Bouncing

by Jaime Maddox

  “Tam, I need you to move,” Kim said. “My arm’s falling asleep.”

  “What? I thought you were strong.”

  “I am. You’re just…”

  “What? What? Were you going to say I’m fat?”

  Alex stared, disbelieving, as the scene unfolded before her. With the fluid motion of a seasoned wrestler, Tam pushed Kim onto her back on the sand and twisted her own body to a position atop her. Kim didn’t fight. Alex saw their eyes lock, and they stared at each other in the moonlight, seeming to forget the company that shared this section of beach. Then their lips met in a tender kiss.

  It was an unexpected turn of events, not at all unpleasant, but Brit momentarily forgot her manners as she stared for a moment. Then she turned away, once again seeking the comfort of the ocean.

  Alex’s voice barely registered. “It’s about time,” she said.

  Brit heard Alex move beside her and looked to find Alex’s outstretched hand beckoning her. “Let’s go, Brit. We’ll give these two a bit of privacy.”

  Britain accepted the proffered hand and grabbed her sandals. She was effortlessly pulled to her feet, delighted that for a few seconds Alex didn’t release her hand. But then she did, and they began to walk back toward civilization.

  The steady rhythm of their tandem steps was comforting. It had been a whirlwind of an evening, and Brit was still spinning. She’d reconnected with Sally. She’d gotten a job as a basketball coach. She was walking on the beach with the most attractive woman she’d ever met, who just happened to surround herself with lesbians.

  “Sorry about that,” Alex said after a few minutes.

  Brit was genuinely surprised. She was anything but sorry about the way her evening had unfolded. “About what?”

  “About the PDA.”

  Brit laughed and searched her mind for an appropriate rejoinder, something that would ease Alex’s concerns and perhaps indicate that her own desires ran in a similar vein. Amazingly, after just one evening, Brit felt comfortable enough with Alex to reveal something people she’d known her whole life didn’t know. “It’s not quite as exciting as kissing a girl yourself, but watching two girls kiss isn’t bad.”

  Alex threw her head back in laughter and made her own confession. “I wholeheartedly agree.”

  “What just happened?” Brit asked after a moment.

  Alex explained.

  “You mean they’re not a couple?” Brit asked when she heard the story.

  “Well,” Alex said as she shrugged. “By now they might be.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed. They seem so sure of each other, so in love.”

  “Well, there you go. You’ve known them for an hour and you see it. I see it. Everyone but those two has known it all along.”

  Alex stopped walking, and talking, too. They’d reached the boardwalk, and it suddenly occurred to her that they had no plan, no destination in mind. It was after midnight yet she didn’t feel a bit tired. In fact, the opposite was true. The new friendship forming between them had energized her, and she could have gone on talking to Brit all night. She didn’t want their time together to end.

  Taking the lead, Alex turned to Britain and raised an eyebrow. “Where to, Coach Dodge?” she asked softly, inviting Britain to dictate the night’s direction.

  Laughing at her new title, Brit bent to put her shoes back on, but before she could respond, a hand grabbed Alex’s forearm and spun her around. Anke stood before them with a snarl on her face and fire in her eyes. Alex was stunned.

  “You kick me out of your bed zis morning, and already you have somevon new zis night?”

  Brit stared at Anke and stepped back.

  “What are you doing here, Anke?” Alex couldn’t disguise the surprise in her voice. “I thought you were leaving!”

  “Obviously!” she hissed. “How long has zis bin goink on?” she demanded, nodding in Britain’s direction.

  “Anke, nothing’s going on!” Alex said.

  Brit looked scared as she started backing away. Alex wanted to tell her to stop, to wait, but before she could say anything, Anke began screaming.

  “You are a whore!” Anke shouted as she raised her hand and tried to slap Alex. Only Alex’s quick reflexes allowed her to block the blow. She held on to the arm that had tried to strike her, and Anke began wrestling to free it.

  “Let me go! You’re hurtink me!”

  Stunned, Alex released her grip but stepped back, out of Anke’s reach, and Anke abruptly turned and began marching down the boardwalk. “Anke, wait! Wait! Let me explain!” she shouted at her back.

  Totally off balance, Alex turned to Brit, who’d already distanced herself by a few feet. “I’m so sorry, Brit. I have to go talk to her. I’ll see you at school.” Without waiting for Britain’s reply, Alex turned and began running after Anke. She didn’t owe Anke anything, not even an explanation, but she felt she needed to give her one anyway. Even though they’d agreed they could date other people, it was important for Alex to let her know she hadn’t.

  Wearing loafers, it didn’t take Alex long to catch Anke, who was wearing slip-on backless sandals. Beside her, she slowed her stride and raised her arm to Anke’s shoulder. Anke shrugged it off and kept walking. Alex tried again. “Anke, she’s my new assistant coach! I just met her tonight!”

  Anke stopped and turned to face Alex. “You jus meet her? She’s your assistan and you take her for moonlight walk on the beach? You zink I’m stupit?”

  “Yes! No!” Alex stammered. Flustered, she ran a hand through her hair. She felt like a rug had been pulled out from beneath her and she was lying stunned on the hard floor, looking up in confusion.

  Although what she told Anke about Britain was true, Alex somehow felt she was lying. It seemed as if she’d always known Brit and felt like she always wanted to. When she was walking with Brit on the beach, Alex wasn’t sure where their night was heading—and she didn’t care, as long as Britain continued to talk to her, and laugh with her, and make her feel lighter than air. But, now Britain was gone and probably thought her a total ass. A whore, as Anke had so eloquently described her.

  Alex was left alone and disoriented, forced to deal with an irate former lover whom she had no desire to talk to. She sighed in frustration.

  Seeming to sense Alex’s emotions, Anke softened her posture and her tone. Motioning to a bench on the boardwalk looking out at the Atlantic, Anke sighed as well. “You vant to go sit and talk?”

  Alex nodded, but before she moved she glanced down the boardwalk to where Britain had stood just a minute before. Of course, she was gone. Resigned, Alex walked beside Miss Bavaria, the envy of every unattached lesbian in the world, feeling anything but enviable.

  *

  Standing on her deck, Britain studied the moonlight reflecting off the white tips of the waves that crashed on the shore before her. The moon was still bright, but the sandy beach no longer beckoned her. She was close enough to hear the sounds of the ocean, yet so very far away that she heard nothing at all.

  The roads were virtually deserted at this late hour, and it had taken her less than forty minutes to find her car and navigate it back to Bethany Beach. Yet she felt like years had passed since that moment on the boardwalk when Anke had appeared. It surely had been a lifetime ago that she began pedaling her bike into the sunrise and met Sal on Penny Lane. Too much had happened in that span for it to have only been one single day.

  Britain’s head was spinning. Spending the evening with those women, dining together and sharing stories, she’d felt more comfortable than she’d ever felt in her life. More than with her closest friends, from whom she’d been hiding her sexuality. Certainly more so than with her family.

  Alex had seemed to be not only an ally who would help show her the ropes at school, but perhaps also a friend. Perhaps much more than that. Brit had felt an attraction to Alex she’d never felt before, and she knew Alex had felt something, too. Alex had been flirting with her from the first, and Brit had flirted right
back. It had been wonderful.

  Then the magic carpet they’d been riding had come crashing down. The wind had been knocked out of her, and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath.

  Brit stood there watching the waves but seeing Alex’s face, misery squeezing her heart with the thought that Alex was already attached. And why shouldn’t she be? With all her assets—the looks, the brains, the wit—she was every woman’s fantasy. Even more disturbing to Brit was her own poor judgment, for she hadn’t seen the crash coming. She was normally cautious, especially with her heart. She should have known Alex had a girlfriend. She should have asked.

  What a fool she’d been to think a woman as attractive as Alex would be interested in her. She wasn’t interested in anything but a fun night. Alex had been playing with her. Where to, Coach Dodge? had clearly been an invitation, and if Anke hadn’t showed up when she did, Brit just might have accepted it.

  How could she have been so stupid?

  Brit sighed. She had a tough decision to make. Could she really coach beside Alex, knowing how expertly Alex had played her? Could she sit beside her on the bench for an entire season and still keep Alex at a safe distance from her heart? Remembering the attraction she’d felt, Brit wasn’t sure she could.

