This Is Not a Love Scene

by S. C. Megale

  “I’m ready,” I replied.

  KC walked up beside me and looked down at François. François’ ears pulled back and his eyes closed as he dropped his jaw in a yawn.

  “You guys want to chill on the tracks for a little?” said Elliot.

  I checked the time on my phone. Class had ended about twenty minutes early and was my last period, leaving me enough time to hang. Mom was my ride today, and she was less patient about waiting for me to come out than Dad was.

  “Yeah, I got about twenty minutes,” I said.

  “Cool,” said Elliot.

  At the door, Elliot, KC, and I stopped to let Mags walk through. Nate joined her side and let his arm fall over her shoulders. He was wearing two different-colored long socks, and his hunter-green backpack sagged from his back. I tried not to let my insides sour, remembering what he’d said about me, as I waved goodbye to Mags. She didn’t see.

  KC and Elliot snuck out after. I halted at the doorway as Mr. Billings came over.

  “See you guys next week,” Billings said to me, scratching François’ ear. I went ahead and hugged Mr. Billings. Then sped to catch up with Elliot in the hall, who was glancing over his shoulder for me.

  “So.” Elliot sighed as he sat on an outside bench next to the tracks where runners were practicing in PE. I parked next to him, KC following. The sun was bright but cool. Someone had stuck their empty Gatorade bottle into one of the holes of the wire fence in front of us. A little blue liquid pooled in the grooves inside the plastic.

  “So.” I grinned back. But as KC took a seat next to Elliot, I checked my phone quickly. No one texted. No Cole. I looked back up.

  François gave a distressed rumble at my side.

  “Uh-oh,” I said. François’ head was tilted towards my wheel. I’d accidentally run over his leash and tangled it in my spokes; he was being tethered.

  I tugged at the leash. François grumbled louder. (Not helping!)

  “Could you—?” I implored Elliot, who was closer, but KC jumped up.

  A second later KC was kneeling next to me and untangling François. His hands were gentle and loving. I tried to ward off embarrassment.

  “Did KC tell you?” said Elliot. “He found the matching uniforms for the actors.”

  “No way!” I said. “That’s awesome! How much do we owe you?”

  KC rose, leash in hand. François shook a victory shake, and even though he was the whitest dog ever, I heard Martin Luther King Jr.’s voice narrating it like a civil rights speech. Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, free at last!

  “Nothing,” said KC, handing me the leash. “We had them in my attic.”

  “You had museum docent uniforms for three people in your attic.” My words were skeptical.

  KC rested both hands atop his head. “My family owns a lot of costumes.”

  “What?” I said.

  “My family.” He shook his head dismissively. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Well, I’m buying you dinner or something, then,” I said with a finalized tone.

  KC looked over at me.

  “So, are Nate and Mags really happening now?” Elliot said, popping white earbuds into his ears. “I mean, damn.” He scrolled through the music on his phone.

  “He’s a piece of shit,” said KC, pulling his arms down. The language seemed a little strong for KC’s quiet manner. And I wasn’t sure Nate deserved that bad a verdict for saying something stupid. Maybe KC was jealous of Nate.

  My phone buzzed, and I jolted for it. Hoping it was Cole.

  My heart sank. “Hey, I gotta go. My ride’s here.”

  “All right, hey!” said Elliot. “See you in three days!” He high-fived me again, and I laughed. Elliot’s verve splashed all around him like a sprinkler.

  “I’ll walk you to your ride,” said KC.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. No problem.”

  The gate into the track field screeched as he held it open for me and I rolled through. I bumped a little over the rough gravel, and the crunch was loud. Internally, I cringed at the noise I made.

  KC loped next to me, hands in pockets.

  “So, you really think Nate’s a piece of shit, huh?” I said. “Why? Did he say anything more about me?”

  “What did you hear?” KC asked.

  “Uh.” I tried to arrange my tone to sound the least depressing. “That I’ll be a virgin forever.”

