On my way through the kitchen, Professor Beanie Owl looks up at me from his Resale bin prison. His round lonely eyes say: Save me, Julianne. Take me with youuuu…so I toss him into my backpack.
Driving to Brandon’s, I start obsessing about how much money my mother might owe to the bank. I’ve never really thought about that sort of thing before now. What is a lot of money to owe to a bank? I don’t know. I kind of knew money wasn’t plentiful but I assumed our house was paid off or whatever. My dad pays child support every month and while she’s not employed currently, she used to be. I thought we were getting by. I thought the lunch money thing was her just being lazy. But maybe she literally didn’t have it to spare?
It's making me sick and shaky, the thought of losing my house and being destitute, so I crank the radio and scarf down the reserve granola bar that I keep in my glove compartment. I drain my water and try to shove my mother’s hoarding and monetary woes into the back of my brain for now.
Pulling up to Brandon’s, I realize I have to use the bathroom again. Horrifying, I know, asking to a boy’s bathroom, but it’s a long ride to Sandusky. On my way up his drive, I sneak a look at his bike which is parked in front of the garage. It’s an old bike, a smaller bike, but at least it’s a real bike, meaning a Harley Davidson and not some crotch-rocket neon lameness.
Before I even get to the porch, Brandon is coming out the front door with a couple of bags hanging off him. He’s carrying a tote.
“Hey, Julianne,” he says.
“You need help?” I say.
“I got it,” he says, propping the tote on his knee and struggling to shut the door behind him.
“Um, wait,” I say. “Before we go, do you think I could use your bath—,”
I’m cut off by the sound of yelling and cussing coming from inside the house, a man’s voice. Even through the closed door and windows, I can hear it. That bitch! That lying, cheating bitch! Took my fucking medals, too! I earned those medals!
“Uh…,” Brandon says, looking at me, his face panicked. The cussing gets even louder.
“Is everything okay, in there?” I say, taking the tote from him because he’s clearly weighted down and struggling to carry it all. “Should we—?”
“Everything’s fine,” he says, walking us across the lawn towards my car. “It’s just my dad ranting to himself. He’s not hurting anyone. He’s just….”
“I have to get gas anyway,” I say. “I can go at the station, no worries.”
I know all about family drama and hiding it from outsiders so I don’t drag my feet. I hurry to the car and open the trunk.
“So, is that everything?” I say, as we load his stuff.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he says, slamming the trunk. “You sure you’re okay with this? Where’s all your stuff?”
“In the back seat with my hedgehog.”
“A hedgie, huh?” he says, walking over to the back window to peer inside.
“Lolo. She’s three,” I say. And I’m sure she’s rolled herself up into a cautionary pincushion inside her little igloo. Today is the first time she’s been out of my room since I visited my dad at Easter break.
“You know where you’re going?” he asks, “In case we get separated?”
“GPS. I’ll find it.” I get in my car.
He nods and pulls his keys from his hoodie pocket. He walks a few steps, but then stops and heads back. He rests a hand on the roof of my car and leans down a bit into the window so he can see me better. It occurs to me that I’ve never seen Brandon Wright outdoors. Well, technically I saw him outdoors last night, but it was dark. His eyes always looked brown under the artificial lights of the classroom, but they’re actually hazel, brown rings with sunbursts of green-gold coming out from them.
“Sorry about that,” he says, glancing at the house, chewing his lip. He swings his keys around in a loop on his finger, “My dad, he’s kind of…he…,”
I hold up a hand, “Seriously, no explanation needed. My mom is whacked, too. Way more whacked than your dad, I promise.”
He laughs. “Oh, I don’t know about that. My dad is pretty whacked.”
I envision my mom behind the steering wheel, all crazy-eyed and clutching printouts from Craigslist, zig-zagging like a caffeinated honeybee, hitting address after address while trying not to wreck the car.
“Trust me,” I say. “If we go head-to-head in a game of whose parent is more whacked, I will own your ass.”
