The Things You Kiss Goodbye (9 page)

In the hygienist’s chair, I kept running ideas. With my mouth wide open, I watched the overhead lamp on that impossibly cool swinging arm. I imagined ideas beaming into me and I had to try not to laugh.

No cavities. Good hygiene. Rinse. Spit. I was out of there and back into the car. Two short blocks away from the high school on Green Street, Bampas pulled up in front of a tiny, mustard-yellow building. “I have to take a look,” he explained. I was not surprised. He often stopped and peered into empty buildings while we waited in the car. But this time he pressed a key into the lock and went inside.

I sat looking at the place. It looked like a toy that someone had left outside—misshapen with its bumped-out windows, the mismatched clapboards. The old brick chimney had a tile with the number 66 set into it.
So, 66 Green Street
, I thought. A metal stack popped through the roof with a top-hat cap that made it look like it would cough a puff of steam at any second. Out loud I said, “The Steam & Bean at 66 Green.” I hopped out of the car.

“Hey, Bampas?” I called to him. “May I come in?”

“Yes, yes,” he said, but he sounded irritated. At first, I thought it was because of me, but then I heard him say, “They leave it such a mess. They want their security deposit returned. But they give me no choice. . . .” He went on talking, more to the slightly rotten-smelling air than to me.

“That’s too bad,” I said. “So, Bampas, you own this building?”

He didn’t answer. But if he was arguing about security deposits, he must be the landlord. I tried to remember what I had seen here in the past. I followed him into the tiny kitchen at the back. It was not fancy—a little stove and bake oven, a dishwasher, a fridge, and a chest freezer. With all the empty shelves—no pots or dishes—the place looked stripped. It was grimy right up to the dull silver vent pipes along the ceiling.

My father poked around the kitchen in disgust. “People have no pride,” he muttered. He swore under his breath—something in Greek.

I peered into the serving area from the pass-through. I could imagine it—a small glass-front display out there, and half a dozen little tables with random chairs. There was one windowless wall—
For a mural
, I thought. Something fabulous in a perspective that would alter the space—make it look like a deep train platform where people were being served coffee and tea from fantastical windup machines. I could see mechanical arms made of brass and nickel gears scooping beans and dipping teabags into steamy china cups. Oh, I was nearly out of my mind with the possibilities.

“Bampas, what are you going do with this place? What happens to the building now? What if it wa—”

“Agh! Damn it!” He’d put his hand in something
disgusting. He turned to the sink. The faucet coughed and splashed on his suit jacket as he rinsed. “Bettina, it’s
not
your concern,” he said.

“But wouldn’t it make a good coffee shop?” I pressed. My father would know this sort of thing. “I mean, hypothetically. I have this art assignment—”

“Bettina! Enough! Now, come. You’re already late back to school. I should have dropped you off first,” he said. “Then I would not have all your questions, would I?” He shook water from his hands and motioned toward the door. I wanted one more look. I tried to turn around. But Bampas was on my heels and he wanted me out that door.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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B
AMPAS NEVER ANSWERED ME ABOUT STAYING AFTER
school every day. But a few mornings after my trip to the dentist, he brought what looked like a new phone to the breakfast table. He put it just above his place setting. It stayed there through his toast and coffee. When I moved to clear my place, he made a sound in his throat that stopped me. He put two fingers on the shiny phone and pushed it across the breakfast table. He stopped just before the phone reached my plate. I looked up at Momma.

“For you,” she said, and she smiled in a way that blanketed the room.

“Bampas? You got me a phone?”

“It is yours. . . .” Bampas cleared his throat, and I knew more was coming. “Yours to
use
.”

“Dinos,” my mother sighed. He’d taken something out of it for her.

“The phone belongs to me,” Bampas said. “It is for us to stay in touch.”

“Okay . . . what does that mean? What are the rules?”

“It means it is for our convenience and your safety. Be clear,” he said, “it is
not
a reward for the way you have complicated our family schedule. The plan is limited.” He held up a finger to make the point. “Do not think you can talk to friends for hours and hours. No endless messaging the way I see your friends doing in your school yard.”