  KC scoffed. “Yeah. No. It was just that.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. Trying to shrug it off, be heroic. “It’s just a comment.”

  “A messed-up one.”

  “People are dicks to each other all the time, KC,” I said. “They say much worse things than that.”

  We neared that parking lot and my purple van, so he mumbled his words. “Which is why I hate everyone immediately upon meeting them.”

  So that was a little dark. I furrowed my brow. “You do?”

  “Yeah. Until they prove me otherwise.”

  I stopped and turned to him. Only a few paces away from the car. He crossed his arms.

  My smile was mischievous. “When did you decide that you didn’t hate me?”

  “Maeve?” Mom shouted from the van. “Ready?”

  I groaned and bunched up François’ leash in my hand. Smiled at KC. “Thanks again for the shirts. See you at the shoot.” He smiled back, nodded. He waved once to my mom and then hung his head.

  I turned and made for the van, François’ collar jingling. Then I heard KC’s soft voice. Almost like an afterthought.

  “I never hated you.”

  4

  The secretary pushed the clipboard towards me on the counter the next day. I tried swiping for it, but the weight of my flesh caused my arm to fall like a trapeze artist who missed his swing midair.

  “Could you slide it a little closer?” I said. Three inches was all I needed.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” The woman rose and shoved the whole clipboard in my lap.

  IF SHE WERE A GUY: God, chivalry. Mmph.

  BECAUSE SHE’S NOT: Overkill assistance. Offensive.

  I clicked the pen and signed François and myself onto Riverside Assisted Living’s visitors’ list. François’ nose was chugging along the carpet, probably vacuuming up the smells of too much soap and air freshener. I looked around as I moseyed to the waiting lounge. An ancient air conditioner hummed at the window, doing nothing to sway the heavy floral curtains. A lighthouse suncatcher, yellow when it once was clear, stained light onto the armchairs.

  Those chairs held elderly residents. They slept, hung their heads, or stared at François. They maybe lived and sometimes existed.

  I swallowed.

  “Maeve?”

  I turned to see a dark-skinned nurse in periwinkle scrubs smile at me. “Quinten’s in the club.”

  The club was a collection of tables and one antique cathedral radio, a fake plant, and a bar that cruelly had alcohol bottles painted on the wall behind it but none of the real stuff. Nothing like that allowed here.

  I reviewed the topics I planned to hit on and approached the round table where Quinten sat with three old women with short, curly pink hair.

  I sighed and parked. “Hey, how many girls do I have to fight off you before you die?”

  Quinten, riddled with arthritis and sitting in one of those scooter things that they maybe gave him at Walmart, raised his head and met my gaze with big, brown eyes. His moustache was grey to match his hair.

  His shoulders started shaking with weak, breathy laughter, and I grinned back.

  “All right.” I whipped out a fresh deck of Bicycle playing cards. “We doing 21 or seven-card stud? You ladies in?”

  The ladies giggled bashfully and waved their hands. One fixed her hair with her delicate fingers. I felt like Quinten should try to hit that.

  They watched me shuffle.

  I met Quinten at this little playhouse showing The Producers in Maryland. We were both boxed in the handicapped sect
ion. At intermission, I tried to joke with him about the unexpected raunchiness of the play, and he’d just slowly turned a baleful eye on me.

  “Not easy being stuck in the box, is it?” I had said, suddenly soft and serious.

  He didn’t ask for it, but his lingering, contemplative gaze was just hopeless enough for me to write down my phone number and just hopeful enough for me to give it to him.

  He called the next day like we were old friends. I’ve been coming to visit him ever since. Another OMF addition.

  “All right, deuces wild.” I dealt and included the old ladies anyway.

  My phone buzzed as I studied my poker hand.

  I furrowed my brow and glanced to make sure the seniors were occupied with their hands before replying. The assisted-living home was a place I felt particularly judged for being glued to my phone.

