Radical (18 page)

I glance back, and the others are gone already.

“She’ll go all night if we let her.”

“I don’t have anywhere I need to be,” I say.

“Neither do I.”

We just watch Cammie.

“She’s
really
good,” I say.

“Yeah,” Karen says. “She used to compete.”

“Why’d she quit?”

“I had better things to do,” Cammie says, resting the bow and making Karen smirk and my face flame.

But it makes me wonder if her better things are like my better things. MAG kind of better things. Cammie and Karen and I make a good team.

An ATV on the trail gets Karen’s attention. We don’t hear them that often.

“Hey,” Carl says, pulling up next to the ATV Karen drove out here. “Hey,” he says again, out of breath but looking relieved.

“Hey,” Karen says back, but I feel like I’m missing something. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Carl says, but I don’t buy it any more than Karen does.

“What?” she asks, holding his stare.

Carl looks at Cammie and me, and then I guess decides we’re trustworthy. “Ferguson had a team out marking and clearing the red trail extension. They heard shots and maybe a small detonation out near the perimeter, past the end of the blue trail. Randy and your dad are going to check it out.”

“And you wanted to make sure we were where I said we’d be,” Karen says more than asks.

His lopsided smile says it all. “I just wanted to be sure.”

“Well, we’re here,” Cammie says, annoyed and dismissing him.

“Just Dad and Randy?” Karen asks.

“Frank’s with them, and I’m going to follow. I just wanted to check here first.”

“Do you need me to go with?” Karen asks.

“Nah, we got it.”

“Be careful.”

“Will do,” he says, heading out on the trail.

She turns and looks at Cammie, like she’s waiting for Cammie to say something. Cammie scowls, like Karen shouldn’t have to ask.

“He was just checking,” Karen says.

“He should know we’re not stupid enough to shoot off-trail in the blind.” Cammie puts the compound bow on the ATV and starts removing her gear.

Their chill remains all the way back to the Box. Cammie hops off the ATV and heads for the lot before we’re even parked, leaving Karen and me to carry the bows and quivers inside.

“My dad back yet?” Karen asks the guy inside, who takes the bows from her.

He shakes his head. “Not yet. But radioed in. They’re heading back.”

“Everything okay?” she asks.

“Yeah, just some idiots screwing around.” He shakes his head.

“Without permission or logging where they’d be?”

“Apparently.” He glances at me and doesn’t offer anything more.

Karen curses under her breath. “Who?”

“Two guesses,” he says.

Karen looks at me, and I don’t know how, but I know it was Zach and them. “Mark?” I ask. “Uh, Mark Mullin?”

“Her brother,” Karen adds, and then nods to him, like
Go ahead, tell her
.

“No Mullin,” he says.

Thank God.

Karen is quiet all the way to the lot and until we pass through the gate.

“Mark should stay away from Zach,” Karen says, breaking the silence.

“No shit.” Not that I could tell him that. It would make him run to Zach all the faster. But maybe I should say something to Dad.

“Cammie and I meet at the range on Wednesday mornings for a few hours. You should come.”

“Can’t,” I say. “I have to work.” But I’m already calculating the loss of a few hours’ pay compared to shooting, with friends — or whatever we are.

As soon as Mike locks the front door, I bring Uncle Skip all of today’s paperwork and deposits, and then duck into the bathroom to clean up. My hair looks like crap. The ends are starting to curl, the long layer is too long, the sides are patchy, and the back is a hacked-up mess. I brought some gel so I can try to make the layer hang straight, but I need to cut it again. Or cut it different. Or maybe just buzz it all.

I brush my teeth with my finger and then pop in some gum. I’ve kissed a lot of girls. Felt up a few. Gotten horizontal with two, though with both of them, my hands stayed above the waist and clothes stayed mainly on. Before Kara moved, we were inching closer to more, grinding against each other until I swear I could feel her through both our clothes. But I didn’t work up the nerve to touch below her waist.

