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Four Three Two One

Page 8

by Courtney Stevens


  Secretly, I was thinking, Please don’t say Key Largo or Miami.

  Rudy: Orlando.

  “Set a course for Orlando,” I told Becky.

  And then I sent a text to Chan:

  Call me when you get home. Something big to share.

  “You know. I don’t know what’s scarier. That we’re meeting someone you don’t know. Or he’s on Facebook enough to answer you instantly.”

  “Don’t make me play it!” I said, threatening the anti-playlist.

  “I’m driving. I’m driving.”

  We drove toward Orlando.

  CAROLINE

  Five “vests” were draped over the shoulders of mannequins Johnny stole from the Salvation Army. They resembled a wicked episode of Doctor Who. I avoided their opaque faces as if eye contact might animate their pale, static limbs. I grew used to Mary, Peggy, Kathy, Althea, and Elizabeth; the mannequins, named after Larry Flynt’s wives because when Johnny googled celebs with five wives, the founder of Hustler came up. None of us talked about the uniqueness of their clothing. None of us talked about how brazen it was to keep them on display in the boathouse attic even though we were the only ones who came up here. And none of us talked about those bombs living their lives fifty yards from where I slept. Damn close to tourists who flocked to our lake.

  The boys had moved on to other projects to cure boredom; I’d started talking to Angela again. Only when I was in the bathroom, shower running. Simon hadn’t bugged my bedroom, I didn’t think, but I didn’t want him to find out and hurt her. He knew Angela was my ex. Knew she was beautiful and he couldn’t compete when it came to attraction.

  I didn’t love love Angela anymore, but I missed estrogen. Missed friendship and conversations about politics and movies. Missed having someone tell me whether a pencil skirt was preferable to an A-line with my T. rex hips. I missed lying side by side on beach towels listening to seaplanes take off and land. Missed driving to Muranda Cheese tastings, and arguing over Aged British Cheddar and Gotcha Gouda. She always returned to Simon though.

  “Your boyfriend moved in with you, yeah?” she asked.

  “He doesn’t technically live here.”

  She laughed, the kind that was at my expense. “Right. Right. He’s just your boathouse buddy. I remember those days. I hope you’re on birth control.”

  My turn to laugh. I couldn’t remember how to have the conversations I longed to have.

  Hey, Angela, I’m drowning.

  Hey, Angela, Simon has five bombs.

  Hey, Angela, he hits me with a plastic pipe.

  “That’s why we have Planned Parenthood, right?” I said.

  “At least for now.” And then we talked about the latest Pride march instead of me mentioning Mary, Kathy, Althea, and Elizabeth.

  Dozer sold Peggy a month before the bombing of Bus #21, because Dozer was one of those eBay freaks who had his mom’s Walmart dishes and his dad’s screwdriver set from 1980 listed. If something was horizontal for three seconds, Dozer price-tagged it.

  Simon freaked and hit Doze in the ribs. “Fifty bucks? What d’you think we are? A yard sale for munitions?”

  Johnny paused the game system and set his droopy eyes on Simon. “You’re going to get us arrested, man.” He started it again, the fear already lost.

  I said, “Who did you sell it to?” because I imagined a scenario that looped from person X to Dozer to us to Z and a photo of me from the motel holding dynamite. I could not, on that day, imagine Bus #21.

  Dozer cradled his rib cage and explained, well, as much as he ever explained. “The guy said if this one worked, he’d buy the rest for five thousand. He’s straight, dude. He won’t tell.” Dozer took a beer from the minifridge. He held it against his side. “Money’s money. Larry’s ladies can’t live here forever, ya know?”

  And if I remember correctly, we got dressed to slay and went to dinner at Union Block on Simon’s credit card. Simon wasn’t that amped about one rogue bomb. But then Dozer sold two more, and I decided Ellis Island might be the place to let go of the world.

  18. A PICTURE OF A PICTURE OF HIMSELF

  $55,822.00

  Someone should make a phone that doesn’t ring. Texting: great. Apps: great. Phone calls: unnecessary. At four thirty, my mother started calling. At seven, Dad. Who, in his history, had called only the bank and the no-solicitations-by-telemarketers number. Evidently, they found my “Gone Camping with Becky Cable” note unsatisfactory. Or maybe they were mad I took all the cookies. Gran would smooth things over tonight.

