“Denny will drive me, of course, Mr. Farrell.” Charlotte smiles nervously.
“Good answer,” my father says. “I think.”
That night, while Charlotte’s painting my toenails blue to match my taped wrist, we see Monsieur LeFleur on the 9:00 TV news. The theory is that he will plead not guilty by reason of temporary insanity. This doesn’t make sense to me because his insanity—otherwise known as a stealing spree—lasted a few weeks, at least.
His written statement says that he devoted his whole life to teaching, lost his wife over it, and never made enough to live on. That’s why he cracked. Extreme burnout. It could make anyone into an armed robber of convenience stores.
“Do you realize what this means?” Charlotte says. “They’re going to have to pass us all now. With As.”
“Even if we didn’t really learn that much?” I say.
“It’s a public relations nightmare for the school,” she says. “Their best teacher is a criminal. They’ll do anything to get us to be quiet.”
“But he was never there,” I remind her. “We never had any contact with him.”
“We didn’t, but you did,” Charlotte says. “He had a gun, Fleming.”
“It wasn’t a real gun. It turned out to be a toy,” I say.
“So what? He was still dangerous. Very dangerous. He could have affected us somehow, drawn us into his web of evil,” Charlotte says. “Without us even knowing it. He could have been controlling us with his homework assignments.”
I start laughing. “Oh, yeah, definitely,” I agree.
“And if he ever had shown up, he probably would have taken us hostage or something, and demanded a ransom.” She laughs. “We’ll point all this out if they try to give us Bs. And we’ll mention how he put your life at risk, and how you saved Denny’s life.”
“And how the subs were so bad that we want a refund!” I cry, pounding my fist on top of the coffee table. For a second I picture Kamikaze Driver demanding free coffee, and our “free ride” conversation. I’ll have to find him and thank him for bringing me to the hospital. I still don’t know his name, but I do know his route. “You know, all this stuff with Monsieur LeFleur is the most I’ve ever done just to get an A,” I tell Charlotte.
“I’ve never gotten an A before,” she admits, and we start laughing so hard that she paints the rug with blue nail polish.
Fortunately, it blends in with the stain from the last time Dean spilled grape juice.
Because I Really Like Pink
It’s noon on Torvill and Dean’s birthday, and I’m standing by the main entrance at Shady Prairies, waiting for my father to pick me up. I just got out of my brand-new job. Starting today, I’m teaching water exercise as part of my community service, to pay back Shady Prairies for stealing a golf cart and then flipping it into their pool. Until I go back to work at Gas ’n Git, where there’s now a plaque on the wall naming me and Denny “Employees of the Month,” I’ll be here swimming with seniors. My hair now smells like chlorine, but other than that, it wasn’t bad at all. I can definitely do this for two weeks, especially since Jamie insisted I take some time off.
Charlotte has to work the breakfast shift now instead of dinner, because the people in Shady Prairies’ personnel department know how much she hates mornings. She got it much worse than me, because they trusted her and she let them down. Also because she admitted that traveling “à la cart” was her idea, and that she was the one who drove. She also has to clean the pool and “maintain” the bathroom by the pool.
I hear a rumble of thunder above me and glance up at the sky. I see some dark clouds building in the west. It looks like we might get a storm later. I may not be Christie Farrell from KLDV, and I’m no link to Mother Nature, but I think I see something heading our way. I hope it doesn’t ruin Torvill and Dean’s birthday party.
I hear a car honk and am amazed to see my father pulling up. He’s actually on time. This is . . . unheard of.
Later that afternoon I am walking across our backyard carrying a giant Gabe’s Auto World cup of cold water for my mom. The thermometer says it is ninety-seven degrees, but it feels hotter. It’s the sixth day in a row where it’s been over ninety-five.
There are twenty five-year-olds and one three-year-old, Dorothy, sprinting back and forth across our lawn, chasing each other all over. Grass is flying up from their sneakers.
I tried to kick off the party with a quiet little game of pin the tail on the donkey. Then Dean pinned the tail on Torvill. She turned around and started chasing him, and suddenly it turned into a giant game of free-form tag, where everybody seems to be “it.” Dean’s wearing the cowboy hat I gave him for his birthday, only it keeps flying off his head. Torvill hid the little suede change purse I gave her in her room—which means she’ll probably never find it again.
