I had two pair that I'd found at the Second Hand, and they looked nearly identical. Once I'd spilled something on them two days in a row, and because of work, I didn't have time to take them to the Laundromat. That was when Brian noticed, and I couldn't argue, because it was true.
"Erin," Sara whispered. She put her elbows on the table and leaned in. "I heard you got fired from the Dairy Queen for spitting in Sonny's ice cream. People are saying you have AIDS and were trying to give it to her out of spite."
"AIDS. That's a new one," I said, doodling in my notebook.
"So it's not true?"
"No."
"Which part?"
"All of it."
Sara seemed satisfied, so she returned her gaze to the teacher.
"Spring break is the week after next, people," Mrs. Merit said. "We have a mid-term test. I'll hand out the study guide a week from today. Look it over."
Mrs. Merit's study guides were the questions and answers, albeit worded slightly different, of the test, in order. Even though it was supposed to be an advanced class, studying consisted of memorization, so it didn't surprise me that Sara didn't know AIDS couldn't be transmitted through a little bit of spit. A percentage of the girls in our class hadn't even gotten to graduation before getting pregnant, so basic biological knowledge didn't seem to be a priority among these students. Or maybe there just wasn't enough to do besides stand around and drink at bonfire parties at the Diversion Dam or have sex.
Lunch came and went, then I had fifth period Health class--my least favorite--with the Erins. I had third period Calculus with Alder, but she didn't speak to me without her cohorts around. Brady was in fifth period, too, but he typically left me alone to pick on Annie Black, a sweet and incredibly smart junior with cerebral palsy. He did an Annie impression every time she passed him in the halls. Only a few people called him out on how disgusting he was. He was born into one of the most affluent families in Blackwell, and his parents were pillars of the community. His father had donated hundreds of thousands of dollars to the school, and his mother was a rather rabid bitch and shrieked to her good friend the superintendent whenever someone dared instruct her son on rules or common courtesy, so even the teachers tried to ignore his antics. Brady Beck had been caught vandalizing the school, drinking on school grounds, skipping class, and bullying dozens, but he never once sat through Detention. He was everything that was wrong with our little town.
I sat at my desk and waited. It was Friday, so Coach Morris didn't make us do much. He usually had us do a word find or let us read to ourselves. When we didn't have much work to do though, the Erins made themselves busy with me. It would be easy to ignore them if Weston didn't sit right behind me. But for whatever reason, when he was around, their jabs felt more humiliating.
"All right, hoodlums. Pull out a book and read. TGIF."
Ten minutes hadn't yet passed when I heard someone whisper my name--possibly my name. A few seconds later, it was louder, and I recognized the voice as Sonny's. She was trying to get my attention. I didn't dare turn around. Any hope of comprehending the words on the page in front of me was lost. I just stared at one word and hoped Sonny wouldn't catch the coach's attention.
Coach Morris perked up and nodded to the back of the class. "Yes?"
Sonny lowered her hand and sat tall in her seat with a smug expression. "I was just wondering what the school policy is on the AIDS virus."
"What do you mean?" Coach asked.
"If one of the students has tested positive for AIDS, what does the school do to protect the rest of the students?"
"Why do you ask?" The curious light in the coach's eyes had extinguished, and it was obvious that he knew Erin was up to something.
"I just heard today that one of our students has it, and everyone is nervous."
"Why?"
"Because it's contagious, and no one wants to die just because some skank wants to punish everyone else for her loose ways."
"Loose ways," Coach Morris deadpanned. "I can explain the school policy with you in detail after seventh period if you'd like."
"I have cheer," Erin said, annoyed that her plan didn't work. "I'm sure the entire class would feel better hearing what you have to say."
Coach sighed. "I think it's more likely that you're helping to spread a cruel rumor."
A collective tittering made its way through the classroom.
"That's offensive," Sonny said. "What are you again? A karmologist?"
Coach chuckled. "Kinesiologist."
"That's what I said. You'd think a graduate of health science would typically consider my concern valid."
Coach didn't hesitate. "Common sense disagrees. Read your book. No more talking."
His perceptive remark saved me from further ridicule for now, but the senior meeting after school was going to be considerably less fun.
"What are you reading?" A deep voice asked.
I barely acknowledged Weston's question, holding up the cover of my book high enough for him to see.
He nodded, waiting for me to speak. When I didn't, he offered a small smile, and sat back.
"What are you reading?" I asked.
Weston immediately leaned toward me, holding up his cover the way I had.
"Piers Anthony?"
Weston cleared his throat to stifle a cough then smiled. "I like his stuff."
I nodded. "I approve."
"Good," Weston whispered. "I was worried." After a short pause, he leaned into my ear again. "Why don't you ever talk to me in Art class?"
We had seventh period Art together, the class I looked forward to all day. Weston was in it, but more important, people like the Erins and Brady weren't. We were serious about our work, and it was the one place during the school day that I could be myself.
"I guess I was just busy."
"Are you going to be busy today?"
"Probably."
"Well, maybe I'll get lucky and you'll take a break."
I turned around to hide my grin, but not before glancing back and seeing the familiar look of hatred in Alder's eyes.
Whore, she mouthed, glaring at me.
*
After seventh period, I put my books in my locker and walked slowly to the east hall, the fifty-minute-long high I'd been on with Weston during Art quickly faded with each step. I dreaded seeing everyone's reaction when I walked through the door.
Brady and Brendan were sitting on top of desks, some students were looking at their phones, texting or checking social media, and the Erins were sitting at desks that were turned around to face everyone else. Mrs. Hunter, English IV teacher and senior class adviser, wasn't there yet. Shit.
"What are you doing here?" Alder said. I didn't answer, but that never deterred the Erins. "No one wants your opinion."
I took a seat in the back near the door and hoped Mrs. Hunter wouldn't be much longer.
Sonny feigned sympathy. "You can leave. No one gives a shit what you have to say, anyway."
"It's mandatory," I said simply. "I'm not leaving."
Sonny stood up. "You will if I make you."
"Sit down," I said.
Sonny's expression morphed from annoyance to shock to rage. "What did you say to me?"
I looked her straight in the eye. "I'm staying. Sit down."
Weston's gaze bounced from the Erins, to me, and back. Sonny took a step toward me, and Weston stood. By the look on his face, even he was surprised at his reaction.
Sonny looked at him with utter disgust. "What are you doing, Wes?"
Weston cocked his head for a moment. He took a breath and blinked a few times, clearly unhappy about being in the middle of things. "It's a mandatory meeting. No point in making her miserable over it. She probably doesn't want to be here."
"Weston!" Alder said, astonished.
Weston took a puff from his inhaler, staring his girlfriend in the eye. "Leave her alone."
Just as both Erins' mouths fell open, Mrs. Hunter breezed through the door and headed t
o the front of the class. "What did I miss?"
Weston sat down, and so did Sonny.
"Nothin," Sonny grumbled.
"Okay, let's get started," Mrs. Hunter said, winded. "Who wants to be in charge of the senior assembly?"
The relief that washed over me made me emotional, more than I'd been in quite a while, but I kept the tears inside, refusing to let my classmates see me cry. They would just have to be disappointed for the day.
Chapter Three
"Bitches!" Frankie said, as she watched soft serve feed out of the machine. "I can't believe she bowed up on you like that. What was she going to do? That's right! Nothing!"
"Are you even talking to me right now?" I asked, amused.
"I would love to talk to the twaterati about it. Love!"
I laughed once and shook my head, letting the mixer blades make love to the M&M Blizzard I was making. When Frankie trained me, she said it looked a lot like giving a guy a hand job. I wasn't exactly sure what that was like, but I would make someone very happy one day.
Frankie was ten customers deep when I finally arrived after the senior class meeting, and we hadn't had a break in four hours. Friday nights were always hectic, but that didn't stop Frankie from ranting about my confrontation with Sonny.
