I look over the top of my menu at Kristie and watch her quietly. Her hair is slightly out of place, and her skin slightly pink from the sun. Her eyes are darting back and forth as she reads through her choices, and she looks so pretty. She looks up suddenly and catches me staring.
“What?”
I say nothing. I just look. And look. And look. She smiles slightly—unable to hold it back—the twinkle returning to her eyes, the edges of her perfect lips turning upward. Neither of us say anything, but neither of us need to. Enough is said just with our eyes, and I know her well enough to read her smiles. This is one of those good moments where we click instead of clack, where I’m growing into a man and her a woman. We’re realizing that we are an ‘item’ and this is love. She’s prepped to say something. Something romantic, something—
“You are such a pervert,” she whispers with a smile.
“Ready to order?” Our personal Jesus has returned with a vengeance, breaking us from our trance, and this time she’s not taking ‘no’ for an answer.
“I think we’re going to need another minute,” I say, and Kathryin with an ‘i’ after the ‘y’ sighs audibly before haughtily turning her back and waddling away. Kristie just covers her mouth, giggling quietly.
Part II
“I can’t believe they invited us over,” Ritchie says as he combs his hair for the umpteenth time. The more he combs it, the more ridiculous he looks, and I suspect he knows this, which is why he’s keeps starting over.
“They didn’t invite us anywhere,” I mutter. “Kristie invited me.”
“She said I could come too.”
“That’s because you asked if you could come. What’s she supposed to say, no?” I look at my friend making a mess of himself as he buttons his shirt which, of course, he’s buttoning all wrong.
“Joanne’s gonna be there,” he murmurs.
“I’m sure she’s counting the minutes.”
Ritchie looks at me with a hurt expression. “Why do you always gotta talk down to me? I’m supposed to be your best friend. You’re supposed to have my back.”
“I got your back. I just don’t want you getting your hopes up.”
Finally realizing he’s buttoned his shirt in the wrong order, Ritchie starts over. His big clumsy fingers are shaking. He is really nervous. I know he has a crush on the poor girl, but she’s never reciprocated, and it’s too bad, because other than being a big dummy, he’s a decent enough guy.
“Hurry up,” I say, heading out the front door. Standing in the sunshine, I’m reminded that summer in Payton is like an old vinyl record. Everything turns, but nothing seems to change. It all just stays the same. Skip, skip, skip.
The screen door opens behind me, the smell of cologne ruining the fresh air. As usual, he’s overdone it. “I think I used too much,” he says as he contorts his face while trying to look at the collar of his shirt. “I spilled a bit.”
“A bit? Like what, half a gallon? Jesus, Ritchie.”
He frowns, biting his tongue. “Come on, man. What did we talk about?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Me and my mouth. Won’t happen again.”
“You always gotta be so vulgar.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Nothin’. Don’t say nothin’. When you get the urge, just don’t say nothin’. I hate it when you talk like that. It’s not you.”
“I won’t do it again.”
“You’re gonna do it again.”
“I won’t do it again.”
“You’re gonna do it again.”
“Then yell at me when I do.”
He shakes his head before pointing towards Lawton. “Let’s go.” And just like that, we’re straight out of a Mark Twain adventure, once again two buddies making our way through the dry grass toward the Old Beaver. The afternoon is waning, the sun the hottest it’s been all day and the color of the sky somewhere between yellow and orange. It’s a July heat hot enough to make me sweat, so it must be awful for Ritchie who sweats year round and a half-gallon of cologne might actually play in his favor.
Part III
We cross the Beaver and follow the path toward Lawton. Ritchie is going on about baseball, which is a welcomed relief considering I expected him to ramble on about Joanne the entire time, but today it’s all about the Tigers and what a lousy season they’re having. Truth be told, I haven’t been paying much attention. It’s early yet, but according to Ritchie, their season is already over.
“I can’t do it,” Ritchie says. “Not in the Bigs, I mean.”
“Of course you can. You’re just scared.”
“I ain’t scared of nothin’. It’s not like that.”
“It’s exactly like that.”
“I’m being prodigal.”
“Practical, ya dumb ass, and that’s still the wrong word.”
“I pitch for the Pirates. Nobody I faced is pro material.”
“Yet you’ll never know for sure until you try out.”
He slumps. “I don’t wanna try out. I don’t want to move away. I wanna stay here.”
On his behalf, I’d gone as far as digging up contact info for a few talent scouts in the Detroit area, but Ritchie refuses to call. Whenever I bring it up, he gets angry or changes the subject. It’s like he doesn’t want to hear about his ‘potential.’ He wants to pretend he’s stupid and worthless and stuck here, and because he’s worthless and stupid and stuck here, we might as well make the best of a bad situation. He’s got the talent, but he doesn’t have the grades, and scouts don’t come to Payton. Not on purpose anyway. He’s the best pitcher I’ve ever seen—on TV or in real life, but if nobody knows, then it’s just wasted talent.
The sounds of Lawton are closer now, and soon we’re walking along the familiar streets and sidewalks. The older trees hang like umbrellas overhead, shading us from the merciless sun and allowing Ritchie to dry out by the time we reach the steps of the Lambert’s front porch. As usual, Ritchie hangs back and fidgets while trying to decide the perfect pose for when the door opens.
Kristie greets me with a wide smile, a big hug and kiss before inviting us in. Ritchie is quiet as a mouse as he sits in the same chair he always sits in while looking nervous. It’s quiet other than the whisper of bugs drifting in from the outside and Ritchie’s fingers drumming the arms of the chair. Suddenly, there’s the sound of someone bounding down the steps. Joanne dances her way down the staircase before dancing through the living room and right into the kitchen. Her eyes are closed, and she has headphones on cranked so loud that even from across the room I can make out the song she’s listening to. That’s the only way she can hear anything, but despite the tiny crackle coming from her headphones, I can almost hear Ritchie’s jaw hit the floor. Joanne is wearing a white tank-top, red panties and nothing else. There’s some white, a bit of red and a whole lot of skin. I have to admit that even I’m impressed. I’m dating Kristie, and the two have the exact same build, so it shouldn’t be a big deal, but it is, because it’s like I just saw my girlfriend scamper obliviously through the living room in her underwear. Only it’s not my girlfriend. It’s her.
Kristie turns my jaw, redirecting my attention back to hers. “Don’t get any ideas, mister.”
I don’t say anything. Not because I have nothing to say, but because I can’t say it. Not without expecting some serious backlash.
“Apparently, she doesn’t know you’re here yet.”
“Can she hear what she’s listening to?”
“Legally deaf,” Kristie emphasizes. “Not totally deaf.”
“Yeah, well, you should probably talk to her before Ritchie freaks out even more than he already is.” I nod Ritchie’s way, and sure enough, he’s squirming, his mouth slightly open, fresh sweat stains appearing under his arms, his hands locked so tightly to the armrests that his knuckles have turned white.
“He looks like he’s going to pop,” she giggles.
“This isn’t funny. I’m being totall
y serious.”
She frowns. “I’ll be right back.” She crawls off me before leaning in to whisper into my ear. “P.S. I look even better in the same outfit.” She kisses my cheek before heading for the kitchen.
This leaves me with a dilemma growing in my pants that is going to be very difficult to hide in about ten seconds. I shift uncomfortably while trying to find a sitting position that looks natural. Kristie re-emerges from the kitchen and trots up the steps. Coming back down with Joanne’s shorts and headband, she disappears back into the kitchen.
“Figures,” Ritchie mutters. “I thought Jo did it on purpose.”
“We’ve talked about this,” I say, still trying to find a natural looking position on this stupid-ass couch. “Play it cool.”
He nods, but he’s sweating. He looks at me, then the kitchen door, then me, then the kitchen door. Poor guy. I feel lust and love and hate and anger and things like that, but something tells me Ritchie feels those same things on a whole different level. He looks terrible, fidgeting and sweating, eyes darting, fingers nervous, feet tapping.
“Relax, Rich,” I whisper.