  Chan didn’t call.

  Becky shifted sideways, squinted, and appeared unable to find a place where the setting sun didn’t scorch her eyes. “You’ll have to answer the parentals eventually.”

  “What did you tell your parents?”

  “That I was running away to join the circus. This Rudy thing flops like a whale, I say we go to Harry Potter world.”

  “What did you actually tell them?”

  She smiled a true Becky smile. Not the one she made when she cracked a joke. “That you needed me and I would be home eventually.”

  I examined the creature that was Becky Cable. My fast findings: she wore lipstick like ChapStick, had mastered the art of blending scarves and T-shirts, and never, ever seemed lonely. Underneath her sarcasm and hair products, Becky Cable was earnest. Add all that to a Mustang, and she was the Chick-fil-A of girls. I told her as much and she said, “They do have the best nuggets a kid can buy.”

  We stopped at the next Chick-fil-A we spotted and Becky sprang for two meals. Halfway through a large waffle fries, she said, “So, when you Facebook-stalked Rudy Patootie, what else did you learn? PS, this sun is brutal. Set already!” she yelled at the horizon.

  I tossed her my sunglasses and savored another nugget.

  “No posts prior to last June. No details on his About section. Three photos: a dog that is probably a Great Dane mix; a hard-boiled egg, which he made his profile photo at some point—kudos on that—and, a picture of a picture of himself.”

  “Let me see.”

  While traffic was light, I let her glance. Rudy leaned against a waist-high concrete wall. He’d crossed his arms over his chest, probably to show off his shoulders and biceps, since he had enough to go around. The photo had been of a group, but he’d cropped the left and right sides, leaving two phantom arms draped behind his neck. The hot pink tank he wore worked on less than 1 percent of the population; he was in the 1 percent. The very tips of his black hair were frosted white-white.

  “I think he was a soccer player,” I said, meaning to sound serious.

  “I think I’d check and see if Olympus reported one of their gods missing. Golden Jennings, you have done me a disservice. This boy is . . .” She whistled.

  “I know.”

  “Has Chan seen him? I mean, you’re not . . . This isn’t . . . ’Cause you’re wearing your ring . . . so I . . .”

  “Oh, stop. This isn’t a booty call.”

  “Well, not for you, but some of us are willing to swing that way for special occasions.”

  Becky’s fan-your-face reaction matched a memory from Down Yonder Bar. I had never been an insta-crush girl. I didn’t have movie boyfriends or guys on an “I’m allowed to cheat with him” list. Chan was enough. But something about Rudy waltzed into space that had always belonged to Chan. I couldn’t figure out the specifics, but I’d been very careful to keep mental distance between us. “Is it cheating to have wondered if you might want someone else?”

  “Not if it’s him,” she said in a way that made me know she absolutely did think it was cheating. She popped a chicken nugget in her mouth and chewed slowly. “Friend, you need to tell me everything you didn’t tell me in Alabama.”

  19. TALK ABOUT AMBIANCE.

  $55,912.00

  I told Becky a story, each scene a photo.

  The bar sat catty-cornered to our hostel and advertised half-priced appetizers. Our twenty-dollar-a-day food budget was pleased, and the atmo
sphere in Down Yonder was up, up, and away. Someone loaded the jukebox with peppy music, and after some quality “flirting” on Chandler’s part, the waitress said, “Table’s yours all night.” She brought him a beer on the house. I wished she would bring him more than one. He was in a ratty mood and had been since we landed at JFK. The airline lost his bag, and although they’d promised to deliver it to the hostel pronto, he was in a spiral. His bag was probably halfway around the world. His sketchbooks were lost forever.

  “Southwest doesn’t fly around the world,” I reminded him.

  Things devolved from there.

  He was “It’s the principle of the thing,” and I was, “I’m checking out the bathroom until you’re done sulking.” The bag loss sucked for sure, but tomorrow we’d be in Times Square and then MoMA. The day after, Ellis Island. We were taking Gran’s photo and no airline mishap could steal my joy.