  Chapter Ten

  The Cowboy and the Rustler

  Two hundred miles to the north, the same stars lit a clear sky in the Pocono Mountains. Keeping to the shadows, P.J. parked his bike next to the back porch off his grandfather’s kitchen. It had been a bitch of a ride over four miles of dark, hilly roads, but the ride home would be mostly downhill. And his pockets would be holding just a few more of the dollars he needed so much more than his grandfather did.

  How did he ever get messed up in this gambling business? It had started so innocuously, taking bets at the bakery. Customers came in, handed him their slips of paper with a ten or a twenty, or, occasionally, a hundred-dollar bill. Then he’d begun wagering himself, only a few dollars at first, usually on his favorite teams, like the Phillies and the Eagles. As time went on his bets grew, until he was borrowing money from the cash register at the bakery and his grandfather’s cereal box. Sometimes he won, most times he didn’t. Then there were times like this, when he lost really big.

  One of the long shots whose bet he’d pocketed had actually won. Some fucker named Liam Walsh had bet a hundred bucks that he could pick the winners of ten college football games. Against the odds, he’d done it. He had a thousand-dollar payoff coming, and not only did P.J. lose the hundred-dollar bet he’d placed with Liam’s money, but he also had to pay Liam from his own pocket. Hence this middle-of-the-night trek to his grandfather’s house.

  What a difference those four miles made in the landscape of the neighborhoods, P.J. observed as he hugged the house, careful to stay hidden away from the eyes of the neighbors who’d been watching out for each other during all the years of their long lifetimes. Only a dozen yards separated the lovely old homes on this street, the trees the occasional sentinel standing watch over an expansive front lawn. In his new, modern neighborhood, his house was surrounded by trees, built into a small clearing in an old forest, just like the other twenty houses in the development, and the only evidence it existed from the vantage point of the road was the mailbox posted at the entrance of a narrow swath of driveway. As he skulked through the night, he enjoyed a sliver of satisfaction knowing that if he ever had to rob his own house, he could do the job with considerable more ease than this one.

  Inside the kitchen door, he turned on the flashlight he wore on the band around his head. Its narrow beam of light pointed directly at its target, and he walked purposefully toward the cupboard and the Cheerios box within. Just as he had on a half-dozen prior occasions, he opened the door and the box and felt within his fingers the refreshingly cool texture of the money he so desperately needed. And as he had on prior occasions, he didn’t bother to count. He just closed his fist around the money and pulled it from the box. This time, though, something different happened. He was shot in the eyes by the bright waves of light that suddenly flooded the kitchen.

  Startled, P.J jumped back and turned his head. If he hadn’t been so tempted to cry, he might have laughed at the sight before him. His eighty-year-old grandfather, dressed in a cowboy hat and Western shirt, was pointing a very long gun at him. His feet were covered by embroidered cowboy boots and propped up on a chair, and the gun rested in his lap. The scene reminded him of a cowboy movie, but the gun was real, and probably loaded. His grandfather kept it for protection against intruders. Like him.

  But P.J. wasn’t really an intruder. He was his grandson. Thinking fast, P.J. attempted to humor him. “What’s goin’ on, Papa? Do you think you’re starring in a Western?”

  Playing the part, his grandfather snorted and turned his head so that only one angry eye met his. “Some rustlers have been movin’ through these parts, makin’ off with my money.”

  P.J. was shocked. His grandfather could barely see, as evidenced by the patches of facial hair that went untouched by his razor and the spots of food P.J. had to wash from the clean dishes left in the sink to dry. How in the hell could he count money? Why would he think to do it? P.J. had been very careful.

  As if reading his mind, his grandfather elaborated. “I’ve been saving my money since I was your age, P.J., and countin’ it is one of my few pleasures. A few months ago I noticed two hundred dollars missing, and since then I’ve been tracking you and studying your methods. I’ve made it hard for you by putting that television in here and staying in the kitchen during the day, so I figured you’d have to plan a covert night mission. Since I can’t see too well at night, no one can blame me if I drill you full of holes.”

