The Big Crunch (19 page)

The phone rang four times, then went to voice mail. Wes hung up, redialed, and sent her a text. He waited. Thirty seconds later, the curtains parted, and he saw her face.

June pulled back from the window.

She looked in the mirror, winced, forced herself to breathe. She threw on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, checked herself in the mirror again, ran a brush through her hair, and checked her breath. She went to the window. He was still there, leaning against a car, illuminated by yellow light from the streetlamp. Wes had a car? What else hadn’t he told her?

She left her room as quietly as possible, creeping past her parents’
bedroom with her sneakers in her hand. At the front door, she silenced the alarm system and let herself out.

He was still there. She sat on the front step and pulled on her sneakers. He just stood there by his car. Why wasn’t he walking toward her? She stood up and started toward him, and he began moving toward her. June could hear herself breathing, and as they grew closer, she could hear him breathing too. They both stopped with three feet between them. She was breathing hard.

He reached out his hand.

June stepped back.

Wes heard himself make a sound, a sudden inhalation. His hand fell to his side, dead weight.

“Just wait,” June said.

He waited. He couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted to.

“I want to see you,” she said, her eyes scanning his face.

Wes stared back at her, trying to take it in. She looked different. It wasn’t just the shorter hair, or the eyes. He couldn’t tell if she had on her colored contacts; her irises looked more gray than blue in the glow of the streetlamp. What felt different, he decided, was the nearly unbearable tension in her body.

She moved, one small step, and then another, and then they were standing mere inches apart, their breath mingling in the cool late night air. She raised her hand and touched her fingers to his lips. There was a missing moment, as if time had stuttered, then they had their arms around each other, their mouths pressed hard together, the street, the city, the planet, the universe spinning around them. And then they broke apart, both of them gasping.

June said, “Oh, crap.”

Wes knew exactly what she meant. He laughed. The laugh came out high-pitched, then broke, and she started laughing too. They came together again, this time a gentle, almost fragile embrace. June sighed, her body softening and molding itself against his chest.

She whispered, “What are we going to do?”

Wes cleared his throat and said, “You want to get something to eat?”

They found a truck stop on I-80, just outside of town. June had never been in a real truck stop before — her parents, when traveling, always stopped at chain restaurants because, in her mother’s words, “You can trust the food.”

“Yeah, trust the food to be bad,” June had said.

The food at the truck stop was pretty good, judging from the way Wes tore through his Hungry Driver — an enormous breakfast of fried eggs, pancakes, sausage, bacon, hash browns, and toast.

“I think the twenty-four-hour breakfast should be law,” he said, biting into his third sausage link. “How are your fries?”

“A little soggy,” June said.

Most of the other customers were real truckers — men wearing baseball caps, a lot of them with beards, rough-looking but not scary rough. Most of the tables and booths were empty. Only one waitress was working, a forty-something woman with big blond hair, a floral tattoo peeking up from her ample bosom, and a name tag that read P
HLOX
.

“I always thought you had to be a trucker to eat at one of these places,” June said as Phlox topped off their coffees.

“We don’t care what you drive, honey,” Phlox said with a heavily mascaraed wink. “Long as you eat and pay.”

So far, she and Wes hadn’t talked about anything important.

“So who’s this guy Kel?” Wes finally blurted out.

It took June a few seconds to respond. “Just this guy,” she said. She told him the story of what had happened at the Drood. “I’m sorry I got mad at you.”

“It’s okay.”

Wes told her how he’d paid Alan Hurd to borrow his car, and that Jerry and Naomi were going to prom together. “They’ve both calmed down now that the election is over,” he said. He told her about playing poker, and his job at Jamba Juice. They sat there for almost two hours, drinking cup after cup of coffee and talking.

“I think we should move to France,” June said.

Wes said, “Okay. Why France?”

“I want to try real French fries.”

“We’ll need money.”

“We can rob a bank.”

Wes grinned. “Bonnie and Clyde.”

“I never saw that.”

“Everybody dies in the end.”

