by Ann Steinke
Ter turned her attention to Lou. “Where do you work?” she asked, playing dumb. We both knew exactly where Lou worked, but Ter wasn’t about to let him know that.
“My dad owns the Quick Stop market in Pismo,” he offered. “I help him whenever he needs me. It’s a bummer, though, because I never really know what my schedule’s going to be. But at least he pays well,” he added.
Ter listened to him, somehow managing to keep a straight face.
Then Lou suddenly grinned. “And Scott’s not the only one who needs muscles,” he said. “My dad makes me do everything that requires a lot of strength, so I have to keep in shape.”
“Well, you’re doing a fabulous job of that,” Ter said with a sigh and an admiring look at Lou.
“Thanks,” Lou said, smiling at her a bit awkwardly. He had a kindly smile, I decided. Somehow it didn’t fit his physique, but it did suit his personality.
I glanced over at the grandfather clock on the other side of the room, and stood up from my chair. “I have to go,” I announced.
Ter and the two guys rose from their seats, and we all walked out to Ter’s car.
“Well, since we’re all working tomorrow,” Scott said, “when should we get together again to practice?”
Ter’s detail-oriented brain kicked in immediately Pointing to each of us in turn, she said, “Krista works tomorrow and Friday, but she has Thursday and Saturday off. Scott works tomorrow, but he has to work Thursday too. I work tomorrow and Friday, but I have Saturday off. So, unless Lou or Scott has to work Saturday, Saturday looks like the best bet.”
“Amazing,” Scott said, shaking his head. He looked at me and nodded toward Ter. “Is she on the honor roll or what?”
Ter beamed.
“Well, I’ve got Saturday off,” Lou said.
“And I work Saturday in the daytime, but I have the night off,” Scott said. “So we’ll play Saturday night, okay?”
We all agreed, then Scott opened the car door for me. “Good night,” he said softly. Then he leaned forward and gave me a light kiss on the lips.
I got into the car with Ter, and she drove me to work, singing, “Saturday night, Saturday night . . .”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I stood on the shoulder of the highway, staring into the trunk of my father’s car as if it were uncharted territory. I remembered all those times my father had said, “Krista, come outside with me and let me show you how to change a tire.” And I had always come up with some kind of excuse. “I can’t, I’m late for work,” I’d say. Or “Oh, Dad, can’t we do that tomorrow?” If it were physically possible, I would be kicking myself in the rear right now, I thought, staring at the spare tire. I knew it had to come out of the trunk, but I wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen next.
Then a vehicle approached from behind and slowed down as it passed. I peered around the open trunk lid and saw a battered pickup truck pull over to the side, in front of my car. There was something vaguely familiar about the truck, but I wasn’t sure where I had seen it. I just hoped it wasn’t some crazy who saw his chance to take advantage of a “damsel in distress”. I quickly looked into the trunk, searching for something to use as a weapon, though I couldn’t help but laugh at my paranoia.
The sound of the pickup’s door slamming shut made me look up. It was Lou! I stared at him in surprise as he ambled over to me, a grin on his face.
“Krista!” he said as he approached. “At first I didn’t know who the blonde standing by this car was. This is a 1969 Monte Carlo.” He made the observation in suitably awed tones, and ran a hand worshipfully over a gleaming black fender. I stood by and patiently watched him walk all the way around the car, his eyes taking in every detail. I’m used to this kind of reaction to my father’s car.
“It’s in mint condition,” he said, his eyes still focused on the car. Then he looked at me. “Yours?”
“No. My father’s,” I answered. “I still haven’t earned enough money to get my Toyota fixed, so I’m borrowing this to get to work.” I glanced anxiously at my watch. “And I’m late. Ernesto is going to fry me like a chimichanga.”
Lou burst out laughing. “Fry you like a chimichanga?” he repeated. “I like that.”
“Well, it’s no joke,” I said, smiling. “I’ve got to get going.”
Lou sobered, then crouched down next to the flat. “Well, first we have to get the jack on.”
“The jack,” I repeated as if I were learning a foreign language.