  “Papa! You can’t shoot me! I’m your grandson.”

  “And a lousy excuse for one, if you ask me. If you’re startin’ a life of crime at your age, there’s goin’ to be a jail cell in your future. I should do you and the world a favor by puttin’ ya down right now.”

  “Papa, please!” P.J. looked around nervously, searching for an avenue of escape. The front door and all the windows would only take him closer to his deranged grandfather, and a run toward the back door through which he’d entered would equally expose him. For the moment, staying put and outsmarting him seemed the best option.

  “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t pop ya full of lead!”

  P.J. shouted the first thing that came to mind. “Mom and Dad would be devastated!”

  Rheumy eyes hooded by bushy, furrowed brows studied his for a moment, and then he nodded and motioned to the table. “Sit down and tell me what’s goin’ on. Why does a spoiled rotten kid have to steal?”

  Now P.J. was pissed. He didn’t even try to keep his voice low. No one else was in the old house, and now that he was inside, the thick walls and windows would filter his voice from the neighbors’ ears. “Spoiled? Are you kidding me? I guess you haven’t noticed, but I haven’t been spoiled in a long time, Pop. I have a job while my friends are out playing sports. I don’t ski anymore, because the lift tickets are too expensive. There’s no Hummer parked in my driveway, and we haven’t had a family vacation in three years. My friends went to Colorado for the summer, and I’m selling friggin’ donuts to buy school clothes!”

  Those old eyes hadn’t moved, and apparently his grandfather hadn’t been either. His tale of woe didn’t arouse any sympathy. “What I’m hearin’ isn’t so much about you, P.J., as it is about your friends. It’s not your concern what they’re doin’. You have to worry about what you’re doin’, and where you’re goin’. Yes, your parents made you get a job—to teach you responsibility. And if they weren’t responsible, if they hadn’t saved their money and managed it all these years, they would have lost that big house you live in. The bank would have snatched it faster than you can blink an eye.

  “But you still have a house, and clothes on your back, and food in your belly. And you have one more, important thing—a future. You have a chance to make whatever you wan
t out of your life. Your parents have worked hard to give you that, and it’s the most important gift anyone can have. Opportunity. Why the hell are you screwin’ it up by stealin’ my money? What if I call the police? You goin’ to get into college with a police record? Or do you wanna make a career in the donut business?”

  P.J. knew his grandfather wouldn’t understand if he told him, and he couldn’t help him in any way other than financially. He was frail, old, and apparently crazy, with cowboy fantasies. But maybe, just this once, he could help. And then P.J. would get it together. He’d straighten out. His grandfather was right. He did have a future, if he chose not to fuck it up. “It’s a girl, Papa. I needed money for an abortion, and I borrowed it, and now I have to pay it back, with interest.”

  Using the gun for support, his grandfather stood. “Put your hands in the air!” he commanded, and for the first time, P.J. realized he was still holding the money he’d intended to steal.

  “Leave my money on the table,” his grandfather ordered him.

  He nodded toward the door. “Walk!”

  At the door, P.J. hesitated.

  “Open it!” his grandfather ordered him again.

  P.J. turned, his hands still raised above his head. “Please, Papa. I’m gonna get hurt if I don’t have that money!”

  “You weren’t raised to steal or to kill babies, kid. If you figured out how to do all that, you can figure a way out of this mess. And one more thing, in case you’re thinking of addin’ murder to your resume—I talked to my lawyer and told him you were stealin’ from me. He recommended I turn you over to the police to teach you a lesson. He’s probably right. But I’m not goin’ to. I don’t ever wanna see your face again, though. And if anything funny happens to me, you’ll be the first one they look for. Now, get outta my sight!”

  On the porch, P.J. sat and buried his head in his hands. What the fuck was he going to do now? If he didn’t have a thousand dollars in the morning, he’d have a few broken ribs instead. Running his fingers through his hair, long overdue for a trim, he pondered his options. Rationalizing with The Man wasn’t an option. P.J. had seen people attempt that approach and fail miserably. His parents would probably react much the same way as his grandfather had, or perhaps they’d do something even more drastic, like try to speak to The Man themselves. No, he couldn’t go to them with this problem.