Alex, Approximately

by Jenn Bennett

  “Never seen her, but my cousin painted that old Thunderbird your mama had.”

  “Yeah? She sold that a couple of years ago,” Porter says. “Hated to. She loved that bike.”

  Fast Mike looks past Porter and notices me.

  “This is Bailey,” Porter says. “The Vespa we’re looking for belongs to her.”

  The man blows out a hard breath through his nostrils. He opens the door wider. “Better come inside, then. Got a feeling this isn’t gonna be pretty.”

  We follow him through a small office with two tidy desks, a counter, and an old register. No one’s there. Past an old couch and a coffeemaker, another door leads into the garage. Burnt engine oil and old paint fumes hit me as we step onto stained concrete. Seventies rock music plays on a radio on a work bench. Rows of fluorescent lights hum over three drive-in bays, the closest of which is occupied by two motorcycles. The middle bay is empty but for three people, sitting around in folding chairs, talking. But it’s what’s in the far bay that snatches 100 percent of my attention.

  One mustard-yellow pickup truck, blue lightning on the side, passenger window covered in a black garbage bag.

  And behind the truck: one turquoise Vespa with a leopard-print seat.

  I feel like I might pass out. And maybe that’s why it takes my brain a couple of extra seconds to realize that one of the people lounging around in the chairs is Davy. In a way that’s good, because I suddenly feel like committing a wild and vicious attack on him. But in another way, it’s really, really bad, because Porter isn’t dazed like me. Just the opposite, in fact. He’s a laser beam, and he’s headed straight for his former best friend.

  The two other seated people scatter. Davy now sees Porter coming and the look on his face is absolute panic. He rushes to leap up, but his foot slips, and he can’t quite stand. Porter lunges with both arms, shoving him with so much unhinged violence that Davy flies backward. Boy and metal both slam against a concrete pylon and slide across the floor.

  “You piece of shit,” Porter says, stalking Davy to where he’s now crumpled in a heap by the tire of his truck. “Too much of a coward to steal from me, so you jacked her stuff?”

  Davy’s groaning and holding his head in his hand. I’m worried he’s got a concussion, but when he opens his eyes and looks up at Porter, there’s nothing but rage. “I hate you.”

  “That makes two of us, junkie.”

  Davy cries out, a horrible battle cry that tears through the air and bounces around the garage. In quick succession, he leverages onto his good leg, grabs the folding chair, and swings upward. I scream. The chair bashes into Porter’s face. His head jerks sideways. Blood spatters. The chair leg slips out of Davy’s hands and sails through the air, clanging into his truck.

  Porter’s doubled over.

  I try to run to him, but strong hands clamp around my arms. “Whoa,” Fast Mike says in my ear. “He’s okay. Let those boys work it out themselves.”

  But he’s wrong. Porter’s not okay. When he pulls his hand away from his face, there’s blood all over it. A big gash crosses his cheek. Dumb boy that he is, he just shakes his head like a wet dog and refocuses.

  “That’s it,” he growls and slams his fist into Davy’s face. Hard.

  After that, the whole thing is a mess. They’re on top of each other, both throwing punches that land God knows where. It’s not like a well-staged boxing match or a movie, it’s just chaotic and weird, and more grappling than anything else. They’re shouting and grunting and slugging each other in the ribs so hard, something’s going to break or get punctured.

  This is a nightmare.

  I’m terrified they’re actually going to kill each other. These aren’t wimpy kids on the playground, giving each other bloody noses. They’re rabid wolves, straining with muscle, teeth bared. And someone’s going down.

  “Let me go,” I tell Fast Mike. I can’t let Porter do this. If he gets seriously hurt, I don’t know what I’ll do. But I can help somehow . . . can’t I? I look around for something to break up the fight. Maybe I can hit Davy on the head with something—

  I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. Davy’s grabbing Porter’s hair—his hair! He has a fistful of Porter’s dark curls, and he’s wrenching his head back . . . is he going to bite his face? WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?

  Porter’s lower body twists. He gives a powerful back kick to Davy’s bad knee.

  A sickening crunch! echoes around the garage.

  Davy drops to the floor.

  He doesn’t get up. He’s clutching his knee, mouth open. Silent tears begin falling.

  Porter’s chest heaves. All the veins stand out on his arms. A thick line of blood flows down his cheek and neck, disappearing into the black of his security guard uniform. “I’m calling your grandma, and I’m gonna tell her what you did today,” Porter says as he stands over his friend, looking down at him. “I’m also telling my folks. I’ve given you so many chances, and you’ve thrown them all in my face. I can’t ever trust you again. We’re done.”