Lucy’s texts have been melting my phone. She’s not going to red-flag me, which actually makes me more nervous than if I was sure she would. With the others I didn’t have to think about it, because someone else was in charge of drawing the line. I could just go with it. But tonight, I think that line is on me.

And as much as thinking about making out is making me sweat, it’s the not-making-out parts that have my stomach all twisted in knots. What if she wants to go to the movies and hold hands and be all obvious?

I hear Mike and Uncle Skip talking in the office and quickly repack my stuff. I said I’d meet her at the church lot, instead of her coming here to get me. Best not to give Uncle Skip any reason to ask questions or to mention her to Dad. As long as Dad thinks I’m hanging out with Clearview girls, he doesn’t ask questions. In fact, I think he’d encourage me to go out as much as I want if he thought it would help cement his position at Clearview.

I stash my work clothes in the storage room and walk quickly to the back door.

“Bex?” Mike leans out from the office. “Where are you going all cleaned up?”

“Out with friends.”

“Which friends?” Uncle Skip asks, standing in the doorway to the office. “Girls from out there?” He follows “out there” with a little shake of his head.

“Uh, yeah,” I say. “See you later.”

I don’t give him a chance to ask any more questions.

It takes no time at all to cut across the back field, hop the fence, and get to the service road, then I cross another stretch of grass to the road the church is on. At the curve before the church, a horn sounds behind me, and I turn to see Lucy’s wagon pulling up.

“Hey, need a lift?” Lucy flips her sunglasses up on top of her head. I get in, put my backpack by my feet, and buckle the seat belt. When I look up, Lucy is rebuckling her seat belt. She would only have unbuckled it so she could reach me. So we could kiss. I start to unbuckle mine again, but she’s dropped her sunglasses down over her eyes and is pulling onto the road, heading west.

“Where to?” she asks. “Did you eat?”

“Dinner? No.” I run through the places we could go and not be seen. I calculate the odds of pissing her off if I suggest somewhere no one will know me. “Did you?”

“Nope. And I feel like pizza. I know a great place.”

Please not Gino’s. Please not Gino’s. Please not —

“You don’t mind a drive, do you? It’s about a half-hour away but worth it.”

My stomach crawls back down into my gut and my heart slows. “I never mind a drive,” I say, smiling at her.

“Great.” She gives the wagon some gas and changes lanes.

She starts singing along to the radio, the wind through the windows whipping her hair around, and that confident smile on her face. Maybe I should pinch myself.

As we drive, my muscles relax. First my legs. Then my arms and shoulders. My neck. We don’t really talk, just comment on things we pass or songs on the radio. I can’t believe I’m here with her.

“Rough day?” she asks, finally pulling off the highway.

“No. Why?”

“You’ve been quiet, and you just let out a big sigh like you were finally shaking off the day.”

“I didn’t mean to be quiet or, well . . . Did you want to talk? We could’ve talked or . . .”

“It’s fine. I didn’t mind. I just wondered.” A few turns and we’re in the heart of a small town, on a side street where she pulls up next to a pickup and lines up to park.

“I don’t think it will fit.”

“That’s what
he
said.” Lucy laughs at her own joke.

She eyes the car behind her and then backs up slowly, cutting the wheel and sliding into the spot. Then she turns around and uses both hands on the wheel to slot the car right in between the other two. She doesn’t even have to correct forward.

She is so pleased with herself. She’s probably pleased with herself a lot.

Out of the car, I get a look at her. Another dress, but this one is newer, with little sleeves and pockets. And she’s wearing sandals instead of boots. When she twirls onto the sidewalk, the skirt poofs out a little. Her eyes glitter with mischief. On impulse, I take her hand, but then I see an older couple walking toward us and I let go.

The place looks like a bar, but Lucy banks left when we walk in, and there are booths and tables, paper place mats with maps of Italy. She slides into a booth near the window. I scan the other tables. No one’s looking at us.