Okay
, I thought.
He didn’t say
no
talking and he didn’t say
no
messaging
. “But I can give the number out? To friends?”

“Judiciously,”
Bampas said. “You’ll give it to your boyfriend, of course. But you have the phone so that we can discuss all of your constantly changing plans, Bettina.” His note of resentment was crystal clear.

From that moment on I felt ambivalent about having the phone. I worried that Bampas had his thumb on me; he could call me and say no to anything now.

But one thing had not changed. My best shot at getting him to yield was to go about it gradually and not shine too much light on it. So, my plan for staying after school was the
same; I would jump and squeak with the cheerleaders on Wednesday but meet my ride right on time afterward, and then go straight home on the bus both Thursday and Friday. It wouldn’t be so bad. I was throwing myself in to the Steam & Bean project and I could work on that at home.

Friday morning, I did a little research inside the coffee shop by the school. I stood on my toes, craning for a peek behind the counter while the girl poured my medium-light. She slid the cup my way. Then I did what I suppose I knew I was going to do all along; I ordered a second cup—black. That gave me another couple of minutes to check out coffee shop décor. I noted the orange walls with the pink and brown stripes; I took a picture of that. The colors seemed more like an invitation to leave than to stay and I wondered if that was done on purpose. I paid. Then I stepped out into the late-September morning sun.

Morning was
mine
, especially since Brady had started arriving closer and closer to the homeroom bell. I could hang in the girls’ room or I could deliver coffee without feeling like he was waiting for me. The sun felt good on my back as I hustled toward Unit 37. I walked in pursuit of my own shadow, I noticed. I watched my dark, pavement-self stretch its arms out. Coffee on the left, coffee on the right. I twirled once around, did a salsa sidestep—an old dance move.

As I got close to the industrial park, I slinked back a little.
Should I really stop in on this guy again?
I already had his coffee in my hand. I made a deal with myself: if I didn’t see him right away, I’d leave. If I found him working under a car again, I wouldn’t bother him. I’d disappear. I took a wide path to the door and stopped in my tracks.

He had a sign—a brand-new shop sign. It wasn’t even up yet. It was leaning on one end against the block wall just outside the overhead door. A loose dressing of bubble wrap still clung. I walked right up to the sign and tilted my head. It read:
SWS CLASSIC AUTO
. I stepped closer to look at the crisp edges on the cobalt lettering.
Sharp
, I thought. Being careful with the coffees, I used one elbow to push away a drift of the wrapping. An arching, gray band at the very top of the sign narrowed like a stretch of road receding, and on it, a simple, silhouette of a classic car looked like it was driving away.

“Well, hello again,
Beta
.” Cowboy used an easy drawl, but he startled me something crazy.

“Hello,
Cowboy
.” I did my best to parrot him. “Sweet sign,” I said.

“Hmm. I’m happy.”

“Happy? Hell, yeah! Kick-ass graphic. Great typeface. It’s beautiful,” I said. He held his bottom lip in his teeth for a second and tilted his head at me.

“So, kick-ass, like a tattoo?”

“No, kick-ass, like a really good logo for a car restoration
business. I mean, look at it. It says we fix ’em here and then you’re back on the road.”

“Well, okay then.”

“We must drink a toast. Cup o’ joe?” I offered. He took the black coffee with a smile that about dissolved me at my knees.
That
, I thought.
That right there is why this guy stays on my mind. That smile. The way he takes the cup. Lowers his lids. Puts his lips to the rim—

“So Beta, this is nice. But you don’t have to keep bringing these.” He looked at me over the cup. “You could just come by.” He headed back into the shop and since we seemed to be having a conversation, I followed him.

“Good to know,” I said. “But you’re helping me with some research this morning.”

“Whoa!” He swallowed. “What did I just drink?”

I laughed. “I had a reason to go to the coffee place today.”

“Are you job hunting?”

“Eh, no. Wouldn’t that be nice,” I mumbled. “No, I just wanted to know some stuff about the business for an art project. So, what’s in here?” I asked. I poked a finger at a pan full of dark liquid that sat on his worktable. A few nuts and bolts rattled inside it. “Screw soup?” I asked. We both laughed. “Breakfast of champions?”