“Oh, you think so?” he laughs, walking up the drive towards his bike. And that’s when I have to look away. I cannot look at the newly-hot, newly-hazeled Brandon Wright climbing onto a beat up Harley. It’s too much, I’ll wreck before I even get out of the driveway.
“Oh, I know so,” I say, calling out the window, “Your ass, your bike, your entire summer’s pay. All mine.”
“Well, I might take you up on that,” he yells, starting up his bike. “I’ve always wanted a hedgie named Lolo.”
And I can’t help but look at him for a second, at him pulling on his helmet, buckling the chin strap. When he sees me looking, that’s when he does it; he hits me with one of his poison arrow boy darts. A smiling wink.
I pull away from the curb to the tune of flip, flip, flip…
It starts with one scattered drop at a time. Soft, harmless plinks at first, like the weather might change its mind and go back to being overcast. But just as we pass Vermilion on Route 2, the sky unzips and starts dumping rain. I don’t know what to do; I’m panicking. Brandon is behind me and I’m freaking out. It can’t be safe, driving a motorcycle when you’re being fire-hosed from above. Should I pull over? I need to pull over. I should definitely pull over.
Brandon speeds up and buzzes past, signaling me to follow him. We pull off the road and take shelter underneath an overpass. He hops off his bike, takes off his helmet and sunglasses, and jogs over to my passenger side. I roll the window down.
“You okay?” I say.
“Yeah, but can you pop the trunk, I need a dry shirt.” His face is dripping wet.
I push the trunk button. Then I look through my side mirror in hopes of catching a glimpse of shirtless Brandon Wright. Sadly, I can’t see a thing; the trunk’s hood is blocking my view. I text my dad and tell him I’ll be on the next ferry. After a minute or so, Brandon slams the trunk and appears in my passenger seat wearing a clean, gray, long-sleeved tee-shirt.
“Well, this sucks,” he says, shutting the door and climbing in.
“Yeah. Good thing you have spare clothing,” I say.
“It’ll pass. Just give it a few.”
But it doesn’t. It gets worse. It’s eleven in the morning but looks like night out. While the rain pounds overhead, I take Lolo out and let her run up and down our arms while we listen to old songs on the radio. Pinball Wizard. Burnin’ for You. Free Bird. Then American Girl by Tom Petty comes on and Brandon says, “I like this song but it always reminds me of—,” but before he can finish I blurt, “Silence of the Lambs!”
“Yep,” he laughs.
“I know, right,” I say. “That movie is some scary bananas. I mean, one minute the girl’s all happy and rocking out to some Tom Petty and the next, she’s stuck in a filthy well, lotioning up for Buffalo Bill.”
“Creepiest fictional serial killer ever,” he says. “Jason, Freddy, Michael Meyers…they got nothing on Buffalo Bill.”
“What about Hannibal Lector? He’s way creepier than Buffalo Bill,” I say, reaching over the seat to slide Lolo back into her cage.
“No way,” he says. “Not even close. I’d gladly have my liver eaten with some fava beans and a nice Chianti than be stuck in a well with Buffalo Bill staring down at me. That yapping little poodle, are you kidding me?”
“Okay, how about this, then,” I say, “Would you rather be made into a meat suit by Buffalo Bill or have your eternal soul sucked out by the little girl from The Ring?”
“Ooh, hard to say,” he says. “There’s a well in The Ring, too. Things tend to
end badly for those stuck in a well.”
This is our conversation for the next hour. While the rain pours, and the thunder rolls, we contemplate psycho movie killers and then move onto nutty D-list reality stars. Then we finally tire of the whole thing and just listen to music. My mind starts wandering back to Christine The Caffeinated Honeybee, picturing how she’s neck deep in a car load of junk right now, hauling all of her “finds” back to the hive. The hive that will cease to exist in 88 days.
My stomach starts rumbling so I turn the radio up a little louder, start looking for some different songs.
“You know, you should just go on ahead, you’re probably in a hurry,” Brandon says. “You shouldn’t have to wait around on the side of the road all day on my account. I should’ve checked the weather. Middle Bass isn’t that far from Cedar Point, I can get my stuff from you another day.”