  “Love is the only thing that can save this poor creature.”

  —Gene Wilder, Young Frankenstein (1974)

  16

  * * *

  We load Baby in the back of Porter’s van. Except for the seat lock being popped, she seems to be in one piece. We found my helmet and all my stuff scattered behind the seat of Davy’s truck. We also found my scooter lock hanging off his tailgate; he’d removed it with industrial bolt cutters.

  Turns out that one of the two people sitting with Davy when we first walked into the garage was a friend of Davy’s. Seeing how he was planning on helping Davy sell my scooter, I didn’t say anything to the guy, but Porter told him to drive Davy to the hospital. When they left, Davy could walk—barely—but he was going to need X-rays. And probably some pain medication, which was just lovely, considering what I now know about Davy’s history with drugs.

  But after all that, Davy didn’t say one word to me. He wouldn’t even look me in the eye or acknowledge I was in the same room. Truth was, I couldn’t really face him, either. It was humiliating for both of us, I guess. And I’m pretty much in such a state of shock over the whole fight that I can barely speak.

  When we’re ready to leave, Porter thanks Fast Mike, who advises me on a better-quality scooter lock. Turns out that his motorcycle garage isn’t a chop shop at all; he was seconds away from kicking Davy out before he got the phone call about Porter looking for my Vespa. So once again, my assumptions and I are completely off the mark. He says to Porter, “Tell your mama next time she wants to sell a bike like that, to come to me first. I’ll give her a good deal.”

  “You got it,” Porter says, “We owe you big-time. You know anyone that needs a board, come by the shop.”

  Fast Mike gives us a wave. We race through the rain and hop inside the van, and then we drive away. The windows are all fogging up, and I’m trying to help, looking for the switch to turn on the defrost, but my hands are shaking. I’m still freaked out. I can’t calm down. “The black button,” Porter says, and I finally find it. I turn the fan all the way up and try to concentrate on making the windshield clear instead of the fact that he’s still bleeding. It works until we come to the end of the dirt road.

  “I think we should go see a doctor.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “You’re being ridiculous. Pull over at the first store you see and I’ll get something to clean your wound.”

  He cranes his neck and appraises the damage in the rearview mirror. Yep. Listen to the smart person in the vehicle. Instead of turning right on the paved road to head back home, he turns left. Should he even be driving? Davy did punch him in the head a few times. Or maybe he knows something I don’t. Now the road is going uphill. We’re winding up some coastal cliffs, and the rain’s coming down. And I see a sign that says SCENIC OVERLOOK. He slows the van and turns into one of those pull-over areas for tourists to park. It’s got a couple of Monterey cypress trees and a redwood sign wit
h a carving of the central coast of California and all the points of interest marked. It’s also got a jaw-dropping view of the Pacific, which we might enjoy if it weren’t overcast and drizzling, and he weren’t bleeding all over the seat.

  “This doesn’t look like a store to me,” I say anxiously when he opens up his door.

  “We don’t need no stinking store,” he says in a way that almost reminds me of a line from a Mel Brooks movie, Blazing Saddles. I never liked that one as much as Brooks’s other comedy classic Young Frankenstein, which I’ve watched online with Alex a couple of times. But it makes me a little guilty to think about that when I’m here with Porter.

  Porter the animal. I’m still rattled over the insane amount of raw violence I just witnessed. And I’m not sure how I feel about it.

  He jumps out, groaning, and heads around the van to a sliding side door, where he retrieves a small box. Then he comes back and slips back into the front seat and opens the treasure he’s collected: a plastic first-aid kit covered in stickers.

  “Surfers always carry supplies,” he explains, rooting around the box with one finger. “We get banged up all the time.”

  After several seconds of watching him struggle, I realize his other hand is too busted up to use, and pity overrides whatever lingering shock I’m still experiencing. I snatch the kit away from him. “Let me see that. You can’t nurse yourself, dummy.”

  “Oh, good. I did all this as an excuse for you to put your hands on me.”

  “Not funny.”

  “A little funny.”

  I find some alcohol swabs and a bunch of butterfly bandages, along with a couple of condoms, which I try not to think about too hard. “You scared the bejesus out of me. Look, here’s a packet of Tylenol. It’s been expired for a few months, but better than nothing. You have something to drink it with?”

