Fireworks

by Sarina Bowen

  Then again, Skye could not afford a dress. She needs to hang onto her money for a bus ticket out of here.

  “Sure you can. Keep it. I’m not wearing it again. It’s too dressy for a day at the office.” Jenny is an executive assistant at Deutschebank on Wall Street. “And it’s not like I can wear it to my thirtieth anniversary.”

  “I’m sorry,” Skye had said quickly. Jenny was a widow. Her husband fell down an elevator shaft while on a plumbing job in the Bronx.

  “Don’t be. Take the dress. Where can I send it?”

  Skye had ripped open the padded envelope with some trepidation last week. But the black satin that tumbled into her hands felt like butter. And the dress was only a little too big. Skye solved this problem by spending twenty of her precious dollars on a black strapless bra with a little bit of padding right where she needed it. And then she’d splurged on the matching panties, unsure if Benito would see them or not.

  Did Benito expect to? And did she want him to? Those were terrifying questions that she would have to think about later.

  But first, the dance. It’s starting at eight, and it’s past eight o’clock now. Damien’s taxi is parked in front of their trailer. But Benito’s motorcycle had gone roaring away at six p.m., and hadn’t come back yet. A half hour ago she’d heard an engine that had turned out to be Mrs. Rossi’s car. Zara had gotten out of the passenger’s seat, quite obviously in the middle of a fight with her mother.

  Mrs. Rossi had been angry—chewing out Zara for something Skye couldn’t get the gist of.

  Zara’s face had been as bright as her red dress as she’d stomped up to their trailer and had gone inside, slamming the door. Then Mrs. Rossi drove away again.

  Skye has no idea why Zara isn’t at the grad prom right now. But tonight Zara isn’t her problem, because tonight she has Benito.

  Doesn’t she?

  He’d said they were going out to dinner. She hopes she didn’t get that detail wrong, because she’s starving. And it’s getting late.

  Skye waits on the tiny stoop of the trailer with the black silk tickling her knees. Black isn’t a prom color. But the dress is sleek and expensive, and for once she’s certain that anyone who looks at her won’t immediately think trailer park.

  It’s June, so the light doesn’t start to fade until late. In fact, it’s about nine o’clock when Skye has to stop pretending that things aren’t going very, very wrong. But she won’t leave her spot outside. If Benito suddenly arrives, she wants him to notice her strapless dress.

  He’s coming, she tells herself. He got hung up somewhere.

  She waits. Her hunger becomes a dull ache that she can ignore, because her heartache is worse. Maybe something happened to him? No—that couldn’t be it. Zara wouldn’t be pouting next door if Benito was hurt.

  Would she?

  It’s quite dark by the time Skye hears another engine approaching. But it’s not the sound of a motorcycle. It’s the police cruiser.

  Skye’s heart plummets as Jimmy Gage parks the car and gets out. She doesn’t even move out of the way until his boots are crunching in the gravel.

  “Well, lookie here,” he says with a low chuckle that crawls up her spine. Skye stops breathing as he reaches out and traces a fingertip across her bare skin just above the bust line of her dress. “That’s an awful pretty getup for sittin’ around outside. Don’t know who you’re waiting for. Prom started a long time ago.”

  Skye says nothing. For once, Jimmy Gage speaks the truth. And her skin is crawling from his touch.

  “I saw your boy on his motorcycle earlier,” he says. “He was all dressed up and carrying flowers. I watched ‘im give them to that Sullivan girl. They make a real nice couple.”

  “No! You didn’t!” Skye actually snaps.

  Then she wishes she hadn’t. Because Gage laughs, and it’s the sound of someone enjoying himself.

  “I saw ’em,” he says. “Guess he didn’t want a trailer trash whore for his date. And why would he?”

  Gage steps past her and into the house, laughing to himself.

  She stands frozen outside, feeling naked in Aunt Jenny’s dress. Naked and ashamed. Her sexy black underwear mocks her. What was she even thinking?

  She’s been traded in for a girl who drives her own white Mustang. Of course.

  For the first time ever, Skye feels just like the foolish whore Gage always accuses her of being. She feels like a piece of trash. She wants to curl up in a corner somewhere and die.