  Down Yonder’s bathroom was on a sub-planet. Down the hall, down the steps, down another set of steps, down another hallway, through a curtain. Perhaps they’d named the bar after the bathroom’s location. They should put water stations at the midpoint. Or urinals. Or both. Which turned out to be a bad thing, as the unisex stalls required a token and were occupied. The first door opened. A couple stumbled out. They shut the door behind them before I could ask them to hold it open.

  “Count to thirty before you follow me,” the redhead said.

  They smelled like sex and french fry oil. Thirty seconds wouldn’t change their flushed faces or gloriously messy sex manes. I don’t remember their features very well, but she had on a black leather skirt I adored, and he had his hair partially hidden by a Waldo style cap. If Chan were in a better mood, we might have been them.

  As I was in no rush, I waited for the other stall, planning to shove a foot in the door before the occupant (or occupants) let it close. I heard the dryer and leaped to action. I wedged my body into the door as a guy stepped out.

  “I got in,” he said.

  “Actually, you’re getting out, and I’m getting in. Thank you kindly.”

  He held a phone in his hand, his face brighter than the LED screen. “No, I got in. Well, not in-in; they won’t let you sign until November of your senior year. But pretty much, per this email, I’m going to Emerson to play soccer.”

  I quickly grasped the gravity of the situation. “Oh. Oh! Congratulations. That’s in . . . Boston?”

  “Yeah. I can’t . . . I, man . . . what an unbelievable night. Kiss me. Then I’ll know if it’s real.”

  “Does that work?”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “That pickup line.”

  He gave me an incredulous little nod. “I wasn’t picking you up yet.”

  “You said kiss me.”

  “I said pinch me. Like, as in, am I dreaming?”

  We stared, each reexamining the exchange, and the hilarious improbability registered. He smiled. I laughed. We were half-in, half-out of the bathroom. Inches from each other and also inches from a urinal and a trail of wadded toilet paper. Talk about ambiance. We shifted, subtly, as we simultaneously stopped assessing the situation and started assessing each other. Who exactly were we pinching?

  I was not one of those girls who acted like I was completely unattractive. No, I wasn’t top model skinny, pretty, or posh, and that girl-next-door thing wasn’t me either. I understood what I had going for me. Lips. Eyebrows. Hair that looked good dirty. Once, I asked Chandler, “On a scale of Hermione in Harry Potter one to Hermione in Harry Potter seven-point-two, what would you give me?” He stroked the bones on my face, kissed my nose, and said, “You’re every scene where she dances.”

  Those were my favorite scenes, so an A++ answer from the boyfriend.

  I’d never had to chart the difference between attractive and attractive to Chan, but I very quickly found myself wondering how this Emerson stranger saw me. I would put him (based only on looks) out of my league. Well, maybe not, if I had on Redhead’s Wait thirty seconds leather skirt.

  “I’m Rudy.” He thrust his hand in my direction. “Washed it. I swear.”

  I pumped his hand twice. “Go.” And then, realizing that didn’t sound like a name, and added, “Golden.”

  “Go suits you.”

  “Bathroom joke?”

  “Well, yes, but no.” He leaned closer, nearly straddling me. The doorjamb dug through my shirt into my spine. I didn’t mind. “Remember a moment ago when I said pinch me and you heard kiss me, what if we went with your version? Ever kissed a stranger, Go?”

  “I’ve only ever kissed my boyfriend.”

  Mood killer. Thank God.

  Rudy pressed his shoulder blades against the other side of the jamb. A respectful foot of air molecules between us. His tongue traced his bottom lip, presumably as he figured out whether he should be embarrassed by my rejection or respect that I was steadfast. I tried not to watch and ogled a crappy piece of art in the hallway. My eyes came back to his.

  “Well,” he said. “If you ditch Boyfriend tomorrow and wanna see the city with a Florida boy headed to Emerson, I’ll be on Charter Bus Number Twenty-One. The curb outside the Green-Conwell. Nine a.m.” Then he tugged the red beanie off my head and started down the long tunnel.

  The half-lit hall. The curtain a portal. The boy going places. I was opening the camera, extending the billow, cranking the film, before I even registered the decision.

  “Bandit,” I called at his back, hoping he’d turn.