  “You need to work on your bedside manner, Nurse Bailey,” he says, groaning as he leans to pick up a half-empty bottle of water wedged in the seat. He pretends to be irritated with me when I pretend to be mad at him as I hand him the pills. He swallows them and grunts.

  I kneel on the seat and tear open a swab. The sharp scent of alcohol fills the van. We both make faces. He swings his door open, and the fresh air feels good. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks below is calming. Sort of.

  Too chicken to start on his face, I tentatively pull back the collar of his shirt and swipe the cool swab over the dried blood on his neck. He shudders. “Cold.”

  “Sorry,” I murmur. I make quick work of the trail of blood, but it’s harder when I get to all his scruff. I unfold the swab, rearrange the first-aid kit in my lap, and get serious about cleaning him up. If I focus on this, then my mind will stop jumping back to frightening images of him ripping Davy apart like a wild beast. He leans his head back against the seat and closes his eyes.

  “Porter?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Remember that time you saw Davy talking to me outside the vintage clothing store on the boardwalk?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He didn’t know I was listening, but I saw him come in the store and ask the girl at the counter, Julie, to help him out because he was going down to Monterey and needed something.”

  Porter’s eyes fly open. “What? That’s not what he told me.”

  “He was lying. And when he was talking to her inside the store, she said, ‘I thought you were chipping.’ And he told her that he was, but he just needed something for today, and that he promised it was only once, and she said she’d try to help him.”

  “I knew it.” Porter hits the steering wheel.

  I put a hand on his arm. He’s going to reopen the gash on his cheek if he’s not careful, and I haven’t even gotten to clean it yet. “What’s chipping?”

  “He’s such an embarrassment.”

  “Yeah, get that. Just tell me. Girl with the alcohol, remember? If you don’t tell me, I will make you burn.”

  A sigh gusts out of his chest as he sinks into the seat, lazily propping one knee against the dash between us, making my knees press against his leg. I absently wonder if he did that on purpose—he’s always closer than I’m comfortable being—but he’s baring his cheek for me now, so I get back to work while he talks.

  “Davy jacked up his leg surfing somewhere he shouldn’t have been surfing three years ago. He wasn’t watching the weather, and he took a risk. He had two surgeries. When the oxycodone prescriptions ran out, he started buying it from a kid at school. And when that ran out, he started looking for anything else—vodka, coke . . . but nothing kills the pain quite like opiates. And what’s a better opiate than heroin?”

  My hand stills. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “It’s surfing’s dirty little secret.”

  “Like, shooting up?”

  “As far as I know, he smokes it, but I’m not really around when he’s doing it. I’m just going by what I’ve heard, and I’ve never seen any needle marks. That really, really stings, Bailey.”

  “I’m sorry. You probably need stitches. It’s bleeding a little again.” I push his hair back and see a nasty bump on his temple. He’s lucky that chair didn’t smash any bones in his face. I’m not entirely convinced it didn’t, actually.

  He winces. “Keep cleaning it, just be kind. Anyway, ‘chipping’ is something people do when they think they can outsmart heroin. They do just enough to get high for a weekend, or whatever, but don’t allow themselves to have any more until the next weekend—cold turkey all week, so they don’t go through withdrawals. If they aren’t addicted, they’re in charge, right?”

  “That doesn’t sound like it would work so well,” I say.

  “It doesn’t. Because there’s always that one holiday weekend that turns into three days, or they’re having a bad week and need to blow off steam on a Wednesday. And before they know it, they’re backsliding, and their conservative plan is busted. They’re lying to themselves, thinking that they’ve got it under control. Like Philip Seymour Hoffman. People say that’s what killed him.”

  I’m stunned. I know Wanda said Davy was into serious narcotics, but heroin? That sounds like something out of a movie. It doesn’t happen in real life. Not to people my age, anyway. “Does this hurt?” I ask, lightly dabbing antibiotic ointment on his wound. It looks like a crevice in a dry desert, red and angry, cracked open.

  “Nothing hurts when you’re touching me,” he says in a faraway voice.

  I have to stop myself from smiling because I’m afraid he might open his eyes and catch me. And I don’t want his eyes open, because I can look at him up close now. The sharp lift of his cheekbones. The way his wild curls, damp with misty rain, are honey where the sun has burnished them, darker beneath. The gentle upturn of the outer corners of his eyes, and the prominent jut of his nose.

  “Is he going to be okay?” I ask.

  “Davy? I really don’t know,” Porter says, sucking in a hard breath as I fix a butterfly bandage to his cut. