by Greg Trine
“It’s bluegrass,” she said.
The song ended, and I pulled out the buds. “I’m not a fan yet, but that wasn’t bad.”
“Want to hear another one?”
“Sure.” This time she gave me one ear bud while she listened to the other.
And so it went. For more than an hour, we sat there in the hospital room listening to music, mostly her faves, but some of mine as well, and I couldn’t help thinking how comfortable it was to be with her. Juana Maria had me pegged long ago when she asked, “Don’t you think it’s exhausting . . . being someone other than yourself?”
It was very exhausting. It was also hazardous to my health.
I looked at the girl beside me now. She wasn’t my girlfriend. She was a girl who was my friend. And I began to hope for more. I did have adorable freckles, after all.
“How was the birthday party?”
“Great. You should have seen her, Elroy. She was so cute.”
“I’ll try to make the next one,” I told her.
“I’ll hold you to that.” She grabbed her purse and got ready to leave.
“Wait,” I said.
“Yes?”
“So what does a guy have to do to get your phone number?”
“It’s a very complicated procedure. You ask for it.”
“Ernesto said your dad has a baseball bat and he’s not afraid to use it.”
“He’s a bit overprotective.” She twirled. “But, Elroy, aren’t I worth it?”
She was. She was totally worth it.
Wait an hour before you call her, I told myself after she left. I made it half that long.
I dialed her number. “Did you miss me?” I asked.
“I did. What took you so long?”
“Just clueless, I guess.” Eight months of cluelessness, I thought.
When they let me out of the hospital, I borrowed my mom’s car and drove to the mall. I found a toy store and picked out the perfect gift for a seven-year-old girl. Then I drove over to Juana Maria’s to deliver it.
Juana Maria laughed. “The way to a girl’s heart is through her little sister? Is that it?”
“That’s it exactly.”
EPILOGUE
No one came forward to press charges. I guess, with all the drinking going on at the Second Base Club parties, inhibitions were being tossed out the window, even without the drugs. Lots of meetings took place between parents and Highmont Ridge High School staff. They made sure the Second Base Club was disbanded permanently, and in the end, no one saw any jail time, not even Hairy Jerry. The judge ruled that since it was the first time Jerry had taken a two-by-four to the skull of another human being, he wouldn’t go to jail. He did, however, get a gazillion hours of community service.
This drove my parents crazy at first, but they soon found other things to occupy their time. They were going into business together, opening a yoga studio and shop in a vacant storefront on Thompson. Dad would run the shop, and Mom would teach yoga classes. The empty rectangle on my father’s whiteboard finally had a purpose. Somehow I knew they’d make it work.
“What gave you the idea for the yoga studio?” I asked once.
Dad said it was all that time they’d spent watching me wrestle, at the dual meets and the all-day tournaments. In between the action on the mat, they’d had time to talk. That was what I’d liked best about my wrestling season. Even though I’d lost half of my matches, seeing Mom and Dad together a few times a week made it worth the struggle—and the mat burns.
I still lived with my mom in the trailer at the end of Casitas Pass, but there was hope. “You two look good together,” I told them at every opportunity. It wasn’t a lie. They did look good together. The question was, could they be good together outside of work? I was keeping my fingers crossed.
I spent the rest of that spring and summer splitting my time between hanging out with Juana Maria and making music with Vern and Tuck. Our eighth song, “Is That a Two-by-Four in Your Pants or Are You Just Glad to See Me?” was quickly becoming a local favorite. I still had a soft spot in my heart for “Templin Highway,” the road song. We not only played the song, but we lived it. . . .
The Trap pulled to a stop in front of the Airstream, Vern at the wheel, Tuck riding shotgun. There was no hurricane rumbling up the canyon to announce their arrival. No blaring engine noise.
“I can’t believe it.” I looked at Vern. “What’d you do to it?”
Vern smiled. “New muffler.”
It made a huge difference. We could hear the stereo without blasting it.
I grabbed my gear and got in. Tuck climbed in the back with no argument. Ever since my head injury, he’d been offering me the front seat. He rapped gently on the top of my skull. “Takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’.”
We all laughed, and Vern cranked up the stereo.
We were on our way to the Eastern Sierra again, one of three trips we had planned for that summer. The weather was a perfect seventy-five degrees, a light breeze blowing off the ocean, and we were heading east on the 126.
“Uh-oh,” I said, pointing. “Is that who I think it is?”
“Yep,” Vern and Tuck said in unison.
It was a shirtless Hairy Jerry, picking up trash along the highway.
“Vern, get in the right lane. Slow down.”
Vern moved over and slowed way down. And I did what needed to be done.
I came . . . I saw . . . I mooned him.
