The Things You Kiss Goodbye (6 page)

It had taken two lies to get me there. First, my crushed fingers were obvious enough that Momma had noticed. Instantly, I’d known that my freedom was in jeopardy. But the way I had seen it, I had a whole art room full of possible hazards to pick from. Even though I wasn’t in a clay class, I’d chosen the mixing vat. “I was doing a favor for Mr. Terrazzi, mixing clay for the basics class,” I’d told her with a shrug. (Well, I had watched Big Bonnie Swenson do it from the corner of my eye.) “I should have taken the ring off before I went digging under thirty pounds of red clay.”

“Ring? Oh! That’s right, your class ring! It came? Oh, where is it?” Mamma’s eyes were full of light. I liked the rare moments that she played girlfriend to me.

I pulled the ring out of the neck of my shirt by the shoelace string. I drew the whole thing over my head, freed it from my long tail of hair, and handed it to her.

Momma turned the ring over in her hand. “It’s a pretty stone. Ooh . . . the polish,” she said. “But this shoelace! So grubby!”

Oops
.

“Bettina,” she went on, “you should put your ring on the gold chain Bampas and I gave you for your birthday until you can wear it on your finger again.”

“I should,” I agreed, but I knew that I wouldn’t.

My second lie was to get out of a dinner with my family at my father’s restaurant; I was getting good mileage out of my spot on the cheer squad. Tonight, for example, we were having a pizza party and planning a pep rally. Right. My family dropped me off at Minio’s Pizzeria in the village where I tucked myself inside the entry next to the gumball machines, until Brady picked me up there ten minutes later.

So I had made it to my first party in the glider field. Historical. I stood with Brady, doing my imitation of the tail on the
Q
once again. This night, Brady’s circle was full of guys and girls, including some of the Not-So-Cheerleaders. And as usual, I felt the vibe:
What the hell is Brady Cullen doing with that girl?
But we were a couple. I was proud of that, and I trusted that time would take care of the rest. Meanwhile, my spot on the periphery was giving me a crazy-good view of the night and that moon.

I could also see about fifty kids, and not nearly enough beer for all of them. There were a few other bottles of this and that and some smokes—various aromas rising. A beach ball kept popping into the air for a sort of dark-blind game of volleyball. I saw multiple attempts to get a little bonfire going. (I started to count the matches.) Another group of kids was singing, changing the words to familiar songs and having huge laughs. Me, I guess I was “being with Brady,” and
keeping warm against his side. I looked upward over and over again. The night was beautiful—that active sky above. I was a sucker for anything celestial.

Brady leaned down to tell me, “Hey, we’re going for a smoke.” I was a little surprised. All we’d ever done before was split a beer in his basement after sex once or twice. It just wasn’t how we spent our precious minutes together, and besides, I couldn’t see me dumping myself drunk or stoned back in through my bedroom window late at night. Still, I’d smoked with Julia and the free-range kids. I was game to get a little high, especially if I could do it with Brady. I nodded and started to follow. But Brady unhitched me from his arm. “Maybe stay here,” he said, lifting his chin just slightly. “I’ll be right back.”

I’m sure I stood there giving him a dumbfounded look, at least at first. But I shrugged and said, “Oh. Okay.” So he wanted to have a “guy smoke.” No problem. I watched them move off under a stand of pines about a hundred feet away. Soon, a haze rose over their huddle. Off my mooring, I felt cold. I tucked my hands up into the sleeves of my sweater—still being careful of my wrecked fingers—and looked up at the moon. Music was drowning out the silly singers now. Something danceable filled the air. I swayed a little by myself, tamped down some grass, and fantasized about getting Brady to dance with me. Does
anyone dance out here?
I wondered.
What a great place for it. I stretched my arms out.

“Nice night, huh?” Tony Colletti was suddenly next to me.

“Tony! Oh, hey! Yes, it’s awesome. I’m so glad to be out like this—oh, but never say that you saw me here.
Please
. You know how my father is.”

“
Ooh
, yeah,” Tony said, and nodded. “He hasn’t let up on you?”

“Are you kidding?” I said. “I lied about where I was going tonight, so . . .” I let it hang. I trusted Tony Colletti. Then I distracted him. “Hey, look at that silvery edge that runs all along the tree line.” I pointed up at the moonlight as I stood shoulder to shoulder with him. “It’s like liquid metal.”

