The Inevitable Collision of Birdie & Bash

by Candace Ganger

  “What are we doing?” I ask. “It’s almost time to open.”

  He pulls something the thickness of a pencil, the length of a lollipop stick, from his pocket, purses it between his lips, and lights the end with that blue Bic lighter. He inhales, long and slow, releases a puff of smoke in my face before placing it between my fingers. “Here’s to fighting the good fight.”

  Somehow, the small, hand-twisted cigarette thing is now in my hand. His eyes squint to avoid the smoke cloud that’s moving between us, and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. Unlike everyone at school, I only know it’s marijuana from the D.A.R.E. program; never been the girl invited to the parties where it was everywhere or the girl who knows a guy who knows a girl who has it. I wouldn’t have even known what it looks like, smells like, if it weren’t for this moment right now. And to be honest, it’s nothing like I imagined. I hold the paper stick like a pencil and sniff it. His eyes stare through the open door’s slit, into the open lot that’s directly behind us.

  “I don’t want to get in trouble,” I say, my eyes wide.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I never get high anymore. I’m doing this for you.”

  The cold air floats in from the cracked door. “Thanks? Um, but no thanks.”

  He plucks the stick from my fingers, inhales again, holds the drug in his lungs while he opens his mouth to speak. This time, he blows the smoke out the side of his mouth. “Just want you to keep that, you know, happy feeling, or whatever.”

  There’s a long silence between us. We’re both shifting, shuffling our bodies together to keep warm, but in a way that’s not so obviously obvious. His eyes find me, anchor me into the floor. My heart kind of drops. I don’t want it to—I hate it, actually—but it falls straight to my feet. He inches closer, the specks of gold in his eyes clearer to me now. My hand is tucked in his arm to hold my balance, really just to hold him at all. I smell his dirty shirt beneath the smoke. It comforts me.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Why?”

  “Yeah. Why do you want me to ‘keep that happy feeling or whatever’?”

  “Because it’s nice.”

  “Me being happy is nice?” I joke. “Okay.”

  “Maybe it’s not. Shit. I don’t know.” He shifts his stare to the outside.

  The sound of the gusty wind is all I hear. It whistles and bends and sways, a song written just for us. I decide he’s right. Maybe I need to let go for once in my perfect life—more than just sneaking out to some lame party—more than anything even I can rationalize. So I lean my head in toward his. My lips are soft and open, and with all his attention focused on my next move, I pinch the cigarette and pull it from his mouth with mine—something I saw his ex do to him at that “rager.” He probably didn’t know I saw him sitting with her before he approached me, but I did. Couldn’t take my eyes off of him, actually. But when he stood, I quickly retreated to the couch.

  My mouth wraps around the paper. Our eyes sync and I inhale, slow, like I’ve done this a million times before. The corners of his mouth are upturned. It pleases him to see me break character, and it’s the same face he first made at me when we spoke at the party. I couldn’t say it, but it got me then, it gets me now.

  Secretly, breaking character pleases me, too. The only problem? The breath I take is too big, not that I know the right way to do this, and I instantly choke, losing all sexy credentials fast.

  “That was ambitious.” He laughs.

  I try to stifle the cough, gurgling and clearing my throat. When everything settles, he offers me another puff. “Nope. I’m good, thanks.”

  “My ex used to do that.”

  “What—get high?”

  “Pull it from my lips.”

  “Oh,” I say, knowing this already. “Then I take it back.”

  “No.” He’s still smiling, those lips turned all the way up as far as they can go. “I like it.”

  I already know this, too.

  He drops the stick to the floor and puts the lit end out with the tip of his boot, then crosses his arms as he leans his back against the door’s frame to watch the clouds. My fingers fall from the crook of his elbow and hang free. I can’t pretend we didn’t have a moment just now. My blood is warm, and I’m overly aware of it flowing through every inch of me. I wish he would kiss me. Please, kiss me. Pull me by the waist and press your lips to mine. It’s everything he probably wanted to do at the party and everything I didn’t realize I wanted him to do. Until now.

