The Things You Kiss Goodbye (18 page)

“I didn’t mean to sound that way,” I said. I looked at Bampas, who appeared to be waiting for more. I so rarely had his attention this way. “I think he feels an awful lot of pressure,” I said.

“Well then, you’ll help him,” Bampas said.

“I do, Bampas, I do help—”

“His challenge is your challenge. Now, if you are up to it, you will help him.”

Help him. He’d said it twice. Bampas could not have known exactly what I meant; I’d kept secrets. Nonetheless, my father’s words affixed themselves to me. He was right. I should help Brady, and I did. I bolstered and encouraged. I listened to him worry out loud. I helped him with his Spanish homework. I told him he’d be great. I tacked that newspaper clipping up on the inside of my locker door along with a mighty White Tigers emblem sticker I bought at the school store. I told myself we’d gotten past another bad patch.

Back on track, I went for broke. I helped the Not-So-Cheerleaders. They needed a few dance moves that were
easy and that would make us all look good. I had at least a dozen of those up my sleeve and we put them to work. I was remembering to bring my sneakers, and I made sure that I let it drop that all my body art was
temporary
. I’d be clean and shiny for them come time for “making states.” From the sounds of things, that was still months away.

I helped. So when I wanted to cut a practice, I didn’t feel so bad about it. The first few times I saw Cowboy after we’d struck our new deal, things were different. His greetings were abbreviated. He crawled into and under car carcasses and I took that as a message that he had work to do. Fine by me. I had my sketchbook. We melted our ice, and by the time November came, it was easy for me to walk through his door again.

One afternoon I told the cheerleaders that I was coming down with something—mid-November has a flu season, after all—and I cut out and went to SWS Classic Auto. I figured I’d try to drag Cowboy out, get him to take me for a truck ride. Maybe he’d let me drive. He’d been doing that, starting with an empty parking lot, and then the back roads. I guess that wasn’t perfectly legal; he was not an instructor. But he was old enough, and I had a permit. Momma had taken me to the DMV right after my sixteenth birthday. But she had not had much nerve for letting me behind the wheel, and Bampas—well, forget it. He would always find a reason why I did not
need to have a license. He’d say something curt, like, “Well, and do you own a car to drive?”

But Cowboy said I was a natural. He’d sit in the passenger’s seat, casually splitting his attention between what I was doing behind the wheel and the view out the window. He might say, “Hold your lane” or “Full stop, Beta.” Mostly, he told me I was doing fine. I thought driving was kick-ass easy.

“Cowboy? I’m here. Are you?” I called.

“Yep.”

Him and his single syllables, I could tell he needed to concentrate. I stood no chance of getting him out of the shop. Oh, well.

“Is this a tailpipe?” I tapped a finger on the broad tube of chrome at the bench. “And what does it want? A scrubbing with some steel wool and degreaser?”

“Yep.”

“Want me to do it?”

“If you want to.”

I wrapped my braid around my neck so it wouldn’t swipe the garage floor and bent down to look at Cowboy underneath the Chevy. “Hello, by the way.”

“Yep.”

I laughed, stood myself back up, and spread a length of shop toweling onto the workbench surface. I squeezed into rubber gloves. I always used them, figuring I’d be questioned
someday by Brady or my parents if I became noticeably grease stained.

Of all the odors inside SWS Classic Auto, degreaser was my favorite. I set to work on that tailpipe. A satisfying shine began to come through the grime. I suppose I was getting a little light-headed—just a nice sensation—but I realized suddenly that Cowboy was calling me.

“Beta! You still here? I could use some help.”

“Yeah!” I called out.

“Can you bring me a towel?”

I grabbed a handful of clean toweling and hurried to him. Cowboy had crept out from under the Chevy. His eyes were shut tightly and he was blindly getting to his knees. “Here, here!” I pressed the toweling into his hands, still not sure what had happened. His face and head looked wet—and kind of citrus green. Slowly, he mopped the depressions near his eyes, then the rest of his face and head.

“Can you bring me the hose? Please.”

I did, and Cowboy let the water fill his cupped hands. Over and over, he rinsed his face and head. Finally, he took a length of fresh toweling from me and dried his face. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking a bit.