She quizzes me about how I like my pizza, and I let her order.

When they bring her iced tea, she dumps in four packets of sugar, takes a sip, adds another packet, sips again, and then nods approvingly.

“I miss sweet tea,” she says. “That’s about all I miss, but I miss it a lot.”

“What about your parents?”

She shrugs. “We text. And I’ll see them in August.” She stirs some more, then takes another sip.

“Any siblings?”

“Nope. Just me. No cousins, either. At least unless Uncle Trevor and Dennis decide to get his-and-his matching designer babies.”

I look at the other tables.

“But, frankly, I don’t see that happening. They like to travel and party too much. Too much linen and silk and cashmere in their wardrobes.”

“So he’s . . .”

“A photographer. And his husband is a makeup artist. They met on some commercial shoot twelve years ago.”

I look around again. No one else seems to have heard, but I lean in a little closer so I can talk more quietly, so maybe Lucy will, too.

“Your grandparents are okay with that?”

“With him not having kids?” Lucy asks, louder than necessary.

“No. With him being . . .”

Lucy stares, confused, but she can’t really be. “Gay?” she asks, way too loud. “Now they are. I mean, they’re not all PFLAGed up like my parents, but they’re fine with it. Aren’t yours?” I squirm in my seat. “It’s okay if they’re not.” She looks at me. “Or . . . if you’re not . . . out?” she asks, but I’m not sure it really is okay.

The pizza arrives before I can say anything, and there is a mess of shifting glasses and napkins and a back-and-forth with the waitress about hot-pepper flakes and more tea, and more sugar, before I have to answer.

I take a large bite of pizza to buy time, scorching the roof of my mouth, gasping in air, and trying to peel the molten cheese off. I swallow the bite, still scalding and nearly whole, and then gulp my pop, trying to cool my mouth and throat.

“It really is okay,” she says. “I mean, I just assumed they’d know because . . .” She takes another bite and chews, using her pizza to motion to my hair and the rest of me. “But if they don’t know, that’s okay. I don’t care. Not like some of these dykes who make it all political.”

I force myself to swallow the pop without choking too bad. I can’t believe she just said “dyke.” Not even whispering.

She looks at me, and then around the restaurant, and then back at me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I pick up my pizza and take another bite. I chew and swallow, watching her do the same. I glance around. No one is looking at us. No one cares. The pizza really is good. “This is great.”

“See?” she says, relaxing. “What’d I tell you?”

The waitress brings us more to drink, and we talk in between devouring most of the pizza. As we slow down to picking at our respective last slices, I realize that at some point I stopped feeling on display. I forgot that anyone else might be listening in. Lucy tells me about North Carolina and her parents and some of her friends. About college and her grandparents. And I forget to be worried. About this. About being seen. About anything.

I pay, leaving what I hope is a nice-enough tip, and then we’re on the street, walking back to the ice-cream place we passed on our way from the car.

Inside, the AC is cold enough to raise penguins, and there’s a crowd. We take our place in line and wait. Lucy is bouncing up and down, rubbing her arms, freezing in her little dress. I shrug out of my button-down and hold it out to her. My bare arms prickle up fast, but everything else feels real good watching her shrug on my shirt. She tries to pull it closed across her chest, which is far from happening. We both laugh.

“I’d be mortified if I wasn’t so cold.” She laughs some more and hangs on my arm.

I rub my palms on the rough sides of my cargo shorts, and then realize that what I’m feeling is a stare from the right. A couple sitting at one of the few tables is looking at us, dissecting us. Dissecting me. They’re staring at my chest, trying to figure out what I am. Lately, people have been staring at my head instead.

When I turn to look at the menu board above the heads of the scoopers, I notice the guys up front jostling and laughing, checking out Lucy. They barely look at me, but their girls do. One stares, a disgusted look on her face. I want to leave, but Lucy is already picking out flavors.