“Oh.” June noticed their waitress looking at them from the counter. “I think Phlox is giving us the stink eye.”

“What time is it?”

“After two.”

“We should probably go.”

“Go where?”

“I’m not going to sleep the whole weekend,” Wes said.

They were driving aimlessly through the streets of Omaha. June was snuggled as close to him as she could get, the console digging into her side, her head resting on Wes’s shoulder.

“I’m not sleepy either,” she said. The one thing they hadn’t talked about was what would happen next.

“I had a plan,” Wes said. “I was going to buy Calvin’s brother’s bike, and as soon as school was out, I was going to drive down here and find a place to stay and get a job. But I couldn’t wait.”

June was flattered. More than flattered — it was the most romantic thing any guy had ever done for her. But now what?

“I have to go back Sunday morning,” he said.

June said, “Oh.”

“My parents think I’m at Schwartz’s, playing a poker marathon. And I have to get the other Alan’s car back.”

“It must be really inconvenient having two Alans as friends.”

“It’s horrible. I should get rid of one.”

“Which?”

“Flip a coin.”

“What time is it?”

“Four fifty-seven.”

“My mom gets up at six.”

Neither of them said anything for a very long time.

“Turn left up here,” June said.

Wes turned. He had been behind the wheel for so long the car felt like an extension of his body.

June said, “My parents would freak if they knew you were here.”

“Why?”

“They just would. Turn right at the light.”

Wes turned. He recognized the neighborhood. Curvy streets, big houses. He noticed a car behind him, but didn’t think about it. He pulled up in front of June’s house.

“It’s only five thirty,” he said. “We can sit here for a while.”

The inside of the car became suddenly, shockingly, as bright as day. An electronic voice boomed, practically rattling the windows.

“Step out of the car!”

Wes looked back and was blinded by the light.

“Step out of the car and put your hands in the air!”

W
ES REMEMBERED WHAT FOLLOWED
like flashes of a nightmare:

Bent over the hood of his car, the cop’s rough hands on his body, checking him for weapons
. “It’s not stolen!” Wes kept saying. “It’s my friend’s car!”

The policeman did not seem to hear him.

Mrs. Edberg in her bathrobe, opening the front door.

June’s face looking at him from the backseat of the second squad car.

“I have to talk to her!” Wes said.

“Shut up, kid,” said the cop.

Mr. Edberg, in pajamas and a raincoat, standing on his front lawn, talking to the police.

What was he telling them?

The long ride downtown, Wes telling the cops over and over that it was all a big mistake.

Sitting in the juvenile holding tank with one other guy, a drunk kid of maybe fourteen, his shirt stained with vomit, lying on his side on the concrete floor, curled into a ball, crying.

He’s me,
Wes thought, staring at the miserable kid.
The way he is, that’s the way I feel.

The phone call…

“Dad?”

“Wes? What the hell?” His father did not appreciate being awakened at six
A.M.
on a Saturday morning.

“Dad, I’m sorry.”

“Where are you?” His voice changed from irritation to concern.

“I’m … uh … I’m in jail. But I didn’t do it!”

“Calm down, Wes.” His dad’s voice moved into competent, businesslike mode. “Where are you, exactly?”

“Nebraska,” said Wes.

Wes had never been so embarrassed in his life. His parents would never trust him again. The ride back to the Twin Cities lasted a lifetime.

For the first half hour, they had talked. Wes told them everything. What else could he do? He told them everything. His parents, in the front seat, listened without comment. Nothing they might do to him could possibly be worse than having to listen to himself. He sounded like the biggest moron on the planet.

After he had finished, nobody said anything for what must have been a hundred miles. They were approaching Des Moines when his dad cleared his throat and spoke.

“Wes. What are we going to do with you?”

“I don’t know,” Wes said.

He really didn’t.

“What are we going to do with her?” June’s mother said.

The three of them were sitting in the breakfast nook, Dad with his coffee, Mom drinking tea, June with her hands in her lap.
Her dad was wearing a suit even though it was Saturday. Her mom was still in her robe.