He nods, wiping the sweat from his brow, exhaling, breathing in and exhaling again. Slowly, he lifts his eyes to the kitchen again, and this time he holds on, waiting. I can almost hear his telltale heart even though he’s quiet as a mouse. When the two girls finally emerge, Joanne’s face is red with embarrassment, but instantly the two girls bust up laughing, and I can’t help but smile. I don’t think Ritchie fully understands what’s so funny. He just bites his lip, his eyes devouring Joanne.
“Hey,” Joanne says, her tongue thick. I always thought her muddled accent was kind of annoying, but seeing her like this, totally cool and confident with what just happened, I have to admit, she’s bad ass. And good for her.
“So, what’s on tonight’s agenda,” Kristie asks as she sits down and wraps her arm around me.
I shrug. “I was thinking maybe a bonfire out by the Beaver.”
“That would be fun,” Joanne says. “I’ll call Lindsey and Mary.”
Ritchie sits still, his fingers still locked around the ends of the armrests.
“How about you, Ritchie?” Kristie asks. “Bonfire? No bonfire? Yay or nay?”
“Good,” he nods.
Jo giggles.
Kristie leans over and whispers in my ear. “He wore too much cologne again.” Her breathing in my ear isn’t helping with my little ‘problem’ downstairs, so I sit up, shifting again.
“You okay?” Kristie asks.
“Ritchie says he’s going to pitch for the Tiger’s one day,” I say in a desperate attempt to divert attention from me.
“I never said that,” he replies, turning red. “I said I’m not good enough.”
“Whatever,” I say, waving him off. “No one can hit your junk.” I even throw in a Bostonian accent. “Fer-gedda-bou-dit.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“When you’re a Cy Young winner, I want you to remember us little people.”
“Kiss my grits, Triple A-hole,” Ritchie mutters. He’s playing it cool while trying to hide stolen glances.
Jo knows what’s going on. Hell, she’s reveling in it. She loves the attention. It’s got to be a major ego boost, and to be fawned over by the biggest name in sports this side of Det roit has to mean something. She’s trying not to smile, but I can tell she’s covering up, and I’ll bet Kristie can tell too.
“Tony’s right,” Joanne says finally. She doesn’t dare lift her eyes. “I’ve seen you pitch. You’re good. Real good.”
Ritchie shakes his head. “My grades are shit, and I only got two weeks left. It’s over.” He even looks like a wet puppy. He’s breathing heavy, he’s sweating, and I can only imagine the terror he’s experiencing inside. All those emotions crammed into that frumpy frame. For a big guy, he looks curiously innocent.
“I do pretty good in math,” Joanne says.
Ritchie nods. “Everyone does pretty good in math. Except me.”
“That’s not what I meant, ya big dummy.”
In the past, it’s only ever been me with the guts to call him anything other than ‘Ritchie’ or ‘Rich.’ However, at the sound of her saying ‘dummy’ in that weird, distorted accent of hers, everyone stops. Everything stops. Even the clock on the wall stops. All eyes turn to Joanne. She’s sitting there on the arm of the sofa, one bare knee up, blond hair cascading over her thin shoulders. She looks like a Pepsi commercial.
“And if you’re willing to put in the time,” she continues, “I suppose I could also help you with your English.” She even emphasizes ‘also’ in case he still isn’t catching on.
Ritchie sits there, mouth open, eyes wide.
“Though when you sign your first pro contract, I expect some kind of kickback,” Joanne finishes.
Ritchie is, for the second time in under ten minutes, on the verge of exploding. His face is turning purple, his eyes bulging. To be honest, I don’t think he’s even—
“Breathe, Rich,” I say.
Kristie’s hand has migrated to my stomach, and I’m starting to get nervous. If her hand continues to wander south, she’ll realize something is literally ‘up,’ and if I stand, my secret will be revealed.
“I only got two weeks,” Ritchie murmurs.
“Then that means we’d better hustle.”
Ritchie trembles.
“We do this,” Joanne says. “We go all the way. No half-assing it.” In her broken tongue, it sounds more like ‘No hav azzing it,’ but still…
“All the way?” Ritchie asks.
Kristie buries her face against my chest to suppress her laughter.