She put her hand on her hip, and all of her weight on one leg. "I am so proud of you. For real. I think it's the first time you've ever stood up for yourself, isn't it?"
"I don't know. It wasn't really standing up for myself. I just told her that I was staying."
"And to sit her bitch ass down." She wrinkled her nose. "That part's my favorite."
Just as the sun began to set, the pace eased up a bit. The last car left the parking lot, and I began scrubbing the huge mess we'd made when we didn't have time to clean up after ourselves--or be careful--before the next rush.
A truck pulled in quickly, and I knew instantly who it was. Weston Gates was the only person in town with a lift kit and Rock Star rims on a cherry red Chevy. He hopped down and jogged over to my window. He was sweaty, still in his baseball cleats, and alone.
"Hey."
"Hey," I said, glancing over to Frankie. "What can I get for you?"
Weston watched me for a moment.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
He blinked. "Yeah. Yeah," he said, shrugging. "Are you?"
I shrugged. "I'm fine. Can I make you something?"
"Just a . . . whatever."
I made him a Hawaiian Blizzard and he paid, still with that expectant look in his eyes. "I'm sorry. About today."
I shook my head dismissively.
"I should have said something sooner."
"Yeah, like ten years ago," Frankie shot back.
He nodded and then walked back to his truck, but he was hesitant, as if he were leaving something unsaid.
Frankie sighed. "I shouldn't have snapped at him. He seems like a good kid."
"He is," I said, unable to stop staring as Weston climbed up into the driver's seat and shut the door.
"That was . . . weird."
"Yeah, I wonder what that was about?" As I watched his truck pull onto Main Street, a wide grin stretched across my face.
"I think he likes you."
The smile vanished. "What about that bizarre exchange brought you to that conclusion?"
She shrugged. "I was in high school once."
Frankie and I finished up our shift, and then closed the shop. She offered me a ride and I refused then walked home. I kept mostly to the yards of the houses along the way, to keep from being mowed down by the traffic traveling toward Main Street. That was the main drag, and on Friday nights everyone congregated at the ball fields that were straight across from the Dairy Queen.
A block from my house, a familiar engine revved from the other side of the street. I looked over to see Weston's red Chevy. His window was rolled down, and the truck was crawling along next to me. He was alone again.
"Hey," he said, his elbow poking out as he rested it on the driver's side door.
I didn't respond.
He smiled. "What are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?" I said, trying not to smile the way I had after he'd left the DQ.
"It looks like you're walking home. Do you have plans tonight?"
I narrowed my eyes at him. He knew I didn't.
"Wanna hang out?" he asked.
"Aren't your friends at the ball fields?" I already knew the answer. They were there every Friday and Saturday night if there wasn't a party. What I really wanted to know was why he was driving next to me, instead of hanging with them.
"I told them I was tired and going home."
"But you're not?"
"Well . . . more like bored. But then I saw you . . ."
I looked down. "I'm not really dressed to hang out."
"You're talking to someone who loves ice cream. You think it offends me that you're covered in it?"
I laughed.
"C'mon!" he said with a smile that had been perfected by braces. He'd only gotten them off the summer before. "I'll beg if you want me to."
"You don't have to beg," I murmured.
"What?"
I chuckled. "Fine! Just . . . let me change first."
"Deal!"
I pointed at him. "Park right there. I'll be out in a second." We were still half a block from my house, and I didn't want the absurdly loud glass packs of Weston's Chevy to attract Gina's attention.
Trying not to rush, I walked to my house, up the two stairs to my porch, and pulled open the door. Out of habit, I listened for Soul Asylum, but no such luck. I pushed through the door, to see Gina sitting on the stained, gold velvet couch in the living room. A ripped-open case of Keystone Light was next to her feet on the floor. She didn't even look up.
