Between (32 page)

Richie must understand the predicament. The Mustang was my seventeenth birthday present. I didn’t even have my driver’s license yet—just my permit—but my father had it waiting in the driveway on the morning of my birthday, a huge red ribbon tied around the body. I’ve only owned it for a few weeks. Technically, according to Connecticut law, I’m still not supposed to drive with passengers, even though my friends and I do it all the time. My dad trusts me; he expects me to be safe. He’d go berserk if he knew I already smashed the car.

“Wait a minute,” Josie says, standing up. She goes to the cupboard in the far corner of the kitchen, peers into it for a few seconds, and emerges holding a giant blueberry muffin in plastic wrap. “Here,” she says, holding it toward me.

I make a disgusted face. “Ew. You expect me to eat that?”

Muffins
, I think, as I’m watching the two of us,
are notorious for their high fat and calorie content. It’s smart to avoid them.

Josie rolls her eyes. She shoves the muffin into my hand. “Obviously not,” she says. “It’s for
Richie
.”

“Oh.” I stare at it. “Okay. Thanks.”

On my way out the door, I glance over my shoulder to see Josie still in the kitchen. She’s slumped in her chair again, eating peanut butter straight from the jar with a spoon.

“Boys don’t make passes at girls with big asses!” I shout. I remember I used to tell her that all the time.

“Screw you, Barbie!” she shouts back.

I must know Richie’s parents aren’t home, even though it’s the weekend, so I don’t bother knocking on his front door. He’s still in bed. I take a minute to stare at him, peacefully asleep, hair messy and face shiny with oil, hands pressed together in an almost prayerful gesture between his cheek and the pillow. I love him so much that, even as a ghost, it sometimes still hurts me inside. Watching myself as I watch Richie, I want to crawl into bed with him and stay there forever, wrap my arms around his warm sleeping body for a hundred years, until everything occurring in the time surrounding us has slipped into distant memory.

Instead, the alive me slips off my heels and tiptoes to his side. I brush the hair from his forehead, and when my fingertips touch him, his eyelids flutter open.

“Hey, beautiful.” He yawns. “It’s morning already?”

“Mm-hmm. We have to go.”

He gets up, plucks a pair of wrinkled jeans from his bedroom floor, and pulls them on. A T-shirt, a sweatshirt, a quick run of his hand through his hair, and he’s ready.

“What’s that?” he asks, nodding at the muffin, which is still in my hand.

“Oh, right.” I toss it to him. He catches it with one hand. “For you. Breakfast.”

He grins at me. “You’re so thoughtful. You take good care of me.” He puts the muffin on his nightstand. “I’m not hungry yet; I’ll eat it later. You want to get going?”

I wrinkle my nose at him. “Aren’t you even going to brush your teeth?”

He shrugs. “You got any gum?”

“We’re a terrible match, you know.” But I dig through my purse, toss him a stick of spearmint gum.

“You ought to dump me then,” he says, chewing. “Go out with a polo player.” He blows a bubble. “You’d have fun with a guy like that. You could go shopping together, get facials, manicures …”

“I already have enough girlfriends. Besides, your good looks make up for your lack of grooming.” I kiss the tip of his shiny nose. “Love you.”

Richie sighs. “I know. I’m irresistible. It’s a curse … and a blessing.”

As we’re walking out the door, I stop. “Wait a minute. Deodorant?”

“I thought I’d let you fully enjoy the allure of my natural pheromones.”

I frown. “Richie. Please. For me?”

He laughs. “Wait till you see who’s going to fix your car. Then you can lecture me about personal hygiene.”

I drive the Mustang to the garage, following Richie as he leads the way in his car. On the outskirts of Groton, in a section of town I know I normally wouldn’t have been caught dead in, there’s an auto body shop called Fender Benders. The place seems empty at first; it’s nothing more than a huge cinderblock building with a bunch of garage doors, tools lining three of the four walls, and a few glaring fluorescent lights overhead. A radio in the corner of the room plays a fuzzy broadcast of the news from NPR. The whole room reeks of smoke, and there’s a lit cigarette burning in an unmanned ashtray beside the radio. A fat, drooling bulldog who obviously needs a bath is chained to a support beam in the center of the room. There aren’t any people around, let alone cars.

My heels click against the cement floor, creating an eerie echo. “Richie.” I giggle, clearly nervous. “Where the hell did you bring me? This is like a circle of hell.”