“Yeah.” Lou stood and walked over to my trunk. In about two seconds he had the spare out of the trunk and a bent piece of metal in his hand. He then took out some other contraption and proceeded to haul the stuff over to the defective tire. “Put the emergency brake on and then come watch. I’ll show you how it’s done,” he said.
Somehow the prospect of having Lou guide me through changing a flat was immensely more appealing than having my father teach me. I put the emergency brake on, then joined him by the tire.
“First of all,” he began, “you shouldn’t jack the car all the way up until you’ve loosened the lug nuts.”
“Oh,” I said as if that made a lot of sense. But then I asked, “Lug nuts?”
He pointed at some knobby things on the tires. “Lug nuts,” he said again. He fitted a tool over the hexagon-shaped things and wrenched all the nuts loose. “Then after all the nuts are loose, you jack up the car,” he went on, working as he spoke.
“Oh, I didn’t know that,” I said. Of course you didn’t, I yelled at myself. If you had, you would have done it by now. “It’s a good thing you came along,” I said inanely.
Lou grinned at me. “Isn’t it?”
He returned to the task, and while he worked, I stared at him unabashedly. He was wearing a fitted white T-shirt, and those muscles he worked so hard on were now hard at work. His biceps pulled and wrenched, straining the sleeves of his shirt. Then I looked down at his legs, which were bent into a squatting position. Under his jeans, they looked nicely shaped and strong.
Suddenly an image of Scott popped into my mind—tall, slender, strong. But strong in a different way—maybe an inferior way, some traitorous part of my mind suggested. I squashed the thought and tore my gaze away from Lou’s incredible body to stare at the ice plant along the highway. It wasn’t much to look at, but I had to stare at something other than the guy my best friend was after.
Lou jacked up the car and pulled the flat off. “It’s a good thing you don’t have a donut,” he said as he rolled the tire toward the trunk.
“A donut?” I asked, thoroughly confused. “What’s food got to do with it?”
Lou attempted to hold back his laughter, but he couldn’t stop himself from bursting out into hysterics. When he finally sobered, he forced himself to speak in a serious tone. “Not an eating donut. A small tire called a donut. It’s rubber, black . . .” He lost his composure again, but managed to roll the spare tire over to the wheel well.
Lou positioned the spare in the axle, all the while explaining to me what he was doing. I tried to concentrate as he went on about the fascinating intricacies of tire replacement. But my eyes were focusing on the fascinating intricacies of his hair, his ears, his eyes, his . . . Stop it! a voice yelled from somewhere inside me.
Lou stood up and turned his bright smile on me. He dusted his hands on his hips. “There. All done,” he said.
All done in, is more like it, I thought, feeling like a wrung-out cleaning cloth. “Thanks,” I said to him inadequately. I was still staring at him. I couldn’t help it. And he was looking right back at me.
“So, you come here often?” he quipped.
I smiled, finally relaxing a little. “Nope. First time,” I said. “So what were you doing out here?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
Lou pretended to look around furtively. “Don’t tell my dad,” he said. “But sometimes I visit a Mexican grocery store up in SLO when I need things he doesn’t carry.”
“Like what?” I asked.
>
“Fresh cilantro and flour tortillas.”
I screwed up my face. “Cilantro. What’s that?”
He shrugged. “It’s a kind of a herb. Scott’s dropping by after work and I’m making us dinner.”
“So what are you cooking tonight?” I asked, trying to sound unfazed by his statement. I really wasn’t used to hearing guys talk about cooking and grocery shopping.
“Enchiladas,” he said with gusto. “Shredded beef mixed with my special sauce,” he explained, his eyes lighting up with excitement. “I add a little of this and a little of that—” he said, waving his arms around, “then I stuff the filling in tortillas, smother them in more sauce, pile on the Monterey Jack, and bake them. Man, I’m hungry just thinking about it.”
“You mean you just make up this recipe as you go along?” I asked in amazement. “You don’t use a cookbook?”
Lou stepped backward dramatically. His dark brows lowered over his eyes, and he asked, “Are there cookbooks? Really?”