“I have to brush the gunk off of those. It’s not done because it’s tedious.”

“Hmm. Ten minutes,” I said.

“How’s that?”

“I have ten minutes. Can I try it?”

He shrugged. “Not much
trying
involved. It’s just a pain in the ass.” I picked up a wire brush from the bench. “Wait, wait.” Cowboy swiped two rubber gloves out of a dispenser box and tossed them my way.

“I love the smell,” I said, leaning over the pan.

“Me too.” Cowboy laughed. “It’s a good thing. I live with it all day, and I take it home with me every night.” He disappeared around the far side of a silver car and went back to work.

While I brushed, I thought about what he’d said. Taking the smell home. I loved it when I caught a whiff of the art room on my clothes at the end of the day. And of course, I loved the scent of SWS Classic Auto that lingered on that shoelace that Cowboy had put my class ring on. I looked over my shoulder at him, and saw him curled over the silver car. His home. What was it like?
He’s older than me
, I thought.
Damn, he could be married
. I wasn’t used to looking for wedding bands on men’s hands. Maybe this was weird—me bringing him coffee, and now
brushing his bolts
. I laughed right out loud.

“What’s tickling you?” he called, his head still down inside the car.

“Nothing!” Just being sophomoric. “Hey, it’s getting
late. I probably better split,” I called. I peeled the gloves and peered at the clean bolts. “I think these are done.”

“I’m sure they’re beautiful,” he said.

“Do I leave them in the tray?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

At the overhead door I gave the new
SWS CLASSIC AUTO
sign another good look. I glanced back at Cowboy too, but he didn’t look up. Weird or not, I liked hanging out at Unit 37—and he had said I could come by. I could have stayed there all day.

When I reached the playing fields, I could see that the back lot of the school was busy. Kids were swarming toward the entrances. I was on the late side. So I jogged. I still got to my locker before Brady did. But, oh, what a wash of guilt I felt when he handed me a short little stem of purple mums and brushed his lips across my forehead.

“Don’t forget, we’re on for tonight,” he said.

Friday afternoon found me running again, this time, through the hallway at school. I had to get into the art room before I got on the bus, and pick up my portfolio, which had the Steam & Bean project in it. I wasn’t going home for the weekend without it. I wove my way between the desks and stools to the back of the room where the storage drawers were. Big Bonnie suddenly rose from the floor, her curry hair tied into a little tuft at the top of her head. She wore a blue
check mark of glaze dust on one cheek. In her chapped hands she held a clay pot.

“Oh, hey,” she said.

“Hi, Bonnie,” I said. I was breathing hard.

“You’re a in hurry. Going to see Brady before the bus?” She grinned.

Brady. I felt sad hearing her say his name. This was a girl that Brady would never, never have given the time of day to, though he did probably know who she was—everyone did. Her height and her fuzzy yellow hair made her stand her out. But Bonnie also served on student government, and her family ran the main funeral parlor in town. There were jokes about everyone ending up over at the Swensons’. I once heard some of that escalate into some sick, sex-with-the-dead stuff. But Bonnie had great comebacks ready: “Yeah, well, when it’s your turn we’ll be sure to ice your sheet and put a mint under your slab,” she’d said.

“I’m actually not going to see Brady,” I finally answered her. “I’m grabbing my work for the weekend.”

“Ah. The coffee shop.” She was still holding the piece of pottery with both hands and she took care of a nose itch with her upper arm. “How’s that going?” she asked.

“Actually, I’m having a pretty good time with it. What about you?”

“Ooh . . . I have to put in some more work on mine. . . .”
She grimaced. “But it’ll come together. One thing at a time. Right now, I have to concentrate on this.” She nodded toward the kiln and turned back to her work.

“You’re loading for a firing?”

“I am.”

Dumb. Of course she was. She was always the one. I’d had a Clay Basics class with her sophomore year—all pinch or slab work. I’d always felt like I’d missed seeing a major step of the process because I’d never loaded or emptied a kiln. Mr. T wanted that done after school when the room was empty and the forms could be moved safely. He’d asked for sign-ups. But I was always on the bus at that hour, and other kids begged off, and that left Bonnie loading the kiln by herself.