All Out of Pretty

by Ingrid Palmer

  A grin meanders up the side of Brick’s face. He leans forward and rests his arms on the steering wheel, thinking. “Well then, how ’bout we go downtown? Walk around the OSU campus. Grab some dinner?”

  “That’s not boring,” I agree, sitting up taller, enraptured with the idea.

  Brick cranks up the radio and swings his Explorer onto the road toward the expressway. The wind crashes through the open windows and a euphoric feeling of freedom rushes through me, just like when Ayla and I escaped from Haydon all those months ago. But a shadow dims my elation as I also remember the glass stuck in my palms and that miserable night spent in the cellar after coming home late.

  I glance uneasily at Brick and yell over the music, “Let me see what time I have to be back.”

  He nods as I pull Judd’s phone from my pocket and send a text, What time do u need me tonight?

  The answer comes quick, I don’t. Stay away.

  “Stay away” means Judd has company. The last time he gave this order, I hung out at the Mastersons’ all afternoon and then accepted their invitation to dinner—pickled bratwurst and fried green tomatoes. Interesting. The apple pie for dessert was made the traditional way by Chloe’s mom. Yum! Then the five of us played Hearts until I won by shooting the moon, and everyone accused me of being a hustler. I really hated to leave their house that night. And when I got back to Judd’s, there were still cars parked in his driveway. I’d waited in the woods until I saw the men leave. They were a sleazy-looking crew, even in the dark. Donovan was probably one of them, I realize now, a shudder zinging down my spine. After seeing him the other night, I am more than happy to follow Judd’s order today.

  “I’m free for the night,” I report to Brick, who smiles. A moment later, he turns up the volume and starts belting out lyrics as Song of the South comes on.

  “Country music fan, huh? I should’ve guessed,” I shout.

  He throws his head back and laughs, looking more carefree than I’ve ever seen him. He squints at me. “It’s in my blood, baby!”

  I grin and bop my head along to the music, and then we are both singing together at the top of our lungs and I’m not even self-conscious. It’s one of those moments—one of those perfect moments when your heart swells so big it feels like a balloon expanding, and if the earth exploded in that nanosecond you know, you just know, you would die happy.

  We settle down as we approach the city, take the Lane Avenue exit, and start looking for a parking space around the crowded campus. After circling for a while, we snag a metered spot on a side street and take stock of our surroundings. Ohio State University is huge, with massive buildings that stretch on and on. Students scurry every which way, like ants attacking a slice of watermelon. Neither Brick nor I know our way around, but we have fun wandering, getting lost, walking through large academic halls and smiling at professors as if we belong. Being on a college campus is invigorating—a good reminder of what I’m working toward. And why I’m putting up with Judd.

  “Did you apply here?” I ask Brick, thinking how nice it would be if he were close by next year.

  “Yes, just last week.”

  “Where else are you looking?” I venture, wriggling my fingers into my pockets as we shoulder past a chatty group of students on the sidewalk.

  Brick sighs. “I have a list of reach schools and safety schools to choose from…I’ve applied to eight so far. Haven’t really decided where I’ll go yet. Hell, I might even take a year off and help my uncle on the farm.”

  “Oh.” It’s all I say because that would be awesome—for me. But I know that isn’t likely to happen. Brick will be long gone next year, moving forward into a new, amazing life. I imagine how Chloe and I will send him videos and write him emails. And miss him.

  Brick and I eventually find ourselves on High Street, which appears to be the epicenter of student social life. Lined with restaurants, shops, bars, and an array of colorful people, High Street is an assault on my senses. After spending the last few months mired in corn stalks, vast farmland, and, of course, my serene woods, the activity level here sets my head spinning in a good way. It seems to give Brick a boost as well.

  “Let’s do something crazy,” I suggest, giddy. “Look. Let’s get tattoos!” I grab his arm and point to a shop named Ink Me that’s housed above a Chinese restaurant.

  Brick laughs. “Andrea, you’re not old enough. I’m not even old enough.”