“I’m not in a hurry,” I say, “You don’t want to be without your stuff. I’ve already remembered about ten things I forgot to pack, one of them being a swimsuit, and it’s pissing me up the wall. Besides, I’m not ready for this summer to start just yet. Once I get there, it’s on. I’m stuck on that island with my dad and his perfect-wife, perfect-life.”
“Step-mom, huh? Bad?” he asks.
I pause and think for a second.
“I guess I’d be lying if I said she was a monster. She’s okay. She’s just so…Melody.”
I leave out the other reasons that I don’t want to go, the parts about not wanting to leave my mother all by herself because she’s a sad, depressed kook. And about how I have to figure out a way to pull her out of the financial grave she’s dug for herself and do it from the remoteness of Middle Bass Island.
Brandon Wright with his hot bike and mad drawing skills does not need to hear the finer points of Julianne Bell’s sordid family history.
“Get a job at Cedar Point,” he says, which makes me jump a little on the inside and wonder if he’s a mind-reader. “Between the ferry ride, the drive to the park, the long hours, you won’t see The Step Melody all summer.”
The Step Melody. Ha.
A beat later, he adds, “Plus, we can hang out,” which makes me jump a little again.
“Hmmm,” I say, trying to stay cool. “Maybe I’ll ask for an application when I get there. Do you think they’ll hire someone’s whose only work experience consists of getting sacked from Burger Boy three hours into her first shift?”
He laughs; he thinks I’m kidding but I’m not.
“No, it’s true,” I say, “A few hours into my first day I bombed so, so hard. Some quick-change con-artist blew through and flustered me so badly that I ended up giving him seventy-eight bucks change on a four dollar burger.”
“Oooh, that’s tough,” he says, laughing, “Doesn’t matter. Cedar Point will still hire you. They’re always looking for young, pretty—,” and then he catches himself. “I mean… whatever…you know what I mean. They’ll hire you on the spot.”
Then he looks out the window so I won’t see him blushing.
“Awww, Brandon,” I say, putting my hand on his shoulder. “You called me young. That’s so sweet.”
“Shut up,” he says, shrugging my hand away and fighting back another laugh. “You’re old and ugly and they’ll never hire you. Don’t you have a ferry to catch? You can’t be sitting here all day with me, it could rain for hours.”
“Ferry runs all day, it’s fine,” I say, “I’ll just catch the next one.”
Then I wonder for a second about if it could actually work, me working at Cedar Point and living on Middle Bass. I think it would cost a bundle, taking a car on the ferry all the time but I’m not sure. I’ll have to check when I get to the ferry landing. Either way, I need employment, like, stat. From here on out, my summer’s sole focus is about making as much money as possible in as short a time as possible.
Not about Brandon Wright sitting six inches away from me smelling of raindrops and motor oil.
I resume my search for a good song. The reception under this bridge is limiting my choices so I scan, scan, scan.
“These stations suck,” I say, and then my hand trembles so I pull it back. We’re stuck listening to some country song about a sexy tractor.
He turns the radio down. “I’m hungry,” he says. “You hungry?”
“I guess,” I say, right as my gut yells: OMFG, she’s starving!
He gives me a sideways look.
“You guess?” he says, “Besides the fact that your stomach says different, you have a tell, Julianne.”
“A what?”
“Like in poker. An involuntary mannerism. And in case you’ve forgotten, I know what yours is. Your hair. When you’re hungry, you play with it.”
I jump a little, realizing I have two fingers wrapped in a tight twist of hair.
He reaches across me to pop the trunk and the closeness of it gives me a flush. He gets out and rummages through the trunk again, then slams it.
“Come on,” he says, leaning into the passenger window with a bright blue beach towel hanging over his shoulder like a sack. “But be careful on your side. Watch the cars getting out.”
“Where are you going?”
“Just follow me,” he says, smiling.
When there’s a break in traffic, I get out and follow him as he hops over the graffiti-splattered guard rail and between the heavy support columns of the overpass. We start climbing the steep, rocky incline. About halfway up, he stops, reaches into his makeshift sack and starts handing me food; a bag of Cheetos, two apples and two cans of warm Mountain Dew. Then he spreads the towel out and sits down on it.
“Picnic under a hobo bridge?” I say, sitting down next to him, handing him his pop and apple. “You take me to the nicest places, Brandon Wright.”
“Yep, works every time,” he says, cracking the tab, taking a sip.
“Excuse my grimy fingers and overall filthiness,” I say, opening the Cheetos and dumping some into my palm. “I had a landscaping emergency to knock-out before I left. Dandelions were overtaking our yard and my mom, she’s…not one for lawn care.”
“No prob,” he says. “I like a girl who isn’t afraid to get dirty.”
He winks and sips his pop. My heart thumps in my ears. This guy’s got charm to spare and knows it.
“Uh, huh. I bet,” I say, rolling my eyes and smiling.
We eat and talk while the cars and trucks zoom past and rumble overhead. The rain pours and thunder rolls in the distance. I should be worried about tornadoes but all I can think about is how many Cheetos I can eat without jacking myself up. I try to eat my palmful slowly but it’s hard because Cheetos are like manna from heaven. I want to climb inside the bag and eat my way back out again. I wash them down with a few gulps of pop. Within minutes I feel the sugar taking effect and my shakes settling down.
“Feeling better?” he says.
“Yes. You’re lucky you brought food,” I say, “Because I would not hesitate to go Hannibal the Cannibal on you in dire circumstances.”
“So how long can you go without eating?” he asks.
“There is no going without. I cannot skip meals or I become irrationally hostile and then, as you saw in class, very sick.”
“So, like, a day?”
“Three hours. I need to eat every three hours or I start scanning the herd for weaklings to pick off.”
This makes him laugh so I keep going with it.
“If I was in a plane crash on a deserted island, I would be pulling bodies from the burning wreckage for the sole purpose of eating them as soon as the smoke cleared.”
He laughs again, sips his pop.
“The first beachside survivor meeting would consist of me rubbing my hands together and asking: Sooooo…who we gonna eat first? Because I need calories, stat.”
“Well, if I were to crash with you,” he says. “I would find you coconuts and fish immediately.”
“Okay, good. Or grubworms in large quantity will work, too. I’m not
picky.”
“Grubworms, got it.”
“And, since I’ll die within a day from organ failure, I hereby grant full permission to be eaten and enjoyed by fellow survivors.”
He stops laughing and looks at me. I carried the joke too far. He tries to save it a little.
“I’ll build us a sea-worthy raft,” he says, nudging my shoulder with his. “We’ll be home by sundown.”
He crunches his apple and I stuff in more Cheetos. Scan my brain for a new topic.
“Hey, before I forget,” I say. “Thanks for the sketch. The doll in it, the Just Like Me Doll, her name was Babette. She meant a lot to me when I was little. It was nice to see her again, even if just in a picture.”
“You don’t still have her?” he says.
I shake my head. “I’m not sure where she went. Just lost, I guess.”
“Sorry.”
The rain stops. I’m a little bummed because even though we’re talking about weird stuff, I’m having a good time under this bridge with Brandon Wright.
“Summer’s on,” he says, standing up and looking down at me. I take his outstretched hand and let him pull me up.
“Yes, it is,” I say, absently swiping at my shorts, and streaking even more cheese around.
On the way back to the car, I thank Brandon in my head and burn the location of this bridge into my memory. One overpass from the Vermilion exit. AKA: The Last Place Julianne Bell Had Fun This Summer.
Driving down the narrow causeway over Sandusky Bay freaks me out. Bridges are one thing but it doesn’t seem natural for a road to stretch out endlessly over a large body of water. Eventually, the arching bones of the roller coasters crest the horizon and my stomach dips with an involuntary jolt of excitement. Towering over the lakeside like the god of terror is Steel Vengeance. Pure vertical adrenaline.
Doll Hearts Page 5