Mom is sitting in a chaise longue under an umbrella, with Elvis in a little sack snuggled against her chest. Dad is chasing the kids around with a pitcher of lemonade and making sure that they all get enough to drink, so they don’t get dehydrated.
As I set the glass of ice water down next to my mom, I notice a car coming up the cul-de-sac. There’s smoke coming out of it. The motor dies and the car coasts up to our house. I notice that it’s a rusted yellow Geo Metro. No, I think. It can’t be. Then the door opens and Mike gets out, cursing and kicking the car.
Of all the pizza places to call in Lindville, Mom had to call Smiley’s? I really don’t feel like seeing Mike right now. I have multiple bandages on my legs. I also have a party hat on my head and three colors of frosting smeared on my shirt. I don’t know why it still matters what I look like to Mike, but it does. Not because it could get back to Steve, but because the last time I saw Mike didn’t exactly go well. I owe him an apology, and I don’t want to do it wearing a pointed pink hat with a 5 on it.
Mike lifts the hood and props it open, using the bottom of his T-shirt like a potholder. Steam billows out and nearly engulfs his head. He jumps back, coughing and wiping his face. Like Denny said, Mike’s not the crispest crisp in the chip bucket, although he was almost pretty crispy there for a second.
He grabs his delivery sheet to check the address. Then he reaches into the backseat and pulls out a giant stack of pizzas. He doesn’t seem to have noticed that it’s me or my house yet as he trudges up the driveway in his flip-flops.
“Farrell residence? Christie Farrell?” Mike asks, standing cluelessly in front of me. He can’t really see over the top of the stack of pizza boxes.
“Right,” I say, sliding the party hat off my head. “Could you come set them down over here, on the picnic table?”
He clears his throat and follows me. When he sets down the pizzas and looks at me, his face is beaded with sweat. He opens his mouth to say something, then stops. Then he says, “Hey.”
“Hi,” I say.
He peers around me at Dorothy, who is now clinging to my leg. This is extremely awkward.
“So how are you?” I ask him.
“Hot.” Mike mops his forehead with his sleeve. “And my car overheated.”
“Sorry.” I nod, feeling like a complete idiot. I don’t know what to say to him, but it has to be something besides “sorry” and “how are you.” We spent half the summer hanging out. We melded in a car wash once.
“So it’s sixty-eight dollars,” he says.
I stare at the wad of cash in my hands. My father had forgotten he needed to go get cash, so he spent the morning flattening dollar bills that had been stuffed into the “cloudy day” jar. “This should be eighty,” I say as I hand the clump of ones to Mike.
“Oh. Yeah?” He finally smiles and runs his hands through his sweat-soaked hair and I look at his cheekbones and black T-shirt and for a second remember why I was attracted to him. “That’s great.”
“No problem. I mean, it’s my parents, so . . . I mean, it’s not like I have any money, so . . .” Dorothy tugs on my leg again, as if even she can tell I am blowing this. “So, Mike. Sorry ab
out what happened that night. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I guess I just overreacted, but I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
Mike dodges a couple of racing kids who nearly slam into his leg. “It’s okay,” he says. “I mean, I know you and Gropher . . . whatever. I actually don’t know.”
“Yeah. Me neither,” I admit with a laugh. Mike’s summary seems pretty accurate.
“Hey, do you think you could maybe give me a ride back to work?” he asks.
“I can’t, but my dad could, right after the cake.”
“Yeah, okay.” Mike sighs and sits down at the picnic table. “It’s too hot to work, anyway. “You got anything to drink?”
“Lem’nade,” Dorothy says, and hands him an empty cup. She points to the folding table by the house.
“Thanks,” Mike tells her with a nice smile. “I’ll get some.” He gets up. “Is it pink?”
Dorothy shakes her head.
“Oh. Because I really like pink,” he says, disappointed. He turns to walk across the lawn.
