by Tim Tharp
Now, I know better than to get the subject of marriage cranked up around a girl, but I’m ready to put as much distance as possible between us and the gasoline-huffing, dead-dad story, so I ask her to tell me all about this vision of marriage she has.
“Well, when I get married, we’ll live on a horse ranch.”
“Right. And you’ll work for NASA.”
“Right.” She smiles at how I remember that.
“Will the guy have to work for NASA too, like maybe as an astronaut or an accountant?”
“Oh God, no. We won’t have to have all the same interests. I don’t believe in that—the husband and wife having to be just alike. I think it’s better if they kind of offset each other. Like if they have these different dimensions they can bring to each other.”
“I like that idea. That’s cool.”
This potential husband dude—I don’t know—he seems about like a cross between Peter Parker from Spider-Man and Han Solo from Star Wars, with a little bit of one of those old, dead romantic poets thrown in for good measure.
The ranch is just as implausible, like some fantastic foreign-planet wonderland. Purple sunsets, bluebells, jonquils, Queen Anne’s lace, a crystal-clear stream winding through the valley, a big red silo the size of a rocket ship. And horses. Herds of them, red, black, silver, appaloosas, and paints, galloping everywhere—like horses never get tired.
It all sounds like something a nine-year-old would dream up, but what am I going to do, tell her it’s not feasible? Maybe say, “Look, there’s no such thing as flying saucers or Martians, or Santa Claus, and there’s no chance you’ll ever land a ranch or a husband like that”? I’m no dream crusher. The real world already does enough of that without me getting into the business.
Besides, it doesn’t matter if it’s real. It never does with dreams. They aren’t anything anyway but lifesavers to cling to so you don’t drown. Life is an ocean, and most everyone’s hanging on to some kind of dream to keep afloat. Me, I’m just dogpaddling on my own, but Aimee’s lifesaver’s a beauty. I love it. Anyone would if they could see the way her face beams as she clutches that thing with all her strength.
Chapter 40
Before we know it, Marvin’s is closing down. We score a couple of 7UPs for the road, and when we get to the car, she lets me doctor hers with whisky again. Neither one of us is really ready to head home, but there’s nowhere else to go on a weeknight. Plus, there’s a curfew for teenagers, if you’re the type that pays attention to that kind of thing.
So we end up parked in front of her house, talking and drinking. The lights inside are all off now. I tell the story of my parents’ divorce and the advent of Geech and how my sister got a boob job and snared Kevin-pronounced-Keevin. I’ve never seen anyone listen so hard. It’s like I’m pouring out some rare, expensive wine and she doesn’t want a drop to miss her cup.
Cassidy was never like that. She always listened with a wispy smile on her face and one eyebrow slightly raised as if she thought a punch line was somewhere right around the corner.
Finally, there’s a lull, which can always be dangerous when you’re talking to a girl.
“So,” Aimee says, a look on her face like she’s getting ready to jump off the high dive for the first time in her life. “Did you mean what you said when we were driving home from the party last week?”
Uh-oh.
“I don’t know,” I say. “We talked about a lot of things, and I was a little drunk. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure I remember everything I said.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Not everything. But I’m sure I meant whatever I said. I’m very honest when I’m drunk.”
She takes a sip of whisky. “Do you remember asking me to the prom?”
“Oh, that. Sure, I remember that. Are you kidding? I wouldn’t forget that.”
There’s a pause and then she’s like, “So, do you still want to go? I mean, I know we were drinking and everything, so if you don’t, I’ll understand.”
She can’t look at me. Her lifesaver’s drifted away, and she’s lost at sea on her own.
“No,” I say. “What are you talking about? Of course, I still want to. I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t want to.”
“Really?” When she looks up with that little smile, I have no regrets.
“Of course. Come here.” I cup my hand around the back of her neck and lean in for a kiss. I figure on just a short one—a peck to show her I mean business on this prom deal—but she’s ready for more.