“It’s my family’s business. But thanks, sweetie. Appreciate the compliment.”

I turn around to see a tall, chubby man standing in coveralls and work boots. His hands are filthy, several of his fingernails bruised black. A pair of safety goggles is perched atop his very greasy dark hair. An unlit cigarette is tucked behind his right ear; a lit cigarette dangles from his lips, and I can’t even imagine who the one burning in the ashtray might be for. His name—VINCE—is embroidered on his coveralls.

Standing beside Richie, alive, it is impossible for me to hide my disgust. And I don’t blame myself—Vince isn’t a man; he’s a
specimen.
I take a step closer to Richie, hooking my arm tightly around his waist, and pinch his side. He winces; I must have pinched him hard, to make sure he knows I’m not happy.

I stand on my tiptoes and press my mouth to Richie’s ear. “I want to leave,” I whisper. It’s clear I don’t care that Vince can see everything I’m doing, and that he might even be able to hear me.

“You want your car fixed or not, Liz?” Richie murmurs. “Calm down. Be cool.”

“What’s the matter, sweetie?” Vince keeps the cigarette between his lips while he talks, exhaling through his nose. “You ain’t used to hanging out in this neighborhood?”

The dog sits up like it’s been startled and barks loudly. It rushes toward us, but gets yanked back by the chain. It stands on its hind legs, panting, drool hanging in thick foamy strands from its black gums. Watching the scene play out, I almost gag. I’m surprised to realize that I wish Alex were with me. His presence would be comforting—or at the very least, distracting—right now.

“That’s just Rocky,” Vince says, grinning at my apparent disgust. “He’s a good dog, ain’tcha, Rocky?” To Richie, he says, “This is really your girlfriend?”

Richie shoves his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, she’s really my girlfriend.” He flashes an apologetic smile. Watching myself, observing my dull expression, I can guess what I’m thinking: I always knew that Richie’s extracurricular activities meant he spent time around some unseemly people, but I never imagined anything like this. I’m probably going to take a shower as soon as I get home, trying to wash the stench of the place away.

“Well. Let’s take a look at this car. You need it fixed quick, right?”

“I need it fixed, like, yesterday,” I clarify. “It was a birthday present. I hit a parking meter. There’s just a tiny dent in the front fender, so I’m sure it will be easy to repair.” I look around the empty garage. “You don’t seem all that busy.”

“Huh.” Vince narrows his eyes at me. “What’s the matter? Don’t want Daddy to find out you wrecked the car? Afraid he’ll take away your platinum card for the weekend?”

I glare right back at him. “I go to high school. I need a mode of transportation.”

Vince licks his lips, slowly, and curls his mouth into a sick-looking grin. “Can’t you just ride your broomstick?”

We leave my car with Vince and his promise that it’ll be done within twenty-four hours. Once Richie and I are in his car, he sits quietly for a minute, his eyes closed. The stereo plays “Scarborough Fair” by Simon and Garfunkel, which is Richie’s favorite band. The CD is part of a mix that I made him a few months ago. Small details like these, which materialize in my mind seemingly out of nowhere, always bring pangs of sadness that border on desperation. If only I had known how little time we had left together. Things would have been different, I’m certain of that. I would have held his hand more tightly. I would have listened more closely to the song lyrics; I would have tried to appreciate their meaning and significance. After this track, I know there’s a Radiohead cover of Carly Simon’s “Nobody Does it Better,” which is our song. Every word of it is honest-to-goodness truth between us; I understand that now. But back then, I was so distracted—because of what? My car? My preoccupation seems so painfully absurd.

“What’s the matter?” I ask him, digging through my purse, emerging with a tiny bottle of hand sanitizer. “You’re so quiet.”

“Liz.” He stares ahead at the Fender Benders parking lot, where Vince is leisurely strolling around my car, taking a good long look at the very minimal damage. “You didn’t have to be so rude. You were being a prissy bitch.”

“Don’t call me a bitch. You didn’t tell me we were going to the asshole of the universe.” I offer him some hand sanitizer. When he declines, I grab his hand and squeeze some of the clear goo into his palm. “Now rub your hands together,” I order him. “Richie, I can’t believe you actually do business with that guy. He’s trash.”