  Ooph. All lowercase and no punctuation. Mags was pissed. I asked Quinten about his children and threw in a bet of pennies that we pretended were twenties.

  Right? I don’t think I did.

  “So … how’s school going?” Quinten wheezed.

  I smiled at him. “Meh. Gotta keep the parents happy.”

  Quinten huffed with humor.

  “But I’m filming a video on Sunday. I’m excited.” I told him about it until the nurse reappeared and administered Quinten his pills. He blinked, silently resentful of the timing and probably even a little embarrassed to take them in front of me. But he slowly took the paper cup. I used this opportunity to write my longer reply to Mags.

  I sent it and fired out another.

  Relief flooded through me when Mags replied.

  Mags was only comfortable saying I love you in acronyms. I stuffed my phone under my seat belt and refocused on the card game after Quinten gulped down his last pill.

  Elderly hands of every shade and varying levels of shakiness (though I probably topped them all) fell on François’ fur in passing. Residents thumped their medical equipment slowly towards him like the Night of the Living Walkers. It was great.

  My phone buzzed. I really didn’t know how much more Nate discussion I had in me, but I flashed the screen on anyway.

  My heart clapped in my chest.

  Oh my God, shut up, Maeve. He probably has a question about the shoot or something.

  I replied way too fast.

  No punctuation. Seemed more casual.

  Okay, I don’t understand the tongue emoji. I don’t understand if it means he’s disgusted or is teasing me or wants to star in a reality show about how many children we have together.

  I figured that’s why he was texting. Returning to my poker hand, I sighed and organized my cards. Almost a straight flush. “So, what’s the craziest thing you ever did in Vegas?” I asked Quinten. Usually people ask nursing-home folks how the mushy food is or what evening activities were planned. I liked mining for the adult part of Quinten, the wild life that used to be and want things just like me.

  Quinten released a long exhale. “I busted a one-armed prostitute in a coke deal on the nose of the Sphinx at that hotel one time.”

  “Oh, the Luxor is cool,” I said, switching out two cards. Quinten was a former DEA agent.

  “Mr. Mosby? You left your dentures in your room.” The nurse set the glass of dentures in front of him. He stared at the teeth as they clinked around in the water.

  I went on to save him embarrassment. “So how did that—”

  I flinched and instinctively looped my arm around François’ neck. Hugging him to my side.

  That woman. That tall woman by the front desk. The secretary was pushing the clipboard to her too and letting her sign in.

  I wasn’t losing it. I was undeniably sure that it was the same woman from the mall who tried to take François. Patricia. Wheelchair Charity Woman. She slipped on her sunglasses and nodded at something the bubbly secretary was saying. Swept her head around the building like she was appraising the place. And then the secretary graciously escorted her down the opposite hallway, raising an arm as if giving her a tour.

  What was she doing here? No, Wheelchair Charity Woman. You can’t also be Old People Charity Woman. God, you can’t have all the charities!

  “Pssst. Quinten.” I leaned forward. Quinten looked up. Eyebrows raised. “Who’s that tall woman with the sunglasses who was just at the counter?”

  Quinten peered in the direction I’d nodded towards. Musta caught sight of the back of her head.

  He frowned and lifted his shoulders. “I think she was here last week too. Not sure why. Not a daughter or granddaughter or anything.”

  I shifted my jaw and considered how much I wanted to rope Quinten into my suspicion.

  “I think she’s up to something funny.”

  “Why?” said Quinten.

  I glanced at the ladies next to us. They weren’t paying any attention. Staring off into whatever. One had set her poker hand on the surface, so we could totally see her cards.

  Briefly, I explained what had happened to me and François in the mall. Quinten’s eyes sharpened and his brow lowered.

  “Hmm.”

  “I dunno.” I shrugged and let it go. “Just keep an eye out. Report back.” I winked.

  He liked that. Quinten smiled.

  François’ tongue snaked out of his mouth and lapped me to remind me I was still pinning him protectively to my side. I relaxed and consulted my poker hand again.