  “You think they care? Let’s go,” I say boldly and pull him across the street. “At least have a look.”

  He lets me drag him up the wooden steps and into the store, where a twenty-something girl behind a large desk that has been scribbled on a hundred times over waves us in. We sit on tapestry-covered futons and page through the design books, giggling about what we would tattoo on our bodies and where.

  “How about a brick wall with your name graffitied on it?” I suggest, cracking myself up.

  “I wouldn’t stamp myself with my own name,” Brick says. “But you’re more than welcome to.”

  I purse my lips. “In your dreams, cupcake.”

  “Now that’d be a statement,” he says, poking me. “Right above your belly button.” We crack up.

  In one of the idea books, there are pages and pages of quotes. I pore over them, trailing my fingers down the list and lingering on any relating to courage and strength. Then my hand falls on a word that is simple and perfect. Something lodges in my throat.

  “That’s the one,” I whisper. “Someday, I’m going to have ‘unbreakable’ tattooed around my wrist.”

  My voice has taken on a kind of demented intensity, but I can’t help it. After a moment, I glance at Brick, my eyes potent with passion. He’s looking at me kind of funny, but he nods in his calm way. “That’s a good one.”

  Then we leave because I don’t have the money for this. Or the ID, which the sign clearly states is mandatory. Back outside, my stomach growls and I start thinking about dinner, which leads my mind back to money, and how I have none, and how I don’t want to mooch off Brick again. Embarrassment colors my cheeks when he asks where I want to eat.

  “I’m not really hungry.” I stuff my hands into my jeans pockets.

  He stops in the street, turns me to face him. “Look, I’m taking you out to dinner. I invited you, remember?”

  I look past his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I just…”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he says curtly. “Unless you’re planning on making me eat alone.”

  When my eyes find their way back to his, I spot the twinkle buried in the depths of soft brown. “Okay,” I admit. “I’m starving.”

  We end up at a tavern that makes the greasiest, tastiest cheeseburgers either of us has ever consumed. The seasoned steak fries practically melt in our mouths, and we shovel the food in like we haven’t eaten in months. “Oh my God,” Brick says around a mouthful. “See what you almost missed?”

  “Would have been tragic,” I agree, stuffing my face.

  “Dreadful,” he says.

  “Appalling,” I one-up him. Our eyes meet challengingly over our burgers.

  “Abysmal.” He grins. “What else you got?”

  “You know we could go on like this for eternity,” I tell him.

  “For eternity,” he repeats, then his eyes dart away and he nods as if he’s decided something. “There’s this quote I heard once, What we do in life echoes in eternity. If I got a tattoo, that’s what I’d want it to say…” His voice fades.

  I nod, but try not to think about the quote too much, since the things I’m doing in my life with Judd are not things I’m proud of. They are certainly not things I want following me into eternity. But I tell Brick, “That’s cool. Where’d you hear it?” The question is innocent, but his eyes dance away from mine.

  “I…don’t remember,” he says with a shrug, and I back off. We eat in sile
nce for a moment.

  I decide to pick a new topic. “So where in Mississippi are you from?”

  “Jackson,” he answers, crunching a fry. “Also known as The City with Soul.”

  I smile. “I like that. Do you miss it?”

  He pauses a moment to finish chewing. “I don’t miss the heat.” He laughs. “I do miss my friends, my football buddies.”

  “I didn’t know you played football,” I say, surprised, though now it seems obvious. He has the build for it—stocky, strong. “Last time I checked, Belmont High had a decent team. Why don’t you join?”

  “Not interested,” he says curtly, then elaborates. “I wasn’t that good anyway. I mostly played to make my dad happy.”

  He’s never mentioned his parents before and I’m not sure where to take the conversation from here. Luckily, Brick decides for me. “How about you? Any hidden hobbies? You look like a ballerina.”

  I smirk. “A lot of people think that, but no. Born with a dancer’s body and two left feet.”