  He spun on his Chucks, and I was ready.

  Click.

  Full of mischief and maybe even disappointment, he said, “Obviously, a better bandit would steal the girl instead of the cap.” Then he laughed and launched the beanie at my chest.

  As I leaned out to catch the cap, the bathroom door locked behind me.

  20. WILDLY VULNERABLE WITH A STRANGER

  $58,912.00

  Orlando traffic sucked big hairy bull balls.

  We knew where we were going. A bar called Parkers on Highway 530. And we knew how to get there. Thank you, Waze. But we were stuck in that terrible time warp where the estimated time of arrival grew from a couple of minutes to twenty or thirty to how does it take fifty minutes to travel two miles?

  “We might die here,” Becky said.

  I didn’t disagree.

  We were close to Disney World. Even without the signs, there was no missing the happiest place on earth. Families on sidewalks. Families in minivans. Families riding our ass so closely they could get a drink out of our cooler.

  In my last Facebook exchange with Rudy—the one with I’m in Orlando, SURPRISE!—we made the arrangements, and these were the arrangements. Parkers. Highway 530. 7:45. Becky and I were frayed from driving and buzzing with adrenaline. She’d been behind the wheel the last six hours, so I didn’t bring up how close she cut her lane transitions and she didn’t mention the number of times my phone rang. Still no word from Chan.

  Parkers was on the right.

  An old blue Mustang—maybe as old as Dolly—idled near the back in what my uncle Ash called the “Murder Section.” None of the tires matched, and it had been wrecked in a way that had required the owner to scavenge a new, non-blue door. Rudy had said he’d be in an old ’Stang or a Pontiac GTO.

  “You think that’s him?”

  “I mean, it’s gotta be, right? Except . . .” I left my indecision hanging out there.

  She looped the bar. The blue Mustang was the only ’Stang. Plenty of beater cars that spoke to the company Parkers kept. No Pontiacs. I’m not sure why, but I expected his car to be newer. Becky stalled Dolly in the drive-by-alcohol lane. She stretched the seat belt and heaved as if the belt had been choking her all day. “Remind me again how well you know Hannibal over there?”

  “Would you prefer We met in a bar bathroom or We’re Facebook friends?”

  “I’d prefer you promise me we’re not about to get sliced and diced. Can you see inside that rust bucket?”

  There were no lights in
the back of Parkers. There was only shadows and cat piss.

  “Not from here.”

  This was where we decided if we drove eleven hours to pull into the space next to a fugly Mustang, roll down our windows, and get wildly vulnerable with a stranger, or if this is where we drove on to New York and wondered who was in that car.

  “Are we doing this?” I asked.

  “I have never felt like I was living in The Matrix more than right now.”

  Becky Cable was many things, but I was fairly sure her movie tastes were anything with a Saturday Night Live star and an occasional Avenger thrown in for sex appeal. “Have you even seen The Matrix?”

  “No, but I know all the gifs, and this a green pill–pink pill moment.”

  “Blue pill–red pill.”

  She pinched my thigh for correcting her. I pinched her back for never watching The Matrix. Although I wouldn’t have seen the film if Chan hadn’t wanted to re-create an action shot that he claimed was epic and I decided was a good way to die. Our knees were bruised for a solid week and the picture sucked.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s make this stranger-danger situation our bitch.”

  Becky swung Dolly one spot over from the Mustang and laid on the horn. Two heads snapped up from their reclined positions. Becky and I waved as the guys turned to check the disturbance. They waved back. Rudy Guthrie was in the passenger seat, and he was wearing my red beanie.

  Becky asked, “Did you know he was bringing a friend?”

  “No, but I didn’t tell him you were with me either.”

  “That’s definitely him.”

  “Definitely.”

  We rolled down the windows in unison. Florida air was dripping with humidity. Way too warm for the sweatshirt I’d been wearing all day. My heart slammed around like a rude houseguest and I leaned around Becky.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi,” Rudy said.

  A lump that must have been visible from space formed in my throat, a camel hump bulging in my neck. Becky’s mouth crept next to my cheek. She whispered in a very non-whispery voice, “And in the beginning, God created sex.”

 

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