  “So how often do you do that?” I ask, awkwardly filling the quiet.

  “Do what?”

  “The weed.”

  He laughs. “I don’t think I’ve done”—he uses his fingers to make air quotes—“the weed in, like, a year.”

  “You just happen to have it today, of all days?”

  He bows his head, plunging his hands into his pockets. “Cleaned out Ma’s dresser drawer. She used to smoke for the pain.”

  I scoot closer, enough to make him nervous. My fingers climb up between his elbow and chest and gently grab ahold of his arm. He scrunches his body up against the door frame but his eyes, and every bit of gold, are locked into mine.

  “Thanks for the money you left at the hospital…,” I say.

  He swallows and loses focus. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I nod. “Must’ve been someone else who draws bears.”

  He shrugs, keeps his head away from me now.

  “Seriously,” I say, “thank you.”

  “It was like, literally, nothing. A fraction of nothing.”

  “I do like fractions.” I slide my hand down his arm, slow, where it lands in the center of his hand. Our fingers interlock. The contact pulses a jolt through my whole body, and by the way he’s looking at me, his, too.

  No more thinking, Birdie. I lean in with my lips puckered. My voice softens to a wisp of air into his ear. “It was everything.”

  He’s biting his lip, hard. The closer I get, I notice, the more he backs away. I suddenly feel my cheeks flush. I back away, too. What am I doing?

  “You hungry?” He kicks the rock out of place and lets the door slam shut, breaking the space between us as fast as he possibly can. A thunderous boom echoes, and while I’m watching the vibrations settle, he’s already on his way back up the stairs without me. I follow him to the food court, which is really just another tiny booth stuffed with random snack foods and the liquid cheese they use for pretzels and chips, and linger while he hops behind the counter. He tosses me a bag of chips and a candy bar while opening a bottle of pop.

  “Is this okay?” I ask. “I mean, does Vinny care if we do this?”

  His mouth is stuffed full of junk as he sits on top of the fractured vinyl table top, his legs dangling. “Who cares? Stop thinking. Good things are happening, Birdie. Revel in the now and get out of that beautiful head.”

  I’m blushing again, every rosy color of the spectrum. “So you do think I’m pretty.”

  “No,” he says, stern. “Not pretty—beautiful. There’s a difference.”

  I toss back a handful of chips and try not to overthink how intriguingly complicated this boy is, because if I do, all those files will combust. “Oh, yeah? Do tell.”

  “Pretty is this sort of mediocre idea people hold on to because they can’t decide if something’s amazing or not. When you’re pretty, it’s like saying you’re a flower or a doll or a fluffy-ass cat. There’s no real feeling behind it. But when you’re beautiful—my God, and you are, and don’t even know it—it’s like seeing a sunrise for the first time. The way the colors streak the sky with a kind of hope you won’t feel any other part of the day. You, Birdie, are that hope.”

  I’m midchew and. I. Just. Stop. Whhaaaat?

  He’s not moving. I finally crunch down on the final bits trapped between my teeth when he jumps up and pulls me by the arm into the skate room. “Skates—what size?”

  “Seven, but I don’t skate.”

  He looks
me over. “Your feet look bigger than that.”

  I purse my lips and begin to counter that argument, but once he tosses a pair at me, he disappears into the DJ room. The lights pop on and paint the rink in bold colors, only this time, there is no disco ball to remind me of the red and blue lights I so desperately want to forget. With a loud stream of feedback over the speaker, his voice bounces from wall to wall. “Now, we skate.”

  He glides onto the floor, urging me on with a nod of his head. I tie up the last lace and wobble my way out as if I’ve just been given legs. My arms are spread out in front of me, my knees are shaking, and I feel so completely out of control. I hate it, but I also like it. He smirks as he continues speeding in circles past me to show off his talent.

  “Could you help me?” I yell.

  “No!” he yells back, laughing to himself. “Life is about learning to help yourself.”