  His eyes lock onto mine with the unnerving intensity they sometimes carry. “I’ll bet you’re not so bad.”

  “You have no idea,” I argue. “My Gram tried to teach me some classic dances, like the waltz and the tango? Yeah. It was more like the tan-gle where I was involved.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could suck them back in. By mentioning Gram, I fear I’ve opened a door that I desperately need to keep shut. I glance down at my plate.

  “I’ll bet if I asked your Gram, she’d tell me a different story,” Brick teases.

  “Well, she’s dead so you can’t ask her.” I blurt this out to shut him up, but then I regret that too. The thing is, when you tell someone your grandmother died and they offer condolences, there’s this underlying implication that it’s just a grandparent…that it’s less important because it’s supposed to happen. That it’s natural. They don’t understand. My Gram wasn’t some feeble old lady who showed up at holidays with tacky sweaters and butterscotch breath. She was more than a mother to me. She was…everything.

  Brick seems to get it, though. He reads me pretty well. “I’m sorry. I can tell you really miss her,” he says softly.

  My heart squeezes. “Yeah.”

  “And do you miss living in Indianapolis?” Brick asks, filling the gaping silence.

  “Not really,” I lie. Just then, a waiter walks by carrying a bowl of chocolate mousse. “Ooh, should we get some dessert?”

  Brick’s way too perceptive to miss my abrupt change of subject, but he doesn’t pry. Instead, he leans back in his chair and pats his stomach. “If it’s anything like their main course, I don’t see how we can pass it up.”

  We are still raving about the food twenty minutes later as we step out of the tavern onto the crowded street and smack into a small commotion. A pack of college students surrounds us, several of them visibly drunk or high. Or both. One guy is slurring his words and staggering, but whatever he’s saying must be hilarious because his friends can’t stop laughing. At the edge of the group, two people are bickering. It’s impossible not to overhear the argument between the glassy-eyed guy and the girl he’s with, since they’re not exactly being quiet. The guy keeps insisting he’s fine while the girl tries to grab his car keys.

  As we maneuver our way through the crowd, I hear the guy slur, “Stop being so paranoid, Julia. It’s like a two-minute drive. I got this.”

  “It’s ten minutes, and you’ve had too much,” she insists weakly, trying to keep her voice down. Their conversation dwindles as we break away from the group. It’s not hard to figure out who’s going to win.

  A few stores down, Brick stops walking, shoulders slouched. I turn to see if he forgot something and notice a pained look on his face. “Are you oka—”

  Abruptly, he wheels around and heads back the way we came. I follow as he strides right up to the girl who was arguing with the drunk. Does he know her?

  “Don’t let him drive. Definitely don’t get in the car with him,” Brick says to her in a low, quiet voice. I’ve never seen such intensity on his face, and that’s saying something where Brick is concerned.

  It startles the girl as well. “What’d you say?”

  “Please. My mom was killed by a drunk driver two blocks from our house. It’s not worth it.”

  I suck in air at the same time as the college girl. Brick and the girl stare at each other for a long moment, and then she nods and Brick swings around and starts booking back down the street again. His strides are long, his pace fast. I have to jog to keep up.

  When we reach the Explorer, he unlocks the doors and holds mine open without looking up. Then he walks around the car and climbs in, but instead of inserting the key into the ignition, he leans back against the seat and closes his eyes.

  “I didn’t know,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry, Brick.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. His voice scrapes like sandpaper as he says, “It was my dad.”

  “What?” I ask, confused.

  With his eyes still closed, Brick explains, “My dad was the drunk driver. He’s in prison in Mississippi. That’s why I’m here with my aunt and uncle.”

  I don’t breathe or speak, have no idea what to say. After a long minute, my hand reaches across the seat and wraps itself around Brick’s, lying flat against his thigh. He doesn’t push me away. He doesn’t squeeze tight. He just curls his fingers the tiniest bit and lets me hold on.