  My phone buzzed.

  Cole again? Really?

  Hmm. I smirked and shot off a fast reply.

  When the phone buzzed in reply soon after, I had to resist. I’d been neglecting the card game a little.

  I laid my elbow on the table and looked hard at Quinten. In my head, I tried to melt away the years. I dyed color into his hair and smoothed his wrinkles. I saw him smiling in the sun and reaching a hand out to a woman. I straightened him. And for a few moments, it wasn’t hard to see. I wondered if I could teach someone like Cole to look at me that way too.

  Quinten glanced up at my curious staring. He gave a half smile, as if not sure if he was in on the joke.

  I set down my cards and rolled over to his side.

  “Has it really … been an hour?” he said. Sadness gloomed over him.

  “I know, buddy. Time flies. But I better wait for my ride outside.” And I wanted to get out of there before Wheelchair Charity Woman returned and saw me. I heaved all my strength over the side of my chair to climb an arm across his scooter and kissed his jaw.

  As soon as François and I were out the doors, I checked my phone.

  Okay, understanding what the tongue emoji means would totally determine the meaning of the word come in that sentence. I went with what I wanted it to mean.

  Mmph. Check out that period.

  His punctuation turned me on so much that I quickly cropped up a Facebook photo to refresh my memory.

  As hot as I remembered. I loved that in a picture with four other people at Six Flags, he was the tallest. Broad, hair all over his arms. A silver necklace hanging onto his blue T-shirt. He was bearded but boyish looking, and his dark brown hair was mussed and fell sort of edgy to one side.

  Fuck me …

  No, really, that was an invitation.

  Risky. I concealed my phone as a senior rolled by in a wheelchair and gassed me with perfume.

  Wait.

  So wait, we needed to make entirely 1000 percent sure that this guy had the right number and knew the director was me. Well, the female one anyway.

  Should I literally text him like, Hey, just making sure, you know this is Maeve, right? because he said something sexual to me?

  I stared at my phone and hesitated for so long that he probably got worried that he crossed a line. Which was the last thing I wanted him to think.

  My eyes were padlocked to that screen, waiting for his reply.

  My mouth dropped. Ho-ly shit. My heart pounded just as Dad swung the purple van into the parking lot. Another text buzzed in.

  5

&n
bsp; My chair wobbled as Elliot and KC unloaded it. Buckets of gaffer tape, lenses, lights, and props had been hung on the handles, and our guy from audio even stuffed his entire duffel bag in the jungle gym of bars back there. I have no idea what the back end of me looks like. I keep figuring it must have the storage capacity of Mary Poppins’ magical sack.

  I yawned and turned as Elliot and KC hauled the materials across the floor to set up. It was Sunday, and the old glass windows were corroded while morning light in the hue you’d paint a nursery spilled in. The walls were red brick, and the ceilings, a heavy dark wood.

  We were in the Spotsylvania County Museum. It had, like, half a cannonball behind glass and large black-and-white photos of country houses on the walls.

  Four weeks ago, to ask for shooting permission, Elliot and I had sat in the office of the museum manager, a really old woman with black hair in a tight, terrifying bun.

  “If I allow you to film, I’ll have to shut down the entire museum,” she’d snapped.

  “Ma’am, there are literally no visitors,” I said.

  “Well, young lady, we close in thirty minutes, so of course not.”

  “Ma’am, we’ve been here since nine.”

  Elliot had put his hand on my arm. “We could offer free promotional photos,” he said. She peered at him through her glasses.

  “Fine,” she said at last. Elliot and I sighed and rose. Well, he did. “But you have to promise not to film the cannonball.”

  “Ma’am, no.”

  Elliot had tugged me out of the room. I accidentally-on-purpose knocked the plastic trash can loudly as we left.

  Now, we were here way earlier than nine—try eight, ooph—prepping the shoot, so I left François at home. Call time for everyone else, including actors, was in sixty minutes.