  I mumble something under my breath like I hate you but manage to grab ahold of the side rail and pull myself along. Just as I get my footing, Bash pushes past me, knocking me flat on my back. Humiliated, I pull myself up, inch to the seated area, and toss my skates to the floor. My eyes sting with tears, and that nagging, sour pain that bites the back of my throat, returns.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, skidding to a stop in front of me.

  “You’re an ass. There are times I think maybe you’re not, but no—you really are.”

  “Took you long enough to figure it out. But really, are you okay?”

  “No.” Sore and humbled, I toss the skates over the counter, not paying attention to where they land. My mood is definitely not still “happy or whatever.”

  “But it’s time to unlock the doors,” I grunt.

  He looks at the clock—“Shit”—and does the same with his skates, letting them land somewhere in skate oblivion for Dave to handle when he arrives. Near the front, he unlocks the door where people are waiting beneath the awning in a line that wraps around the back bend.

  “Weird crowd for a Friday afternoon,” I whisper.

  “Discounted rate,” he says. “Price goes up after five, remember?”

  “They’re cheapskates,” I say with a smirk. I can tell he’s trying not to laugh, but the corners of his lips lift anyway.

  He pulls a ticket stub off the roll and hands it to an older lady who’s exploded through the door. By the way she’s aged, I estimate her to be in her sixties. “How’s it going, Gina?” he asks.

  She lays her hand on the counter and sighs. “I woke up today and realized it’s been seven years since I lost Hugh. SEVEN. Where does the time go? I think I’ve been in a daze.”

  She digs around in her purse and hands him a couple dollars, but he pushes them back to her. She looks surprised. “Is it more than that? Because I only brought—”

  He shakes his head. “No, no. On the house today. In honor of Hugh.”

  She looks to me, then to Bash with a grin. “Thanks, doll. Who’s the new girl?”

  “No one,” he says. I shoot lasers through the side of his face with my eyes.

  “What’s your name, honey?” she asks me.

  My eyes are still on Bash. “Birdie.”

  “Don’t sweat it. Hugh never introduced me, either. Must be love.” She winks, moving into the main room to lace up the skates she brought with her. All the regulars bring their own.

  “What’s with you?” I ask him. “Everything was fine and then, I don’t know.” He’s fidgeting with the ticket roll.

  The doors burst open again, sending a polar wind through the office. A couple comes through, hand in hand. They’ve got their own skates, too, slung over each shoulder; hers pink, his brown. The man, bald in all the weird places, slides his hand beneath the glass window to shake Bash’s.

  “Hey, man!” Bash says. “Haven’t seen you in a couple.”

  “Sebastian,” the man says, his smile turning the corners of his mustache up. “We were in the Bahamas for our anniversary.” Bash purses his lips, makes an oooh sound. “Don’t know why we ever came back to this shit weather.”

  The woman lets go of his hand, slaps him on the arm. “Skip.”

  “What?” He winks at me. And then there’s a long silence like they’re waiting on Bash to say something about me. He doesn’t.

  “Let me guess,” Bash says. “Janie likes the shit weather.”

  The three of them laugh like they’re sharing some inside joke. The woman is nodding and the man is, too. “You know us too well. So who’s this?” They’re pointing at me like I can’t answer for myself.

  Before Bash can talk, I do. “No one.” Beat him at his own game, I think. He’s not smiling, though.

  There’s an awkward silence before the man speaks again. “So … you doing okay?”

  “Still working in this dump, so … what does that tell ya?”

  The man pulls his wallet from his back pocket and fumbles through the bills. He hands Bash enough money to cover another hundred skaters. Bash pushes it away. “It’s way too much.”

  The man insists, handing it back, “No,” he says, “I counted. It’s exactly right. Merry Christmas.”

  Bash’s face is red as he folds the change into his pocket. “Merry Christmas.”

  With a quick swivel of the chair, he jumps up and moves to the other side of the room to thumb through a thick stack of papers. I can tell he doesn’t want me to say anything, so I don’t.