  Chapter 31

  We drive home in silence. After parking the car in front of the Mastersons’ big country house, Brick starts walking toward the woods. I hesitate, unsure if I should follow. Maybe he wants to be alone. But when he reaches the tree line, he looks over his shoulder and seems surprised that I’m not behind him. “Aren’t you coming?” he calls.

  He waits for me to catch up and when he sees the grim look on my face, slides an arm around my shoulders and squeezes. “It’s okay, Andrea. I wanted to tell you.”

  “Why?” I ask as we slip into the shadows.

  “First, to see how it felt,” he says. “I always imagined when I told someone, it would…I dunno, deepen the pain or something. Make it worse.” His voice is soft, like he’s whispering forbidden secrets. I stay silent, but I understand. It’s why I don’t talk about Gram, why I try so hard not to even think about her. Memories like that…they make any kind of physical pain seem like nothing.

  “But you’re not like other people in Haydon,” Brick continues. “You don’t try to make a joke or slap a smiley face on everything. I mean, if I told my guy friends, they’d just get uncomfortable, mumble that they’re sorry, and revert back to talking about sports. They’d talk about it later maybe, when I wasn’t around. And I’d be left wishing I never said a thing.” He pulls a piece of bark off a tree as we pass it. “I’ve been here over a year and you’re the first person I’ve told.”

  I find this amazing, with the way he attracts people. “What about Chloe?”

  “Her parents explained what happened, of course, but she understands it’s private. I’ve never worried about her telling anyone around here. She knows I’d kick her butt.” Brick smiles crookedly to show he’s kidding.

  Worse, I think. She knows you’d never forgive her. And she adores you.

  I decide to say that part out loud. “She adores you, Brick.”

  “The feeling’s mutual.” Then he adds, “She adores you too.”

  I snort. “Don’t know why.”

  We step around a log, almost missing it in the darkness. I’m glad I can’t see Brick’s face when he says carefully, “She understands people with secrets.”

  I stiffen, then decide to play it lightly. “You think I have secrets?”

  “Oh, I know you do,” he plays back, but there’s a hint of something solemn underlying his tone. He tugs me ove
r to a small clearing where there’s a log bench wedged between two trees. Brick and I sit down on the bench and look at each other.

  “Do you ever see your dad or talk to him? Can you visit?” Half the reason I’m asking is pure selfishness. I want the conversation diverted away from me, and whatever secrets Brick thinks I’m keeping.

  He turns his head away, tilted down so I can barely see the look of raw pain. But it’s there. I bite my lip, abashed. I crossed the line. The air between us drips with heaviness.

  “Would you?” He’s not being sarcastic. He really wants to know.

  I remember Gram on our kitchen floor, her heart deflated at fifty-eight. Imagine if Ayla had directly killed her in some reckless accident.

  “No,” I answer. But I’m a hypocrite because I forgive Ayla too easily all the time. “I don’t know,” I say, more honestly.

  Brick swallows and looks at me. “I haven’t spoken to my father in a year. Chloe thinks I should go see him. At least once for closure, if nothing else. Aunt Lil thinks I should go, too.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think…I don’t want to go until I figure out how I feel about him. He writes me letters, but I don’t read them anymore. The first few were just him apologizing in about fifty different ways. I know he means it. I know it wasn’t what he wanted to happen. But he put her in that car. And now she’s dead. Sometimes sorry doesn’t mean shit.”

  I hear Judd’s voice in my head, talking to Ayla after she brought us back here: Sorry don’t mean shit. I guess he was right.

  “My dad, he drove drunk all the time…thought he was invincible,” Brick whispers and I can hear the quiet anger beneath his words. “Well, my mom wasn’t.”

  I place my hand on his arm, feel the warmth of his skin and the muscles twitching beneath it. He takes a deep, calming breath. I know, because I recognize the technique. “Chloe gets upset when I talk that way,” Brick admits. “She doesn’t want me to be bitter.”

  “But Chloe believes in sunshine and smiley faces,” I remind him with a shrug. “You and I know life’s not like that.”