I don’t know. It’s strange the way she feels in my arms. So trusting. Like she’s completely sure I have something important in me that she needs.
I take her glasses off and set them on the dashboard and the next thing I know my hands are under her sweater, gliding up her back. She sighs as I kiss her neck, and when I lick inside her ear, her whole body quivers.
She pulls back, and I fully expect her to tell me we’re moving too fast, but that isn’t it.
“Sutter…” She can’t look any higher than my chin.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. It’s just, I’m wondering, does this mean we’re, like, boyfriend and girlfriend?”
That one catches me off guard. “What do you think?” I ask to buy time. After all, this is exactly the kind of thing I’d pledged to avoid.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I’ve never had a boyfriend before.”
“Well, you do now.” The words march right off my tongue, as if I’d been planning to say them for a month, but what else can I do? The girl needs to hear that, and to tell the truth, it feels pretty good to say it.
“Really? You want me to be, like, your real girlfriend?”
I could make a joke about fake girlfriends, blow-up dolls with plastic hair and suck-me mouths, but this isn’t the time. “You got it. My one hundred percent authentic real girlfriend. If you want to.”
“Yes,” she says. “I do.” And her mouth locks back onto mine.
There’s no doubt that I could unsnap her jeans and go all the way with her right here and now, but that wouldn’t be right, not with Aimee.
Besides, when I go to change positions, I accidentally honk the horn, and about five seconds later a light flashes on in the house. Ten seconds after that, her mother’s standing on the front porch with her hands on her hips.
Aimee brushes back a loose strand of hair. She looks like a girl who just woke up from a beautiful dream. “Lunch tomorrow?” she says.
“I’ll be there.”
Chapter 41
You know what? I am there the next day. Right on time. And I’m right on time for our date Friday night too. And then for a movie Sunday afternoon. Of course, Ricky’s dumbstruck over this development. He’s like, “Dude, what are you doing? I told you this girl was going to fall for you. Don’t you have a spine? Couldn’t you just stand up to her and tell her you’re only her friend or benefactor or whatever it is you are?”
“Hey, did it ever cross your mind that I might actually be attracted to her?”
“No.”
“Well, you haven’t really looked at her. You have to talk to her for a while before you can really see her. She exudes purity of heart, dude. Besides, all I’m doing is providing her with some boyfriend experience. I mean, look, I give it a month tops before she gets tired of me and figures she’ll be a lot better off with some dude who plays first trombone in the stage band or something.”
“And what if she doesn’t get tired of you?”
“Hey, it’s me. Have you ever known a girl yet that didn’t get tired of dating me?”
He nods. “I have to admit you have a point there. And who knows, maybe she’ll be a good influence on you.”
“Yeah, right.”
I don’t know what Ricky’s complaining about anyway. It’s not like we’ve done much hanging out since he met Bethany. Except for the lame motel bash, he hasn’t partied with me a single time since then. Of course, I have my other b
uddies, and over the next couple of weeks I alternate—Fridays with Aimee and Saturdays getting festive with the likes of Cody Dennis and Brody Moore. I even go for another binge with Jeremy Holtz’s semi-thug crowd, but I have to exit stage left when they get the idea to burglarize an Episcopal church.
After that, I start to wonder why I didn’t just hang out with Aimee instead. I could even see myself hanging out with her both weekend nights on occasion. It’s very fun watching her learn how to be spontaneous. The fact is she has a lot more to her than science-fiction novels, NASA, and horse ranches. We actually have some things in common.
For one, we both like old music better than the crap they pass off on the radio today. I’m a huge Dean Martin fan, and Aimee loves the hippie music from the 1960s. She’s got the whole soundtrack to the movie Woodstock and everything. She sings me this sixties song called “Where Have All the Flowers Gone,” and I mean, sure, her voice is a little thin, but still, the girl closes her eyes and siphons it straight up from the left ventricle. You have to appreciate that. For about two and a half minutes, I actually feel like a complete hippie.
She’s different from the girls I’m used to dating. She doesn’t get tired of my stories and jokes or expect me to start reading her mind. She doesn’t want me to dress better or put highlights in my hair or serious up. I’m not a lifestyle accessory to her. I’m a necessity. I’m the guy that’s going to crack open her cocoon. She doesn’t need to change me—she needs me to change her. At least until her little butterfly wings get strong enough to fly away.
And who would’ve guessed this five-foot-three-inch, small, bespectacled chick can drink like she can. Turns out whisky isn’t really her thing, but she can put away the wine coolers. Then I take the initiative and buy her a bottle of Grey Goose citrus vodka and mix it with cranapple juice, and she’s like, “Wow, this is the greatest drink ever!”
It’s so funny—we’re at the grocery store one afternoon after putting away some pretty serious alcohol, and who do we run into but Krystal Krittenbrink. We’re in the junk food aisle, a canyon of Twinkies and coconut snowballs, and Krystal’s like, “So, Aimee, didn’t you see the sign on the door out front? You’re not supposed to bring pets into the store.”
Of course, she means me. It’s an old joke, and nothing I’m likely to even think twice about, but Aimee steps right up and goes, “Hey, Krystal, didn’t anybody ever tell you that if you eat another box of Ding Dongs, your big fat butt’s going to explode?”
Okay, so that’s not the most original thing in the world either, but still it’s pretty awesome considering Aimee’s track record with Krystal.
“Are you drunk?” Krystal asks after getting over the surprise of seeing meek little Aimee with a backbone.
“Yes, I am,” Aimee says proudly. “I am spectacularly drunk.”
Krystal stares me in the eye. “That’s just great. I hope you’re proud. If you keep at it, maybe you can change her into as big an idiot as you are.”
She wheels around and stomps off, and Aimee starts laughing. “Look at that big old butt shake. I’ll bet it could hit about a seven-point-eight on the Richter scale. Probably a nine on the modified Mercalli intensity scale.”
She grabs my arm and leans into my side and just about folds in two from laughing. I laugh along with her, but the truth is I can’t help feeling a touch sorry for Krystal. Nobody likes seeing someone lose a friend. She’s wrong about me trying to change Aimee, though. If I was trying to change her, I’d talk her into trading in her glasses for a set of contacts or tell her to stop wearing those T-shirts with the horse faces on front.
For sure, I’ve never forced her to get drunk. Can I help it if she happens to like it? I mean, what’s not to like?
Chapter 42
Now just because I’m doing the dating thing with Aimee doesn’t mean I can’t hang out with other girls. You can always see me in the hall between classes talking to Angela Diaz or Mandy Stansberry or someone like that. And of course, there’s the usual mobster routine and fun and games with Shawnie. Nothing wrong with that. We’re buddies.
Aimee’s cool with it, but I’m not sure she’d be so cool with me having drinks with Cassidy on Thursday afternoons like we’ve been doing. There’s no fooling around going on, but I have to admit we do have a more complicated connection than I have with those other girls. The old feelings for each other are still right there beneath the surface.
Since all we’re doing is sitting around talking, you might think I should go ahead and tell Aimee about it, but I figure her confidence isn’t up to that just yet. No use getting things stirred up for nothing. I assume Cassidy hasn’t told Marcus either, but I guess with girls you should never rely too much on assuming.
One Friday afternoon after my last class, I’m just escaping out the front door when Derrick Ransom calls my name.
“Sutter. Hey, Sutter, Marcus is looking for you, man.”
“Marcus? What for?”
“I’ll let him tell you that.”
I don’t like the look on Derrick’s face. He seems a little bit too happy in a malicious kind of way.
“Well,” I say as I head toward the parking lot, “he’ll probably have a hard time finding me.”
“Why’s that?”
“I left for Lichtenstein yesterday.”