  But there aren’t any corners. Gage is banging the kitchen cabinets. Then the TV goes on, tuned loudly to a baseball game.

  Skye waits until he’s visible on the sofa with a plate in his lap. Then she scoots like a mouse through the trailer to her room, where she shuts the door and locks it.

  The dress comes off. She folds it back into the FedEx envelope and puts it in the bottom of her duffel bag. Everything else that goes into the bag is more practical: underwear, socks. Her most decent clothes. Two books she can’t leave behind. Hair brush. Toothbrush. Her hard-earned money.

  Packing takes barely ten minutes. She raises the window screen for the last time and drops the bag out first. Then she exits after it, taking care not to turn an ankle. She might have to walk for hours until she finds a lift to the bus station.

  Damien’s taxi is still out in front. She thinks about knocking on the door and asking for a ride. But she can’t stand the thought of owing the Rossi’s anything. And she doesn’t want any of them to ask why she’s not at grad prom. So she heads into the night alone.

  The sky is dark but the moon is nearly full. The air is sweet and the peeper frogs are singing in the ponds. It’s such a weird sound. She won’t miss it, Skye decides. Vermont is a terrible place. And she’s never coming back.

  Thirty-Two

  Skye

  I drive away in an angry fog. I can’t believe that I let myself be blindsided again by Benito. Same guy. Same story. And I fell for it!

  “I love you, Skye,” he’d said. And I’d believed him. He forgot to add, “Oh, and I’ve been banging Jill Sullivan off and on since prom night.”

  I must be stupid, stupid, stupid.

  When I think about the two of them together, I actually want to throw up. Handcuffs? I’ll bet she never flinches if he calls her a dirty girl. I’ll bet she never flinches at all.

  Several miles pass while I wallow in my anger and sadness. It’s not that I assumed Benito was celibate. That’s a ridiculous idea. And I haven’t been, either. But I know Jill Sullivan. She and I are nothing alike.

  Is she the kind of woman Benito really wants? And, if so, when he tells me he loves me, does that even make sense?

  When we’re alone together, I feel like I know him. And I feel like I can trust him. When we’re not alone together, apparently all bets are off.

  I can’t do this. I can’t fall for someone who says he loves me, but also loves Jill Sullivan. Somebody said—was it F. Scott Fitzgerald?—that intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing ideas in the mind.

  My heart is not very intelligent, apparently. I don’t understand Benito, and apparently I never will.

  Thirty minutes later I arrive in South Burlington without remembering the drive. When I step out of the unfamiliar car in an unfamiliar parking lot behind a building I’ve only visited once, I’m shaking. Everything in my life is unmoored.

  Except my darned job. I still have that. So I trudge inside the offices of WBVT for the second time. I give my name to the receptionist, who waves me through to the news room.

  Jack and Jordy—the same two reporters I met before—both look up when I enter. Jack has a sturdy look to him, with broad shoulders and dark hair, while Jordy is on the skinny side with black glasses and an earring. They both have beards, which seem to be mandatory on young men in Burlington these days.

  “It’s Emily Skye! She’s back!” Jordy says with a smile that quickly fades. “Oh dear.”

  “Bad day?” Jack asks immediately. “Serio
usly, are you okay?”

  “Why? What do you mean?” I do a quick inventory of myself. All the clothing is in place and I put on makeup earlier.

  “You look…” Jack hesitates. “…like you need a stiff drink. That’s all. Come sit.” He rolls his desk chair backward, yanking out the empty seat and offering it to me.

  “Uh, thanks.” I take a deep breath and try to look less shell-shocked than I feel. “I’ve had better days.”

  “Is it work trouble?” Jordy asks. “Your boss is a dickweed when he calls.”

  “That is not at all surprising.” I flop down in the chair. “He’s a…” I can’t say dickweed. “He’s never a great guy. But today he’s just baseline awful.”

  “So it’s family?” Jack asks.

  “Or men?” Jordy suggests. “Men are the worst.”

  “Dude, you’re a man,” Jack points out.