“Then why didn’t you just tell your dad about the car? So what if he was upset. What’s the worst that could have happened? You get grounded for a few weeks? Besides, you hit a parking meter. It isn’t a big deal.”

I notice that my hands are shaking slightly. “I don’t want to have to deal with my father. You know he spent a lot of money on the car. He would have insisted we file a claim. This is way less trouble, trust me.”

Richie shrugs. “Whatever. I’m just saying, you could have at least been polite to the guy. He’s doing you a huge favor, and you treated him like dirt.”

“I treated him like dirt because he’s dirty!”

“He’s a
human being
, Liz.”

I cross my arms. “Take me home.”

We drive back to Noank in silence. But once we reach our street, Richie pulls his car into his driveway, shuts off the engine, and reaches over to touch my cheek.

“You were right,” he says. “We are a terrible match.”

I frown, but there is a hint of a smile on my face, in my eyes. “What do you plan to do about it? Break up with me? I’ll date a polo player, and you can date … I don’t know. Who
would
you date?”

He smiles. “Nobody. If I couldn’t have you, I wouldn’t want anybody.”

I take his hand in mine. “Really?”

“Really.” And he kisses me on the forehead. “Remember? We fit.”

“That’s right.” I rest my cheek against his. “We do fit,” I whisper, my lips close to his ear.

We sit quietly for a few minutes, enjoying the feel of each other’s skin, before I pull away and ask him, “You’re sure? Even though I’m high maintenance? Even though I’m a prissy bitch?”

He doesn’t answer. He says, “How did you hit a parking meter, anyway? You’re usually a pretty good driver.”

“I wasn’t paying attention. I was talking to Josie.” With my thumb and index finger, I take my gum out of my mouth. I stare at it. “It was like it came out of nowhere.”

Coming in and out of memories is always a bit draining, but when I snap back into the present, I feel more exhausted than usual. Quickly, I fill Alex in.

“I should have just taken you with me,” I said. “It would be easier than having to explain everything.”

He shrugs. “It’s okay. It’s your memory.”

“I’ll bring you next time,” I say. I can’t help but feel excited by what I’ve seen. More and more pieces of the puzzle are beginning to fall into place, and the new information I’m recalling seems more and more significant. Finally, I know how I met Vince. Now I just have to figure out how I ended up in his bed, being blackmailed.

“So you must have gotten your car back in time,” Alex says. “You didn’t get in any trouble, did you?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Why don’t you try—”

“I’m not going to try and remember anything else. Not now. I’m exhausted.” I pause. “Do you think it was more draining to see this memory because it matters so much? Because it’s more important than other things I’m remembering?” The thought is exciting. “I’m getting closer, Alex. I’m going to figure it out.”

He nods. “Yeah. I think you are.”

“And then what?” I blink at him. “What happens once I know everything?”

He thinks about the question. “I don’t know. Maybe we go somewhere else.”

“Hmm. Okay.” We both know that I don’t want to ask the most obvious question: where else is there for us to go?

“I can’t believe you don’t want to try and remember more right away,” Alex says, shifting the conversation. “Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know how you went from hating Vince to … well, to those pictures?”

We’re walking back through town together—slowly, to keep the pain in my feet from becoming unbearable—and headed nowhere in particular.

“Of course I want to know. I need to recover for a while, that’s all.” And then something occurs to me. “I know you don’t want me to see your memories,” I tell Alex. “But will you at least tell me if you’ve learned anything important?” And just as I’m saying the words, I glance up to see a telephone pole with Alex’s picture on it. They’ve been all over town for more than a year. It’s his sophomore yearbook photo, blown up and printed in color. Beneath it, it says, KILLED BY A HIT-AND-RUN DRIVER. $10,000 REWARD FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO ARREST.

On this particular poster, someone—undoubtedly one of the less-sensitive jocks from our school—has taken a pen and drawn a pair of wings on Alex’s shoulders. His eyes are blacked out for no good reason. The act is incredibly cruel; what seems even worse, though, is that nobody has bothered to replace the poster with a new one.

“You know what your parents should do,” I say, trying to be helpful, “they should rent a billboard. Maybe along the highway. Someone must have seen
something
from that night, don’t you think?”

“It’s been over a year, Liz. They aren’t going to catch anyone.” He pauses. “Even if somebody did know something, ten thousand dollars isn’t exactly a lot of money around here.”