Now, I’m not usually one to dwell on the potential for evil to come swooping down on me with its dark, crooked talons, but later that evening at work, I can’t help thinking about what Marcus has in mind. Did he somehow happen to find out about my Thursday afternoon drinks with Cassidy? Or worse, did Cassidy have a brain malfunction and tell him about that time we made out and almost had sex? Neither option bodes well for the Sutterman.
I’ve seen what happens when jealousy poisons the bloodstream. Denver Quigley comes to mind. All he has to do is see some dude talking to Alisa Norman and he’s ready to kick ass. Before Alisa, when we were juniors, he practically murdered Curtis Fields for cruising Twelfth Street with Dawn Wamsley. Quigley hadn’t even been dating Dawn for a week. I mean, this girl discarded guys like used tampons. Still, there’s Quigley going all silverback gorilla on someone he used to be friends with.
As I fold shirts, I try running a movie through my head starring me as Sutter “Wild Man” Keely, World Kickboxing Champion. There I am dancing and dodging, moving with cheetah-like swiftness, laying Marcus out with one brutal, whirling kick to the chin—keeeraaaack!
But it doesn’t help much. I’ve never taken a kickboxing lesson in my life, and anyway, Marcus is so tall I’d probably strain my entire groin trying to kick him anywhere higher than his belt buckle.
It’s enough to depress even me, and I used to never get depressed. That was something I was always proud of. I wore it like the Congressional Medal of Honor. But lately—I don’t know—it’s weird—sometimes there’s this black crack running down through my stomach, the same one as that time when Cassidy told me what she wanted me to do for her, and I didn’t pay attention. Only now, it’s more like I was daydreaming when the Supreme Being told me what I should do with my life, and it’s too late to ask what it was.
Occasionally, the bell over the front door jangles, and I can’t help but whip my head around to see if it’s doom walking in. After about the third time, Bob asks me if I’m expecting someone, so I come clean and explain the situation.
“So am I a bad guy for wanting to hang with my ex-girlfriend?” I ask him. “Is that something I should get a fist in the eye for?”
Bob ponders that for a second. You have to love him. He treats you like your life means something, like you’re worth straining the vein in his forehead over.
“No,” he says. “You’re not a bad guy, Sutter. You’re a good guy. You just don’t have a real firm grasp on the concept of consequences.”
I have to admit he’s right. But I’ve always worn that like the Congressional Medal of Honor too.
After seven-thirty, the bell over the front door pretty much stops jangling—
it’s another slow night—but a little before closing time, a car pulls into the parking lot. The headlights shut off, but no one gets out. If it’s Marcus’s Taurus, I can’t tell from here.
At eight we lock the doors and shut off most of the lights. The car’s still out there. Usually, I go ahead and leave while Bob stays behind to do the paperwork, but tonight I’m in no hurry.
Bob’s like, “I’ll walk out there with you if you want,” but that seems way too grade school. It wouldn’t be so bad, though, if maybe he’d just watch from the window so he could break things up before Marcus starts swinging those long arms around.
“All right,” he says. “Give me a low wave if you want me out there. Flash me a high one if everything’s all right.”
Chapter 43
Nothing happens till I’m almost to my car, and then there he is—Marcus unfolding himself from the Taurus. “Hey, Sutter, man, I need to have a word with you.”
“Uh, sure, if it doesn’t take too long. I’m supposed to be at a big police banquet in about thirty seconds. They’ll probably send a car by for me if I’m late.”
No smile.
I lean casually against the side of my car, trying to ease some relaxation into the moment. He doesn’t follow my example and instead stops right in front of me, an uncomfortable couple of inches inside my personal space.
“What’s going on with you and Cassidy?” No beating around the bush for Marcus.
“What do you mean?” I’m thinking, Damn, Cassidy and I didn’t even wind up having sex and I’m still in trouble.
“I heard you been seeing her on Thursday afternoons behind my back.”
Questioning his source doesn’t seem like such a good tactic at the moment, so I’m like, “Yeah, we hang out some. We’re friendly, you know?”