As I watch him, I can’t quite believe we almost sort of went out. Even though it might not count because I was using him to get to Steve and that makes me a very bad person. But I’ll never do that again, not to anyone. And definitely not to impress Steve Gropher, or anyone else. For some reason, I really don’t care about impressing anyone anymore.
Dorothy looks up at me. “P. F. okay? Need lem’nade?”
“No, I’m good,” I tell her.
“Attention, everyone, attention!” Dad says, clapping his hands above his head. He blows a whistle to get the kids to stop racing around. “We’ve got pizza! Kids! Sit down, please!”
Dad helps gather Torvill and Dean, and the kids suddenly drop onto the lawn under a tree, desperate for shade. Another parent grabs several pizzas and brings them over to the group.
I seek shelter under the umbrella with Elvis and Mom, both of whom have fallen asleep. I crouch beside Mom’s chair and gently rub Elvis’s fuzzy head. I hold my hand out and feel warm drops of water spitting from the sky.
Mom is instantly awake. “Rain. Of course,” she says, as rain taps on the canvas umbrella. “I felt it coming. It won’t last long, though. Don’t worry, Fleming,” she tells me.
And she’s right, because almost as soon as it’s started, it stops.
“Peggy, I’m a cowboy!” Dean yells as he races past me carrying Torvill’s new stick horse, pretending to gallop. His cowboy hat flies off his head and lands on the ground.
“I’m a cowboy!” Torvill cries, chasing him. “Give me back my horsey!”
I pick up Dean’s hat just as Dad comes over to me. I set it on my head, and he smiles. “Hey, thanks for all your help today.”
“No problem,” I say, fixing the clasp on the stretchy ACE bandage around my wrist. When I went in for a follow-up appointment, the doctor removed the tape, because it’s healing so quickly.
Dad points to it. “How’s the wrist? Not bothering you, is it?”
“Not at all. It feels totally fine,” I say. “In fact, I almost feel ready to get back to my old routine.”
“You mean, going back to work at Gas ’n Git? Or what are you saying?”
“Any second now, it’s all going to come together,” I say.
Dad looks confused. “What?”
“Clouds, silver linings. Sacrifices. You know.”
“P. F., you don’t sound like yourself. Make sure you drink plenty of water, okay?” Dad shakes his head and walks away, convinced I’m dehydrated.
I just smile and go over to sit with Mike.
Do Not Adjust Your Sets
It’s the final night of Rodeo Roundup Days. The heat has broken after a cold front came in the night before, bringing strong winds, occasional thunder and lightning, and heavy rain. The cooler temperature is good for keeping the ice frozen, but bad for the other events. The final bull-riding challenge was canceled because the arena’s too muddy, the petting zoo has closed early, and the rides are all closed due to risk of lightning strikes. The wind is rattling the chain-link fence, and the boards sound as if they might fly off.
But the skating cowboy show must go on. So I’m standing here at the end of the rink, waiting with everyone else for the 7:00 show.
There’s a strong gust of wind, and I smell a slightly manly lavender and oatmeal fragrance blowing through the air. It’s familiar to me, but I can’t quite place it. I turn to my right and see Mr. Stinson standing right next to me.
“He’s quite good, your father,” Mr. Stinson says. “I’ve been here almost every night, and he’s quite consistent.”
“Yes, he is. I told you he wouldn’t let you down, didn’t I?” I say.
“Yes. It’s a shame he’s decided not to go for that tour after all,” Mr. Stinson says. “I’d have sponsored him for sure.”
“Well, maybe another time,” I say.
“Right. Or perhaps I’ll sponsor a show here—I’ve been thinking about asking him to skate a special Christmas show.” There’s an awkward pause as we both think back to last Christmas. Then he steps a little closer to me. “It’s ironic, don’t you think?”
I turn toward him. “What is?” I ask. Or maybe I should ask, What isn’t?
“Your encounter with the robber,” Mr. Stinson says. “It’s ironic that you would be the one to dispense justice, after your own checkered past.” He makes me sound like a convicted felon, as if I were in a work-release program. Or maybe that’s just how I feel. “But I suppose you have a right to evolve as much as the next person.”