“All the way,” Joanne continues, and suddenly Ritchie’s in the best mood ever.
The phone rings. Joanne gets up and crosses the living room to the end table beside Ritchie’s chair. She picks up, but my attention isn’t on her. It’s on Kristie. Her hand has gone lower, and I try (unsuccessfully) to shift into a position that will flatten things out, but it’s too late. Her hand stops, and she lifts her head from my shoulder, a curious look in her eye. Gently, she applies a bit of pressure while a smile spreads over her lips. This time I can’t run away like I did back in the park. I was uncomfortable up on the hill when it was just the two of us, but here in Mr. and Mrs. Lambert’s living room, while in the company of both Ritchie and Joanne, it’s ten times worse. Here I feel exposed.
She kisses my neck before resting her head on my shoulder. To her, everything’s cool. We’re a couple of kids playing grownups. We are the envy of everyone else. We’re past all that ‘what if’ bullshit. We’re officially going steady, which means we’re in love, which means I have no reason to be afraid. Which also makes it that much harder to walk away.
“They’re not home right now,” Joanne says into the phone. “Besides, my dad likes to cut the grass himself. He has a riding mower and loves working the stick.”
Ritchie is paralyzed, Joanne is teasing him, Kristie is teasing me and I’m dying. Ritchie was right. Two weeks from now, and I’m all the way gone. These moments that feel like Tom Sawyer meets Holden Caulfield meets Hermie Raucher are the best of times, and in a way, also the worst of times. Being a teenager sucks. Not because we’re naïve, which we’re not, and not because we’re invincible, which are, but because we think in mirrors. Everything’s backwards. Everything’s new and exciting, and all of it is eternal. If I live a hundred years, I swear to God I’ll never forget this day.
Seven
Today
I wake up on the floor of my hotel room. The front door is wide open. The moon has risen, and the stars are out. The heat of the day is gone, having been replaced with a cool breeze. Ants are eating me alive, crawling over my exposed legs and taking mini bites of tender flesh as though I’ve already died. I get to my feet, brush the ants off and shut the door before drawing the chain and locking the deadbolt. Turning around, I survey the room. “Ritchie?” I call out, but my room does not answer.
I check the closet and the bathroom and under the bed just to be sure, but my ‘friend’ is nowhere to be seen.
The light in the bathroom is flickering as I lean forward over the sink for a better look. The reflection staring back is unenviable. I haven’t aged well. Haunted eyes and sunken cheeks aside, I look older than I am. I scoop water into my palms, gargle and spit before rinsing away the dried blood while hoping that by noon it won’t matter anymore. It’ll just be a bruise, a memory lying just beneath the surface. It’ll be one of those bruises you can’t see but it aches anyway. It’ll linger for days until I stop thumbing it just to see if it still hurts.
Ritchie doesn’t want me here. That much is obvious, but I never expected him to cold-cock me without so much as a ‘hello.’ And now that Kristie and I have had our first argument, I get the feeling she’s not all that crazy about the ‘new and improved’ Tony Abbott either. I’m not wanted, so I’m not staying. I should never have come in the first place.
Why did you come back?
That’s the question of the day. And I suppose I’ll figure out the answer in the morning or tomorrow or maybe the day after that. All I know for now is that I’m exhausted, disappointed, and frightened. I shut out the light and crawl beneath the sandpaper-like sheets on top of a brick-hard mattress. I don’t feel safe here the way I should feel what with the door bolted and the windows locked. But it is what it is, and what it is ain’t all that great.
Part II
Silence. Not a sound. No neighbors or birds or running toilets or cars passing by. I’m in a bubble, the world around me holding its breath. Sitting up, the only sound is that of the course sheets rubbing together as I slide them aside and swing my legs over the edge of the bed before rubbing life into my eyes.
Thursday.
I should pack my things and go. Just go. Forget the phone call. Forget about Kristie and Joanne. Forget all of it and just go. Payton is dying. Five years from now it’ll be dead. Just like in those old spaghetti westerns, there’ll be sagebrush whipping through empty streets, windows boarded over.
Payton Hidden Away Page 9
