The Things You Kiss Goodbye (10 page)

“Hey, Bonnie,” I said. “I’d have to make a phone call, but if it works out, could you use my help?”

Her eyes lit up. “Yes! You can hand me these pieces so I don’t have to keep bobbing up and down like a doofus.”

So Bonnie pretended not to listen in while I handled Bampas. (Her scrunched brow betrayed her.) He accused me of misusing the phone. I explained to him about the kiln. “I just wanted to see if staying late would be all right today, Bampas,” I said. In the end, he let me.

Big Bonnie took pot after pot from me as she crouched before the kiln. She scrutinized every piece before it went in. She had me clean glaze drips off a few pot bases. Looking
at all that clay, I suddenly remembered about a certain special part of Regina Colletti’s little-boy fountain that needed replacing. My eyes went wide. Maybe I could help Tony fix that—

“I would
die
,” Bonnie suddenly piped, “if I ever set up a firing that went wrong. Like if something became fused to something else.”

“Hmm . . .” All I wanted to do was ask her how I could
get
something fused to something else and if she thought anyone would notice if I snuck a little plug of clay while I was not officially in a class. Mr. T was fussy about materials—especially clay. But how much could I need? A pinkie finger’s worth? How would I get it fired?

“It’d be a nightmare,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“Like if a lid got fused to a pot.”

“Oh, right.”

“Are you taking any clay classes this year?” she asked.

“Next semester. The wheel class.”

“Oh, good! I’ll be in that with you.”

We were nearly done when she thanked me for staying. “But listen, don’t you want to go catch Brady—just in these few minutes before your father comes? Practice is about to start.” She glanced at the clock. Why was it that everyone seemed to know the basketball team’s schedule? “I think the
team is going to have an awesome year, don’t you?” Bonnie added.

“Seems possible,” I said.

She would be there in the stands, I thought, cheering for Brady and his mighty White Tigers come winter. I got it that everyone loved the basketball games. But something seemed unbalanced about all that attention. I couldn’t imagine Brady and his bros standing about in admiration while the White Tiger mosaic was being cemented down. Quirky example—art is not generally a spectator sport—but it did come to mind.

“Really. If you want to split, I’m all set here,” Bonnie said. I had the thought that it was really Bonnie who wanted to be down in the lobby. But she probably didn’t feel invited. God knows, I knew what that felt like.

“Brady thinks I’ve already gone home on the bus,” I told Bonnie, “and besides, right now I’m doing this with you.”

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B
RADY
’
S PLAN FOR
F
RIDAY NIGHT WAS FOR US TO MEET
up with his friends and “take a drive out to the sticks.”

“Don’t I already live in the sticks?” I asked.

“No, no, we’re heading way the hell out where they grow apples and cow shit.”

That should have been resistible even to me. Nonetheless, I folded myself into the minivan packed with Brady and a half dozen of his friends. They probably didn’t even want me there messing up their guy-time, I thought. Brady was doing this so that I could get to know them better. But it was weird that I was the only girl out with a carload of jocks—
and
these were the guys who snidely referred to me “Cullen’s wife” and
that’s when they were being polite. I sat pressed between the window and Brady and waited for the orchards and dairy farms to come in to view. Mostly, I saw darkness falling over the roadside ditches.

I figured we’d trespass onto the corner of some field, and maybe Brady’s homeboys would break out a few beers and build a campfire. Or they’d steal some apples and do something dumb like cross a brook on a slippery log in the dark. One of the guys had brought along a bag full of hundreds of rubber bands. He started handing those out all around the car. “We’re making a rope,” he said. “This is going to be
hilarious
. So just tie as many of them together as you can.”

Whatever. I took a handful. The guys were fumbling. They were actually trying to
tie
the rubber bands in knots rather than chain them. I was beating those boys to a pulp. I made it through a lapful of rubber bands in no time and grabbed another bunch. Brady nudged me.

“What the—? How are you doing that?” he asked. He punched the switch on the interior light. “I don’t know how to do friggin’
macrame
. I’m not an
art-girl
.” He let go of one of his loud, high laughs.

“Thread it, loop it, tug it,” I said. I showed him while a couple of other guys leaned around to watch.