  “Be right back,” he says.

  “You said that the other night. Then you ditched me.”

  I can’t see his face, but I think I hear him laugh to himself. “Things are different now, Couch Girl. Just going to the bathroom. Relax.”

  When he leaves, I move to the chemistry book lying face up on the desk next to the uneaten cupcake. Being the curious nib-nose I am, I flip through it. Standard chemistry—something I took my freshman year. I get lost in the text, unaware of the faces staring at me through the window.

  Tap tap tap.

  I move my eyes up to the glass, where I see something I’m not expecting—Brynn. My baby sister, with raccoon eyes and bloodred lipstick, stares back at me. Her hair is in spiral curls, and judging by the three cup sizes added, she has on Mom’s push-up bra, or three. I shove the chair back and stomp out toward her. “What are you doing?”

  She clings to this boy she’s with—this man’s—biceps. Her face sours. “We’re on a date.”

  I’m laughing, like, hysterically, manically laughing. “You’re kidding, right?”

  She looks confused. The glitter pressed over her eye makeup flakes onto her cheek. “This is real, Birdie. Jeremy and I are in love. Not that you know anything about that.”

  “Neither do you.” I shove my finger into his chest. “She’s thirteen. How are old are you, Jeremy—like twenty?”

  He shrugs. “Almost.”

  “Ugh.” Just the sight of him. The way his long sports tee hangs over a faded pair of saggy jeans, baseball hat cocked to the side that reveals the hint of bleach on his yellow strands. Brynn clings tighter to him. It’s gross and illegal. But mostly gross.

  “Get away from him,” I tell her. I drag her away, shoving the perv toward the door just as Bash skids across the floor to where we’re standing.

  “What the hell’s going on?” he asks. He’s moving toward this man, stops at eye level. His fists are balled up tight. “This asshole bothering you, Birdie?”

  “Yeah—that’s my little sister.” I point to Brynn, who is slumped in the corner, biting the tips of her nails clean off.

  “It’s none of your business!” Brynn snaps.

  Bash grabs a fistful of the guy’s shirt and forces him back into the wall. His body slams, hard, and soon he’s vibrating anger, ready to unleash it on Bash.

  “Leave him alone!” Brynn shouts. She runs into the middle of the two alphas and pushes back at Bash, but he repels her. There’s a fire in his glare, something I’ve not seen before.

  “Easy, Bash!” I yell. “And Brynn—go sit down!�
��

  “You’re not my goddamned mother!”

  The way she turns her head, a stray feather catches my eye, and all the rage I’ve buried rises to the surface. I reach my hand into that dirty nest of hair, pinch the soft grooves of fur, and pull. The feather nearly disintegrates in my hands.

  “Ouch!” she screeches.

  “She was good, Bash,” the man says with an evil smile. It’s as if they already know each other so I step aside.

  Bash pulls him forward, then slams him back into the concrete wall again, this time, harder. “Shut up!”

  “If I close my eyes, I can still taste her.”

  Before I can think, like really think, about these events, Bash cocks back one of those tightly clenched fists and whops the man square across the side of his jaw at the exact moment Vinny pops through the door. I see this happening, like Benny’s stroller gliding down the hill, a symphonic melody streaming to void the noise, but I don’t, can’t, move. Brynn screams to break them apart but they’re locked in some weird dance to prove who’s the toughest.

  Vinny drops the box he’s got lodged between his arms, tries to break up the fight, but gets caught in the cross fire with one of Bash’s fists striking him right in the eye. His head wallops back, then flings forward. Everyone freezes as Vinny writhes in pain.

  “What. The. Hell?” Vinny cries out. He kicks the box on the floor three times to get his point across.

  I look to Brynn, who looks to Jeremy, who looks to Bash.

  “If I have to ask again, it’s going on a police report.” A redness forms around the punched eye, a bruise sure to follow. “You”—he points to Bash—“tell me what happened.”

  Bash says nothing, just focuses on the floor.