  “Well, I didn’t mean me. I mean everyone on Grindr. And I didn’t mean you,” he adds quickly. “Although you get my lunch order wrong about half the time.”

  “No,” Jack argues. “The deli gets it wrong.”

  “But somehow they only screw up when you’re the one who gets lunch!”

  “Not my fault!” Jack yelps. “They’re distracted by this face.” He puts a hand under his handsome chin, and Jordy laughs.

  Watching them clown around, I feel the tiniest bit better. My stomach gives a loud growl, though. Because lunch never happened and it’s going on three o’clock.

  “You’re hungry?” Jordy asks.

  “I could eat,” Jack says.

  “Pizza?”

  “Falafel?”

  “The deli? So long as you don’t care if Jack brings you the wrong sandwich.” He rolls his eyes.

  “Falafel,” I say, because they’re waiting for me to say something. “I’ll buy.” I pull out my wallet.

  “Nah—” Jack says, holding up a hand. “There’s, like, four more people I gotta include. We have a running tab. It’s a whole complicated thing. This way everyone gets fed.”

  “Here’s something for mine, then,” I say, pulling out a twenty. “I really appreciate it.”

  He pushes it back. “You’re having a rough day. It’s my treat.” Jack gets up and heads toward the control room. “Back in thirty.”

  “Wait! I want—” Jordy starts.

  “I know what you want,” Jack says, exiting the room.

  “Thank you!” I call just before the door shuts on Jack. “You guys are too nice to me.”

  “Nah,” Jordy says. “We’re easy. That’s why we stay here at this little bumfuck station. It’s not New York, but it’s a nice place to work.”

  “You’re lucky,” I say with a sigh. “I’d better edit this thing for the bossman. Do you mind if I use that terminal again?”

  “Go for it. Let me log you in.” He leans over and taps a password into the computer. “All set.”

  “Thanks.”

  I have to open my phone to reread my McCracken’s instructions. So I see that Benito has sent me a flurry of texts.

  I’m sorry. Where are you? I want to explain.

  Then, after my failure to reply: Look, I know that was bad. But it was never serious with Jill. I don’t love her, and never claimed to. It was just sex. Please call. I need to hear your voice.

  I feel cold inside when I read these words. Maybe another girl would understand. But I might be too broken inside to believe that the way he feels about me is different from the way he feels about Jill. It was just sex, he says.

  That’s the part I’ll never be able to understand. It takes ten kinds of courage for me to be naked and vulnerable with him. I don’t think I could experience that with someone I didn’t love.

  When I think about him getting out of bed with her and then getting into bed with me? I feel dirty. And not in a good way. That’s probably not normal, either. And I don’t know if there’s a cure.

  I close his texts without answering. And I get to work.

  Forty-five minutes later I’ve edited tape for McCracken. I’ve written up his script from sloppy notes. And now I’m trying to eat falafel in a ladylike fashion although it’s messy and I’m as hungry as a bear.

  “Did you pass my stories to the copyeditor?” Jordy asks.

  “Uh-oh,” Jack says.

  “Dude!”

  “Dude,” Jack repeats. “I’m sorry. We’ll rush the job when copy comes back?”

  “He doesn’t come back until five,” Jordy grumbles.

  “I’ll do it,” I hear myself offer. Because, let’s face it, I have nowhere else to go. I can’t even think about Benito right now. It hurts too much.

  “Copyediting?” Jordy asks. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

  “Not really,” I confess. “I went to j-school at Columbia. Then I worked crew for two years until they let me write a few stories. Then I started getting on-camera work in traffic and weather. But…” I sigh. “That’s not going well. I’m on a mandatory two-week vacation.”

  “Dude,” Jordy says. “You’re not on vacation if you’re eating falafel with us.”

  “Eating falafel with you two is more fun than I usually have at work. They just don’t want me on camera until…” Uh-oh. I didn’t want to tip these two off to my penis video.

  “I don’t get it.” Jack makes an empathetic face. “You should have gotten a promotion after that penis video.”

  “Wait, what? You saw it?”

  “What do you take us for?” Jordy gasps. “Of course we saw it. It’s an important addition to the genre.”

  “The…sorry?”