I laughed, thinking of my mother who would probably not approve of Lou’s style of cooking. “If you don’t follow a recipe, Krista, how will you achieve the exact same results every time?” she tells me.
“Yeah, really,” I said and glanced at my watch. Then I groaned. “I’ve really got to get to work,” I said. “I’m running extra late today because I had to run out and buy a diet soda for my mother before leaving the house. She didn’t think she’d make it through the night if she had to wait until after I got off work,” I said with a shake of my head. “She lives on that stuff.”
“Why? She’s built like a chopstick,” Lou remarked, looking puzzled.
I laughed. “Yeah, I know. But that’s because she’s always watching her weight.”
I noticed Lou’s eyes move up and down my body.
“Uh . . . Ter’s always dieting, too,” I found myself saying for no discernible reason.
“Well, she’s doing a good job,” Lou said.
For a minute we just stood there like idiots, staring at each other. Cars continued to zip by. Zoom. Chug, chug, chug. Whine. Each car had a distinct sound. And I realized my heart had suddenly acquired a new sound of its own: thump, a-thump, thump. It beat in syncopated rhythm, far from its normal timing, and my chest felt as if it were too small to hold it. Then my lungs didn’t seem able to fill to capacity. “Thanks for your help,” I said and was shocked to hear how husky my voice had suddenly turned.
“De nada,” Lou said softly.
The air between us suddenly seemed inadequate, as if we were both using way too much oxygen. He was looking at me intently and was standing so close that my view of the roadside was blocked out by his incredible broad shoulders. I’ve always hated guys obsessed with bodybuilding. But Lou’s muscles were working muscles, not show muscles, so they seemed so much more . . . sexy.
“Well, I hope you don’t get fried like a chimichanga,” Lou said, reminding me of why I was even on the highway.
“Oh, God,” I said and looked back at the car frantically. “I—I’m sorry. I have to run.” I backed away to my car.
“Hey, don’t apologize,” he called after me. “I gotta go too. Scott’ll be at my house in an hour.” He smiled. “Just calm down. And drive safely.”
He started to walk away, and I put out a hand and steadied myself on the top of my father’s car. My knees felt as if they might give at any moment. After a couple of deep breaths, I wrenched open the passenger-side door, fell into the seat, remembered I was the driver, and scooted sideways behind the wheel. I looked up and saw Lou hopping into his truck.
Somehow I managed to get back into the flow of traffic. As I glided past Lou’s pickup, I honked and waved a hand out the window. He honked back, then pulled in behind me. I was relieved when he got off at the next exit. I didn’t want to have the distraction of watching him in my rearview mirror all the way to San Luis. I was still feeling a bit dazed from the encounter, and I needed to concentrate on the road.
I shook my head and tried to focus, but my mind kept wandering back to the image of Lou’s arms, his eyes, his shoulders . . . No! I told myself. I have to stop myself from falling for him. He’s Ter’s.
The band met in Lou’s garage the following Saturday night. I hadn’t mentioned meeting Lou on the highway to either Scott or Ter, and as far as I could tell, Lou hadn’t said anything about having run into me either.
I told myself that it was better to just forget about the whole encounter. I didn’t want Ter to worry about something when she had absolutely nothing to worry about. Besides, if Lou saw no reason to mention the incident, I certainly didn’t want to place undue emphasis on it.
Practice went well. Scott and I sang together, and he did some incredible stuff on his electric guitar. Fuzz tones. Reverberations. He was wonderful, and I could see that he had real talent. Maybe his dreams of going professional weren’t so crazy after all.
After a couple of hours of playing, we plotted out our schedules for the following week. Ter took over as secretary and came up with two days we could all practice. Then Scott suggested that the four us spend the following Saturday at the beach.
“We’ll ride the dunes in my Jeep,” he said, getting up from his seat.
“Fabulous!” Ter said. “Krista and I will pack a picnic lunch.”
“Good. I can have a day off from the kitchen,” Lou joked. “I was getting dishpan hands from scrubbing all those pots.”