“Oh. Yeah! Yeah! She’s right. I get it.”

“Thread it, loop it, tug it,” they repeated, and that
became a little car-ride mantra. Imagine that, my words, their song—until they changed all the
T
s to
F
s. “Fred it, floop it, fug it.” Then they sounded more like themselves. Soon we had a chain of rubber bands long enough to . . . well, to stretch across a dark country road.

“Wait until you see this.” I watched the Rubber Band Kahuna tie a bandanna on one end of the string. He gathered it all up like handfuls of spaghetti.

We left the van on a dirt pull-off and started walking along the open roadside. I didn’t ask questions. I followed. The night air was awesome. Brady held my hand and swung my arm. I listened to the guys joking up ahead of us, their dark forms sliding left and right as they changed places. When the language got crude, someone said, “Hey, hey! Watch it. Don’t forget, we got Bettina here tonight.”

Another silhouette turned back toward me to say, “Oh, yeah. Sorry . . . sorry.”

Huh. So polite. Maybe a tide was turning. I pressed a smile into Brady’s shoulder in the darkness, and he said, “See that? They’re good guys.”

We must have walked a mile when we reached an orchard. We split up, half on one side of the road, half on the other. I made sure I stayed with Brady. Two guys stretched the rubber band chain across the road. We crouched in the ditch, hiding from the headlights. We waited. A car finally came and
the guys shot the bandanna right across the front windshield.

Oh . . . my God
, I thought.
This is
not
a good idea
.

Yet, nothing had happened—nothing at all. But the next car swerved when the bandanna flew. The taillights glowed. The brakes screeched. I crouched lower and covered my ears, as the car fishtailed. It slowed, but then drove away.

Brady and his pals laughed in loud whoops. They dashed across the road, changing sides and taking turns being the shooter. My heart pounded. The road was long and lonely and sometimes it seemed like an eternity between cars. But they managed to pull the prank six or eight times until finally, a car snagged the bandanna on its antenna and sped off.

Good. We’ll pack it in now
. I was ready for that. Instead, I fidgeted in the ditch while a new plan was hatched.

We moved up the road and they found a spot to fix the rubber bands between a post on one side of the road and a tree on the other. I strained to see the string but it was invisible in the night.

I was glad. The first car along would surely snap the thing.

I heard the loudest whisper in the world. “Everybody down!” We hid again, kneeling in the grassy ditches. It was then that I realized I’d lost track of Brady. A pickup truck came down the road—going fast. (The answer to my string-busting dreams . . . ) It came squealing to a stop just in front of the strand. I dropped but I got hung up on the side of the
ditch. I needed to get lower but I was afraid to move. I heard the pop of the door handles, people getting out of the truck. I froze.

Two men held flashlights, and they stood no more than twenty feet away from me. They walked up to the string.

“My God! It’s a bunch of rubber bands all stuck together!” I saw them strumming it with their hands. One man’s voice carried over the hum of the truck’s engine, the other, not so much.

Close to me, I heard rustling, felt movement. Seconds later, I saw figures ducking and running along the orchard across the road from where I hunkered. The men from the truck stayed focused on the string.

The louder man spoke. “Hey, Shep, you got your knife? I’m going cut it down before someone drives right off the road. Goddamn! Dangerous as hell!” he yelled. I heard a snapping noise. “You see anyone?” he asked. His boots thudded on the road.

“Aw. No.” His friend replied much more softly.

“Must be around here . . .”

I pressed myself harder against the damp grass and leaves. I smelled something sweet-sour. Then I saw it—a rotting apple right next to my shoulder.

“Well, take a good look around. I’d love to catch them, the shitheads.”

Oh, I don’t want to be here. This is
not
me. It’s
not.
And where are the guys—those
dumbasses
? Where is Brady?

The wide beam from the quieter man’s flashlight light moved over the roadside with a casual sweep. His footsteps came nearer and nearer—as if he had directions right to me.

The light hit my eyes. I squinted. Quickly, he raised the flashlight high so that it shone down so I could see him and he could see me. His face glowed out of the shadows. So surprising. He looked kind and sweet like the man in the moon from a little kid’s book. But he was
not
smiling. He looked sorry—as if he wished he hadn’t seen me at all. But I was caught in his light.
Should I stand? Give myself up?
Say I was sorry, or could I lie and say I was just out walking in the night and that it was their truck that had scared me? Suddenly, he turned and walked straight away from me. The light fanned over the road as he crossed back toward the truck.

“Whoever it was must be long gone,” he called to his friend. “Come on, let’s go home.” I heard him open the door of the truck. “Let’s go!” he urged. “Beer’s getting warm and the game won’t wait.”

“Those
jackasses
!” the other guy fumed. “They could’ve
killed
someone!”

I had the sickening thought that he was right.

One door slammed shut. Then the other. The driver gunned the engine, and they were gone.

I lay still. Seconds ticked. A blanket of exhaust drifted over me. Was I alone? Had all the boys run? Had Brady left me here? Finally, I heard thumps. Footsteps. The swish of the grass.

“Hey, Bettina! Bettina?” the whispers came.

I could not answer. I stayed pinned in my ditch beside the rotting apple.

“Where is she? They didn’t take her, did they? Did she get busted?” Heavier footsteps pounded near me.

“P’teen-uh!” Suddenly, Brady came up on me and yanked me up by one arm. “Holy crap! I thought he had you!” he said. He gave me a shake. “Why didn’t you answer us just now? Huh?”

The rest of the guys were gathering around us. They uttered a chorus of
holy shits
. I looked down the road in the direction the moon-faced man had gone. I tried to step away from Brady but he kept his thumb pressed hard on my muscle.

“What the hell? Are you
deaf
, P’teen-uh?” Brady went on. His spit hit my cheek. “Didn’t hear me calling you? You scared the shit out of me just now.”

“Well, I—I was scared too,” I finally spoke. My voice quaked. “I—I thought you left me—”

“So you just don’t answer?”

“Hey, come on. She was just scared.” One of the other
boys came over patted Brady on the back. “Shake it off, man.” So there they were trying to console him. But Brady was bent on getting the last word.

“I should’ve never brought you out here in the first place.” He waited, sneering at me. Disgusted. “Get back to the car,” he said. He turned me, gave me a shove. In case I hadn’t gotten the message, he grabbed the end of my braid and threw it at my back.

I slipped on the bloated apple as I stepped out of the ditch. That sour smell stayed on my boot all the way home.

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HarperCollins Publishers

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A
LL
F
RIDAY NIGHT AND INTO
S
ATURDAY MORNING
, I kept picturing the man who let me go. Asleep or wake, I’d picture his kind face—the sweet, sleepy eyes, and think,
He could be dead because of me
. In some horrible, dystopian layer of my own thinking I believed that he
was
dead, and it made my breath halt. I told myself,
But that did
not
happen; he’s okay
. But the next moment found me running the same little mental movie of that night, and feeling another big wash of guilt.

Brady called on Saturday. I lied and told him that my parents weren’t going to let me go out. He was mad that I wouldn’t sneak out. He reminded me that he’d included me in a night out with his friends, as if I could forget that. But I
knew he blamed me for the bad turn the night had taken. If he brought it up, I would never be able to forge an apology. We’d end up fighting. I held fast. I was staying home.

Saturday afternoon I climbed into a hot shower, fixing to scrub away my bad feelings, I suppose. I drew the bar of soap along my upper arm and
wham
—something hurt like hell. There, I found a blue bruise with a lump in the middle of it, the very size of Brady Cullen’s thumb. And now it was throbbing. Well, served me right for being a miscreant, I thought.

I dressed in cruddy sweats and a hooded fleece after my shower. Staying-in clothes. I did all the homework I hated most. I even studied for a math test. Then I stared out my bedroom window, watched the sun beginning to settle on the treetops. I longed for the scent of petroleum. Unit 37. Cowboy.

You’re an idiot
, I told myself.
The only place you know to find him is the auto shop, and he won’t be in there on a Saturday night. He probably has a date. He’s heading out to a bar. He’s a grown-up and you are a dope who plays road pranks with stupid boys. Stop thinking about him
.