  Jack lunges for his tablet and pulls up YouTube. “We have a playlist. All the best accidental penises on air.”

  “Don’t forget to be inclusive,” Jordy argues. “We have accidental boobs, too.”

  “Double hurricanes are usually the culprit there,” Jack explains, while Jordy nods. “And sometimes bulbous mountain ranges.”

  “We have a complete collection,” Jordy says. “Jack’s is arguably the best penis. No offense—Skye’s penis is pretty special, but Jack’s is spectacular.”

  “I’m blushing!” Jack says. “Stop.”

  “Jack has a penis, too?” I ask without thinking.

  “Show her, Jack.”

  Proudly Jack taps on the tablet screen, and a clip comes up of Jack doing the weather. “The low pressure system will move east between the Green and White mountains…” He draws a long, banana-shaped area on the map. It’s large, but the shape is not well-articulated. Big deal, I’m thinking. But then Jack turns his body so that the, uh, banana lines up with his crotch. Then he gestures with his hand. “…the low pressure system will produce heavy rains throughout the weekend.”

  And then? An animated graphic of rain showers begin to spurt from the distant end of the shape.

  A gurgle of laughter rises inside me, but I quickly choke it down. The result is a terrible burp sound.

  “No, girl. Let it out,” Jordy says, chuckling. “I mean, come on! Jack is blowing a load on screen. He looks pretty happy about it, too.”

  And then I just sort of explode. All the tension of the week erupts in a torrent of laughter. My stomach clenches so hard that it actually hurts.

  Immediately, Jack and Jordy start laughing, too. Because I’m contagious. I’m howling. Actual tears spring into my eyes, threatening my carefully applied Urban Decay mascara. I can’t even believe my own mirth. In fact, I raise my head and look at the screen again, just in time to see Jack finish his drawing again and then turn to put himself in a compromising position…

  I die all over again. I laugh until there’s nothing left.

  And then the door flips open and a woman in an impeccable suit steps forward. “What the fuck is this?” she thunders.

  I’ve worked at a TV station long enough to know the sound of the producer’s voice when he’s on a rampage. Or when she’s on a rampage, in this instance. Instinct kicks in, and the laughter dies in my throat. I don’t want
to get Jack and Jordy in trouble. But maybe I already have.

  “What the hell is so funny that you didn’t think to show it to me?” she bellows, pulling out a chair and plunking down in it. Then she reaches over to Jack’s fries and steals one. “Seriously. I’m reading about drug overdoses and you didn’t think to share?”

  “It’s just Jack’s penis,” Jordy says defensively. “You’ve seen it before.”

  “Wanna see Skye’s?” Jack asks. “And don’t eat my fries, bitch. Why did you ask for a salad if you wanted fries?”

  My jaw unhinges.

  She waves a perfectly manicured hand dismissively. “I didn’t want an order of fries. Other people’s food has no calories. And I’ve already seen the Emily Skye clip. The ball-sac is my favorite part. Nice to meet you, Emily Skye. I’m Lane Barker.”

  “N-nice to meet you, too,” I stammer. I don’t know what to make of Lane Barker. She’s about ten years older than I am, and with the sort of fierce expression a woman needs to succeed in TV. But she’s not yelling at Jack and Jordy, who are clearly goofing off.

  Jordy clicks the tablet off, and the screen darkens. “That never gets old. Jack got ten thousand Twitter followers from that one. What was your social media bump, Skye?”

  “Uh…” I really haven’t looked at social media in a week. At first I was too embarrassed, but then I’d been too busy. I pull out my phone and open Piktogram, which is where I have my largest following. And then I gasp. “Holy macaroni!” I actually rub the screen with my finger to see if there’s something distorting the number. But no. It’s real. I have thirty thousand new followers.

  “Wowzers,” Jordy breathes. “You’re an influencer!”

  “Quick, post a selfie!” Jack says. “You need to interact with your new fans.” He grabs my phone and hands me a coffee mug that says WBTV on it. “This’ll be a road-trip shot. The caption will be: ‘Just hanging with the news crew in BVT! Met some cool guys.’” He points the camera at me. “Look alive, Emily.”