“Like solder,” he said. I laughed. We’d had an industrial arts class together the beginning of sophomore year, and Tony had spent two whole periods helping me put a seam on a metal napkin holder. (I’d been afraid of the torch.)

“Hey, Tony,” I said. I tilted my head at him. “Is everything all right? With you and your family? When I saw you the first day of school, well, I just had a feeling . . .”

“Yeah. Well. I guess I kind you blew you off that day. Sorry.” He sighed.

“No, no. I didn’t mean that you had,” I said.

“Well, you remember my nonna Regina?”

“Of course,” I said. The notion that anyone might
forget Regina Colletti was laughable. I put a finger in the air and spoke. “We could call her Regina but we were
not
allowed to call her ‘Nonna’ unless she
was
our nonna.” Tony laughed. But I remembered my mistake as a little girl. I had thought Nonna was her name so I had called her by it. She’d grabbed me by my wrist and she’d set me straight in front of a room full of people while I blushed like a cinnamon candy. After that, I had been equally scared and mesmerized by her.

“Does she still live upstairs from you?” I asked.

“She does. She’s real sick though.”

“Oh, Tony.” I hesitated then asked, “What is it?”

“The big C. She’s fighting. But it’s not going so good,” he said.

“Oh my gosh. I’m sorry. Regina? Really?” I said. “It doesn’t seem possible.”

Regina Colletti was beautiful—
never
vulnerable. I’d sensed that even as a little kid. Instead of a Madonna statue, Regina had a statue of a little pissing boy in her yard. He filled up her fountain where the neighborhood cats came to drink. She’d been both queen bee and rebel of that old neighborhood.

“Hardest part is keeping her cheered up,” Tony said.

“Hmm . . . well, she always liked a crowd.” I was thinking aloud.

“You’re right. And she doesn’t have the energy for big parties now, but she likes when people visit. Hey, why don’t you come by?” Tony faced me. “She’d love that!” he said. “Walk home with me one day. I’ll take you up to see her.”

“Oh, Tony, of course I will.” I heard myself say it, and immediately wanted to backpedal. Regina didn’t even like me. I didn’t want to see her. “I don’t know when—”

“Hey! Hey, P’teen-uh!” Suddenly, Brady was coming across the toppled grass like his ass was on fire. When he reached us, he put on the brakes and gave Tony a pseudo-convivial nod. “What’s up, man?” he said in that way that lets the person know you don’t really expect an answer. Tony extended his hand, and Brady eyed him before he gripped it.

“Just catching up. Old friends,” Tony said.

Brady cupped my elbow. “Come on. Let’s take a walk,” he said. I gave Tony a weak smile and Brady pulled me away, my boots catching on tangles of long grass. He stopped abruptly and gave me a big, territorial kiss.

My face went hot and my hair prickled. I wiggled out, whispering, “Stop it!”

“Stop it? Oh, that’s nice. I can’t kiss you?” Our breath mingled in the cold.

“Not like that.”

“Like what?”

I glanced back toward the spot where I’d been talking to
Tony Colletti. I lowered my voice way down and hissed at Brady. “Like you’re trying to drench me in piss!” I tried to take a step but it was like that damn grass had me tied down. I swore under my breath and ripped my foot free. I put a few paces between Brady and me. Found a little breathing space of my own.

Well, Brady got quiet after that, and I guess I did too. We didn’t stay much longer at the glider field. I never got to ask him if he’d dance with me. As we drove along the dark roads toward home, he asked me if I was okay.

“Yes. Fine.”

But Brady pulled over and shut off the car. He turned to me. “Look, the thing is, you act so shy all the time,” he began. “It’s like you never talk to anybody. Then you finally do and it’s a
guy
. . . and it’s
that guy
, and I don’t know. I don’t think I get that.”

“Well, first, if you haven’t noticed, I am just a little outside your circle of friends. So, yeah, around them, I feel shy.”

“Aw, you just have to keep coming out with me. Get to know them better.” He brushed my shoulder with the backs of his knuckles.

I nodded. “And I will,” I said. “But about Tony, he is an old friend. I already told you that, and now he’s told you that, too—”

“So what? That means you’re going to talk to him no
matter what?” Brady stared forward, maybe looking hurt, I wasn’t sure.

“Listen, Brady . . .” I thought for a second. “His nonna—his grandma—is super sick. That’s what he was telling me tonight. He just wants me to come see her. It’s nothing more. You and I are rock solid.”

I leaned across the split seats and got as close to him as I could. He sighed and took my hand—the good one. (Protecting my mashed fingers was automatic for me.) He looked into my eyes and we kissed. I remembered summer, and my throat ached for wanting to roll in reverse, to go back to the way it was when Brady and I had kissed under the rhododendrons in the park. I tucked my face into his chest, breathed him in. He said, “I better get you home before
Bampas Dinos
sends a goon after me.”

I broke a little grin. “He doesn’t do things like that,” I said.

“I wish we stayed longer at the field,” Brady said. “Felt like half a party. We could have found a little camping spot, you know?” He slid his hands inside my jacket, took a tour all over the front of my sweater. He laughed. “You’re cold!” he said. He turned on the car and cranked up the heater fan. “Man, I want you. Did I ever tell you, I’m
always
wanting you. . . .” he said. “Always, always.”

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I
CALLED
T
ONY OVER THAT WEEKEND AND MADE A PLAN
to see Regina on Tuesday. I dreaded it in at least a hundred ways. Surely having cancer was making her even crankier than ever. The one good thing about the pending visit was that Momma and Bampas had agreed that this was a “lovely” thing for me to do. I was released from going straight home one more afternoon.

But before I had to face Queen Regina on Tuesday, there was Monday. I lied about using the library after school so I could hang with Brady. He asked me to go with him to Jumpin’ Joe’s—best sweet potato fries in town, and walking distance from school. We went Dutch. Brady never had a lot
of cash and I had never thought that guys should always buy.

I thought it’d be just the two of us, but it ended up being six of his friends too. I ordered somewhere in the middle of the pack, behind Brady. I turned from the counter, balancing the little cardboard boat of hot fries and a root beer, all while thumbing the change and a receipt against the palm of my bad hand. I glanced up to see where Brady was. Instead, I laid eyes on my motor-head, finger-fixer guy—just coming in the door.

Our eyes locked. I felt a split second rush of something good, like when I am instantly glad to see someone. I might have even started to smile. He raised his chin a hitch as if to say he recognized me. In the next rush, I was
not
glad to see him. I swallowed hard. He was looking at my hand, of course. No hiding that behind my back—not when what I really needed that day was a third one to carry everything.

He went up to the counter to order. I took my balancing act to the condiment table. I set it all down, pocketed my change. I broke open a salt packet and shook it over my potatoes until it was empty. Then I looked toward the counter again. He had a coffee cup and at the same second that he brought it to his lips, we caught eyes a second time. I looked away quickly.

Come on, Bettina, just get to a table
, I thought, and I gathered everything up again. Then Brady came up behind me
and knocked his knees into the backs of mine. My legs buckled and my drink sloshed onto my hand and into the fry boat. “Oh, don’t do that!” I said. His friends were laughing and I could feel my face flush.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Brady said, tilting his head at me a like a contrite little boy. Then he nudged me with his elbow, and my drink spilled again. He had this loud, high-pitched laugh, so there he was, crowing and gathering attention.

“Brady, come on.” I kept my voice low and tried to give him a good-sport sort of grin. “Stop it,” I said. “Seriously.”

“What? I didn’t do it again. I did something else!” he teased.

We sat down and, with my hands in my lap, I used a stack of napkins to mop my sleeve. I went carefully over my swollen fingers, trying to be invisible about it. I looked toward the take-out counter. No cowboy guy. Phew. And yet, I found myself scanning the lot outside the plate-glass window to see if he was getting in a car or just walking away. But he was gone.

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N
OW THAT
I
HAD SEEN HIM AGAIN
,
THAT COWBOY STUCK
to me like crazy. The light had been strong coming through the glass at Jumpin’ Joe’s. His gray-green eyes were intense, set deep behind an uncommon froth of pale lashes—or that’s what I saw in those few seconds. It was a long way to travel up to those eyes, and it seemed that not just anyone got to go there. My sense of that was moony; I wanted another look. The thought of him passed through my mind every hour or so. He’d been nice. Well, sort of “pissed-off” nice, if that was possible. Even that was interesting. I still had my class ring on his shoestring. I fiddled with it often. I thought about the way I’d walked out of his garage without saying thank you. What
a mess I had been.