Evolve. Is that what I’ve been doing? “I’m not a bad seed, and I’m not evil. Is that what you’re saying?” I ask him.
He almost smiles. “I suppose you simply needed to find the right employment. The right outlet for your talents. And lucky for you that you have. Selling petrol is a noble profession.”
“I don’t actually have anything to do with . . . petrol,” I say. “I make the coffee. Sometimes tea. I’m good at picking up muffins with tongs.”
“Ah. Well. No matter. It’s a shame that ungrateful excuse for a French teacher got the best of you. French. What did we expect,” he complains, shaking his head.
“He’s not French,” I say. “He only taught French. Anyway, it was a car door that really got me.”
“Yes. Well, not to worry. You’re young; you’ll heal.” He slaps me on the back, so hard that I can feel it in my ribs.
It hurts, but I’m not going to let it stop me tonight. And since Mr. Stinson apparently doesn’t hate me anymore, I have a question. “Can I ask you something, Mr. Stinson?” I say.
“I suppose,” he says, somewhat grudgingly.
“When you moved here to Lindville, however many years ago, why did you do it?” I ask. “I’ve always wondered. What made you stay?”
“I had an excellent business opportunity, a great chance to invest in—oh, look.” Mr. Stinson sighs as he unsnaps his heavy yellow rain slicker. For once, the weather actually suits his outfit. “I came to America because I wanted a cattle ranch, all right? That’s why I came here to Lindville. That’s why I’m still here.”
I hate to state the obvious. “But you don’t have a ranch,” I say. The last I knew, Mr. Stinson lived in a large ranch house, in our general neighborhood. “Do you?”
“Yes, I know. I’m well aware of that.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose, the frames mashing his bushy eyebrows. “However, I will someday. I’m not giving up yet. In the meantime I have my shop, and life is not too hard to take around here, now, is it?”
I don’t say anything. A month ago, I would have said “Actually, yes, it is,” without even hesitating. But now, I’m not so sure. Maybe I’m not going anywhere in a hurry, either.
At 6:59 there’s a crackle over the loudspeaker. Then a voice says, “Attention, ladies and gentlemen. There has been a slight change in tonight’s program. Do not adjust your sets.”
I watch my father’s face as he steps out of the warm-up room and
peers at the hockey penalty box that’s being used as an audio booth.
Denny looks out and waves at him. “I repeat, ladies and gentlemen, do not adjust your sets,” Denny says in a deep voice. Then he smiles and starts playing the music that begins Dad’s program.
“Excuse me,” I say to Mr. Stinson. “Would you mind holding this for a second?” I take off my coat and hand it to him, then lean over to retie my laces and pick up Charlotte’s hat.
When I straighten up, Mr. Stinson is staring at my outfit: a vintage pale green Western-style shirt I found at the thrift shop two days ago, a pair of boot-cut stretch jeans with a black belt, and my new silver PFF belt buckle. I pull the white hat over my hair, which is in two braids. Mr. Stinson looks down at my feet and for the first time realizes that I’m not wearing shoes.
“What on earth . . .” he mutters as I slip the rubber guards off my white figure skates. “Miss Farrell? What’s the meaning of this?”
My father skates to center ice and suddenly his usual country music comes to an abrupt end. He looks over at Denny, confused. He stares at me as I open the side door and glide onto the ice. I skate toward him and stop with a flourish, spraying him with ice flakes. He looks like he’s going to faint. I don’t know who’s more surprised at the fact I’m doing this, Dad or me.
“Ladies and gentlemen, presenting Phil and Fleming Farrell in, uh, ‘Cowboy’ . . . ‘Cowgirl’ . . . oh, forget the title. Here they are, so start clapping, already!”
The audience applauds politely, looking confused as Charlotte drags a few small hay bales over to the sides of the rink. As arranged, the rodeo clowns gently lead the lambs and horses off the ice to make room for us. I asked for their help when I first came down to practice a few days ago.
“You won’t need this,” I say, taking the rope lariat from Dad and tossing it aside.
As the opening notes of U2’s “Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses” play over the loudspeaker, my dad says out of the corner of his mouth, “P. F.? Are you sure about this?”
Unforgettable Summer Page 36