“For one thing,” her father said, “she has to cease communications with that boy.”

“His name is Wes,” said June.

“She can’t just turn her emotions on and off, El,” said her mother.

“This is why we don’t look back,” her father said. “We move on.”

“She’s a teenager.”

They were talking about her as if she wasn’t there.

“She’s a young woman,” her father said. “A hundred years ago, she’d already be married with children. She’s perfectly capable of making good decisions.”

“I’m sitting right here,” June said.

Her parents both looked at her.

Her mom said, “Honey, what were you thinking?”

“He drove all the way here,” said June.

“In a stolen car!” her father said.

“It wasn’t stolen. He borrowed it from his friend.”

“So he says.”

“He drove all the way from Minnesota to see me. We just went for a ride. Is that so bad?”

“You’re seventeen,” said her mother.

“Yeah, and like Dad says, a hundred years ago, I’d be considered an adult!”

“That was then. This is now.”

“I’m sorry,” said June. “I can’t help it that I like him.”

“Then it’s time you learned to
un
like him,” her father said. “Starting now.”

June felt herself shrinking into a small, hard knot. There was no way. Wes was planted deep inside her, so deep that no amount of wishing or hoping or parental brainwashing could ever dislodge him. But trying to tell that to her father would be arguing with a stone. All she could do was go along with him, or at least pretend.

She said, “Okay.”

Her father’s expression softened. “I know it’s hard, Junie. But these things … they pass. The things you’re feeling, they’re learned behaviors. Chemical signals. Your brain can develop new pathways; your mind is yours to control. It’s no different from learning to not suck your thumb, or quitting smoking —”

“I don’t smoke,” June muttered.

“ — or learning a new language, or any other form of personal improvement. You can …” He droned on. June had heard it all before, the Elton Edberg theory of maximizing personal development, what he called “biomechanical engineering.” Any moment now, he would blurt out
“Next!
“ and it would be all she could do to keep herself from dumping his coffee in his lap, which wouldn’t help.

June looked desperately at her mother, who rolled her eyes, then stood up and accidentally on purpose jostled the table. Elton Edberg’s coffee cup jumped and sloshed, spilling part of its contents onto the table. He jumped up, trying to avoid the river of coffee making its way across the tabletop. His thighs hit the edge of the table; the coffee cup tipped over completely and soaked the
front of his pant leg. He cursed and swiped ineffectually at the wet spot with a napkin.

“Oh, great. I have a meeting at ten!” he said.

“You’d better change, then,” said her mother.

As her father stalked off to his bedroom to put on a new suit, June looked gratefully at her mother.

Thank you,
she mouthed.

“W
HAT WAS
I
SUPPOSED TO DO?”
Alan Hurd said. “My dad noticed that the car was gone. I don’t know what he was doing back behind the garage. And all I said was that I didn’t know what happened to the car. So he reported it stolen.”

“You could have told him the truth,” Wes said. It was Monday. They were standing outside the lunchroom in the hallway.

“You don’t know my dad. Anyways, I just figured you’d drop the car off when you got back and everything would be fine. He’d never know. I sure didn’t think you’d get pulled over in Omaha.”

“Well, I did. And now my life is ruined.”

“They dropped the charges. I don’t see what the big deal is.”

“The big deal is now I have to pay my parents back for the gas they used to drive down there, and I have to pay
your
dad to fly to Omaha and drive your stupid car back, which is, like, all the money I’ve saved my whole life, and my parents will never trust me again.”

Alan shrugged. “I told you it was a bad idea in the first place.”

Wes wanted to hit him, hard, right on the mouth. But he didn’t, because he knew he might have done the same thing in Alan’s place. Besides, if he got caught fighting in school again after the thing that had happened with Jerry, it would mean an automatic expulsion.

“Thanks a lot.” Wes started to walk away.

Alan said, “Don’t forget, you owe me a hundred bucks. For the rental.”

Wes wheeled around, fists clenched.

Alan laughed nervously and backed away, saying, “Kidding! Kidding!”