Ter laughed and hugged him around the waist. Lou was laughing too, and he threw an arm around her shoulder.
“It’s settled then,” Scott said, giving me a big kiss on the cheek. I blushed, feeling uncomfortable with his affection. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. Here was a really nice guy who obviously liked me a lot . . . but I couldn’t seem to make myself return the feeling.
During one of our practice sessions the next week, Scott announced that his father had agreed to let him put up a sign at his shop advertising the band.
“This will be our first real move toward getting some gigs,” he said, smiling. “But of course, we’ll have to come up with a name first.” He looked around at all of us.
Then we started brainstorming for a catchy name. Ter said something about light and dark chocolate, which nobody took seriously. Scott suggested Us 2 in a takeoff of U2. Then Lou came up with California Dreamers, which I liked—but Scott thought it was too sweet. In the end, we decided to go home and work on it. Our homework was to bring lists of names to the next practice session.
That night, I sat in my room, staring at the wall, trying to come up with a name. For a long time, I couldn’t come up with a thing. Then suddenly an idea popped into my mind: Heart Breakers. Hey, that’s a pretty good name, I thought. But then I began to realize why I had thought of that name, and I quickly shoved it out of my mind.
CHAPTER EIGHT
By the following Saturday I decided I should ignore the increasingly familiar dark feeling I was experiencing deep inside. Ter wanted Lou to like her in the worst way. And Scott seemed to like me a lot. I knew I should be thrilled that a guy like Scott was interested in me. Probably a dozen girls had crushes on him. So what if my heart didn’t jump with excitement when I saw him? No boy had ever inspired that reaction in me before, so why should I expect it to happen this time? Besides, Ter was really counting on me. If I stopped seeing Scott now, I’d be breaking up the nice little group we four had become, and her chances of becoming Lou’s girlfriend might somehow suffer because of it.
The guys picked us up at Ter’s house. I’d stayed overnight there so Ter and I could spend the morning preparing the picnic lunch. We’d really made an effort to prepare foods we thought would appeal to them. Ter’s little brother, Ricardo, told us what guys liked to eat: “Chocolate cake,” he had said. “That’s all you need.” When we pressed him further, he finally admitted that hero sandwiches weren’t too bad. So we made monster heroes, packed slabs of chocolate cake, and cans of soda. We threw in healthy stuff, too,
like celery and carrot sticks and fruit, knowing full well that no one would touch them.
The guys arrived at noon, and Ter jumped into the back of the Jeep with Lou and the cooler. Scott had taken off the canvas and plastic top of his Jeep, and we rode down Grande Avenue and out onto Pismo State Beach in the open air. The wind blew through my hair so that it flapped around behind me, so I tied a scarf around my head and lifted my face to the sun.
It was a perfect beach day—deep blue sky, warm golden sun, waves rolling in, surf pounding, and miles of miles of dunes to explore. Scott handled his Jeep like a maniac, cresting one dune after another and kicking up a sandy spray behind us.
After about forty minutes of riding the dunes, we found a secluded area to stop at and have lunch. We spread out a huge beach blanket on the sand, and Ter and I passed around the overstuffed heroes we’d prepared. Judging by the way the guys bit into them, I’d say Ricardo’s advice was right on the nose.
Out on the ocean we could see a few figures in wet suits. It looked as if they were trying to surf, but the waves were too small and petered out way before hitting the beach.
Patting his stomach in satisfaction, Scott lay back on the blanket and closed his eyes. “Man, this is the way to spend a Saturday,” he said in a lazy voice.
“You got it, compadre,” Lou said, leaning back on his arms and staring around him in satisfaction. Then he suddenly got an impish look on his face, and before either Ter or I knew what was happening, Scott and Lou were rolling all over the sand, wrestling. Ter squealed and jumped off the blanket, grabbing the remnants of her lunch. Sand was flying everywhere, and I was laughing so hard that my sides were starting to hurt.
“Man, we haven’t done that since you lived with us,” Lou said after everyone had settled down.
“You lived with Lou?” Ter asked, surprised.