I went straight to my room, dropped my backpack to the floor, pulled off my apron, the rest of my clothes, and re-dressed. Everything I wore to work inevitably smelled like grease, so it all had to come off. I put on a black T-shirt and a pair of heather gray cotton shorts, slipped on some flip flops and grabbed my purse. My second pair of jeans was on the floor spattered with chocolate syrup. It was the day before laundry day, so even though it was a little chilly, the shorts were the only thing I had clean.
I closed my door quietly and tried to rush past Gina, but she noticed me walk by and sat up.
"Where the hell you goin'?" she asked.
"Riding around. I'll be back in a little while."
She sat back against the couch cushions. "Bring me back some cigarettes."
I nodded and hurried out the door. She would be passed out before I got back and wouldn't remember that she asked me for anything. Unfortunately I'd only learned that after wasting over a hundred dollars of my own money buying her smokes to appease her.
I stopped in the yard, half expecting Weston's truck to be gone, but there it was, in the exact spot I told him to wait. His eyes lit up, and he waved. As I made my way to his truck, he leaned over and pulled the lever, pushing the door open.
"Climb in!" he said with a sweet grin.
He wasn't kidding. I had to use the door and climb up via the running boards to reach the passenger seat. I bounced into the black leather and shut the door.
"Wow," I said.
He shrugged. "Don't be too impressed. It was my dad's."
"Better than nothing," I teased.
"Where do you wanna go?" he asked.
I smiled. "Anywhere."
Weston sucked on the straw of his enormous cherry Icee, and we bounced over the potholes and patches of Blackwell's roads, listening to the Chance Anderson Band on full blast. Within five minutes, we were outside the city limits. Weston parked at the peak of an overpass that arched over I-35, and we watched the headlights of cars and semis flow beneath us, traveling north and south.
I pushed open the passenger door and walked over to the edge. The rural overpasses didn't have rails. It was just concrete up to your belly and common sense. A chilly breeze
kissed my face, so I turned around, not exactly surprised to see lightning crackling across the clouds gathering to the north.
"I love how the storms always suck the wind into them," I said.
Weston's door slammed shut, and he was standing next to me. He drank the last of his Icee, and the straw against the Styrofoam made a loud slurping sound. "I just love storms."
"So . . . are you going to tell me?" I asked.
Weston could barely pull his eyes away from the storm. "Tell you what?"
"Why you brought me out here?"
He shrugged. He was chewing on his straw, which I found oddly appealing. "Why not?"
"There are a hundred reasons why not. I was asking about the one reason why I'm here."
"Because I asked?"
I laughed once and looked down. "Okay. If that's the way you want to play this."
"I don't want to play this at all. I just want to sit up here and watch the storm roll in with you, without all the gossip of who's doing who, and where so-and-so is going to college. Is that okay?"
I nodded. "I can live with that."
Weston let the Chevy's tailgate down and climbed up, reaching for my hand. "Well? C'mon."
I let him help me to the bed of his truck and sat next to him, letting my legs dangle off the edge.
He nodded behind us. "I have stuff to drink in that cooler."
I shook my head. "I don't drink."
"No, like, Fanta Orange and stuff. I think I have a few Cherry Cokes and one Mountain Dew."
"How could I possibly choose? Those are all my favorites."
He smiled and reached back. "Mine, too. I'll just grab ya one." His hands fished around in the melted ice, and he pulled out a green can. "And the winner is . . . Mountain Dew. You must be lucky."
I popped the top. "Not so far. Thank you."
"Maybe that'll change. For both of us."
"You don't feel lucky?" I asked.
He thought about it for a moment. "You're the last person I should be talking to about my problems."
"Gee, thanks."
"I just mean that you'll think I'm being stupid. Because they're not even close to the kind of hell you go through."
I shrugged. "It's not that bad."
"If I had to endure that every day, I couldn't do it. You're pretty damn tough, Erin Easter."
He rested his arm on his knee and his chin on his fist as he stared at me. His jeans weren't pulled all the way down over his cowboy boots, and his hoodie was worn. Suddenly he didn't seem so out of reach.
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