ’em?”
“Oh, no,” George replied, shaking his head decisively.
“Hey, you said no,” Marty smiled.
George looked at him blankly. Doc Brown also directed a blank stare at him.
“It’s the first time I’ve ever heard George McFly say no,” Marty said. “I guess it’s a joke between me and myself. Forget it.”
George looked as if he was getting ready to bolt.
“Wait a second,” Marty said gently. “I’m just interested in you, that’s all. It isn’t often you meet a writer who’s so young. I should think you’d like to have somebody read your stories.”
“Oh, no,” George muttered. “I mean, what if they didn’t like ’em? What if they told me they were no good, that I was no good?”
Marty had the feeling he had heard these words before—himself complaining to Jennifer after he’d been turned down by the YMCA dance committee.