“Hey, are you okay? I mean, your eyes?”
Your beautiful sea-green eyes
. “Should I be reading the contents off some container, Cowboy?” I was serious.

“No, I’m fine. Shit. That was stupid. I stuck my whole head right under the radiator. The thing took a leak all over me.”

I had to laugh. “You’re soaked,” I said. The collar of his coverall was drenched and when he zipped out of that, the neck of his shirt showed a ring of wetness too. I watched him tie the empty arms of the coverall around his waist.

“You need a dry shirt,” I said.

“Yep. I’ve got one out in the truck.”

“I’ll get it for you.” I started for the door.

“No, no. You already did me one big favor. And thanks for that,” he said.

Cowboy headed out. I started to follow him. I stopped near the door and watched him. He stood beside his truck and peeled off the damp shirt. At first, all I saw was a tight six-pack, his ribs and smooth chest. I’d only ever guessed at what his body looked like—
nice
—and probably I should not be looking. But a wave rolled through my center—the “want you” wave. He took a second to rub his wet hair with his shirt. I watched the long muscles in his arms, his skin riding over his ribs. This was not way to get rid of a wave. . . . Then he turned and reached into the truck.

It only took a second for me to see the white marks that scarred his back. Some were like dashes, some like teardrops. My core clenched. I took one step backward toward the shop.

It was too late. He turned, our eyes caught. He knew I’d seen the dark history written on his back. Cowboy had secrets and I wanted to know them. I also knew not to ask—not then. I turned, and I pretended to be looking up at the sign above Unit 37.

“So, hey,” I said. “You’ve never told me what SWS stands for.”

He gave me a wary look as he put an arm into the fresh shirt. “You’re right, I didn’t.”

“Come on,” I said.

Come on, or I’ll ask you about the scars on your back
.

“My initials,” he said as he buttoned.

“I figured that much. It isn’t fair. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

Cowboy slid by me into the shop. He crawled right back underneath the Chevy. I sat on a short stack of tires next to the car and leaned into a backbend until I could see him.

“Jesus, you’re flexible,” he said, and he almost hit his head on the undercarriage. He started back to his work. “Silas Wolcott Shepherd.” He let the words out the side of his mouth.

“SWS!” I said triumphantly. Then I flipped myself off the tires.

Coming back across the playing fields, Silas Wolcott Shepherd was on my mind, and so were his scars. I hadn’t
given it much thought before but I had noticed the scar across his brow back on the water property that day, and his bottom lip had a little white line through the middle of it. But Favian had that scar too, from falling forward out of a plastic kiddie car when he was four. The other scars, the ones on Cowboy’s back didn’t look like they came from a single accident. But what the hell kind of
accident
could happen over and over again and make marks like that?

“Hey, P’teen-uh!” Brady startled the hell out of me. He came jogging up. “Hey, what gives? Coach let us out early and I went by the aux gym and the girls said you left sick or something.” He looked me over, head to toe. There I was with my short, leather jacket open to a brisk November wind.

“Oh, yeah. I have a scratchy throat, is all. I didn’t want to jump around and yell.”

“You smell funny.” He pinched the shoulder of my jacket and pulled me toward him. He took a whiff. “Where did you go?” He glanced off in the direction of the industrial park. Had he watched me come through there?

“That’s the other reason I cut. I had to take a key to someone over there.” I pointed my thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the park.

“Oh, yeah? What? Something for your father?”

“Yes.” I lied some more. Brady was already distracted—hands inside
my jacket, indecent smile on his lips. What a ridiculous excuse. My father would never give me a key to anything! But all I needed was for Brady to buy it, and I guess he did.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

B
RADY
’
S PRACTICES PICKED UP IN
N
OVEMBER AND SO DID
mine. Our busyness was probably good for us both. We had avoided major incidents, mostly because I’d become so preemptive about not making him mad. We were also short on time to be alone. The basketball coach kept the team late on Friday nights now. They worked their tails off, and Brady would call me at 9:30 saying he’d just gotten out of the shower and was exhausted. I believed him. I could practically hear him falling asleep on his end of the line. Just as well, because Bampas said starting a date after 9:00 p.m. was out of the question.

Then one Friday night, Big Bonnie and some of the art
room kids were going to a silent movie mini-fest at the art cinema and she asked me to go. They were planning to go in costume just for fun.

“I’m wearing false eyelashes and a pillbox hat,” she laughed. “So if you have anything vintage-y, wear that.”

I dug out a pair of black lace gloves I’d found at the Goodwill store back in my days of running and shopping with Julia. But when I asked Bampas if he or Momma could take me downtown, he looked at me like I had three heads.

“No,” he said. He pulled his chin in as if to say,
Why would I do that?
I pushed. I repeated the plan to him. He ignored me. Momma had an ear on the whole exchange.

“Why can’t she go, Dinos?” she asked sweetly. “I can take her—”

“I told the girl no, Loreena,” Bampas said firmly. Sometimes he had an ugly way with Momma. Was that new, or was I just noticing it lately? “Bettina, if your boyfriend is not available, you should stay home. It won’t kill you. Think of him,” he said. “This kind of thing hurts a boy’s feelings if you go out when he cannot be with you.” That was a little freaky even for Bampas—and it was as screwed up as it was true.

“But Bampas, it’s just the art cinema—”

“Are you trying to order yourself up a grounding?” He put his attention back on his reader.
“Fili antio,”
he added.

“Or do you mean
siopi
?” I said. What was the difference? Kiss it goodbye or shut up.

“Take your pick,” he said last-straw slowly, and he didn’t even look at me.

Momma and I split a look. I went back to my bedroom and landed, face in my pillow. I let out a yell. Bampas was nuts, I thought.
Nuts!
I could hardly have had a more innocent plan than to visit the arts cinema with Bonnie Swenson. But in my suck-it-up way, I backed off. I couldn’t risk losing my afternoons at the school . . . or the industrial park.

The jock gatherings in the lobby by the White Tiger mosaic were still happening. I went to most of them with Brady, though I’d given up baking. One afternoon, as we made our way there, my hand tucked into his elbow, I heard music—great music.

“Oooh . . .” I looked up at Brady as we walked. “Do you hear that?”

“Yeah . . .” he said. He rattled an open snack bag full of potato chips in one hand. “Sounds like somebody invaded our space.” He tilted his head up and sprinkled his mouth full of chips.

“Aw . . . but it sounds like a party!” I gave his hand a squeeze. He forced a smile with a full cheek as I pulled him along.

Turns out it was Tony Colletti on his saxophone along
with half a dozen other musicians. They were rocking that lobby. An open instrument case had a sign taped to it:
HELP US GET TO STATES
!

Man,
everybody
was trying to get to states.

Brady didn’t blow at the sight of Tony. Maybe he just didn’t see who it was. He had his face in that bag of chips, after all. He circled up with his friends, while I turned outward to watch the band.

They were good. I picked up the beat from the girl on the snare drum, started to click my fingers next to my thigh. That music found its way to my bones. I put some hip into it, still dancing in place. Across the way, I saw Emmy doing the same. She gave me a nod. I let go of Brady. Tony Colletti leaned forward into his sax. He opened his eyes wide to engage the crowd—so adorable! A cheer went up.

Emmy pointed at me with both hands as if to say,
You’re on! Let’s dance
. I sent her a body roll. She sent it back. Some cheerleaders joined in calling, “Oh yeah!” Soon, a dozen dancers were on the floor. Whistles squealed up from the crowd. People clapped to the music. A couple of teachers dance-bombed their way through the lobby to loud cheers. I’d never seen my school like that. I twirled, floated my hands over my head, and shimmied down. I was breaking a sweat, having a blast.

But before that number was done, Brady broke out of his
circle to collect me, and by that I mean he walked around the front of me, took hold of the edge of my jacket and turned me away from the band. He leaned into me. “Cut it out,” he whispered through potato chip–breath. “That dancing shit is embarrassing. You make weird-ass faces.” He made a long, slurring
S
sound at me.

“Oh. I guess everyone has a dance face,” I said. Before we left the lobby, I put a few bucks into the instrument case and joined in the applause for the band as they tuned up for another number. Brady shook his head at me.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE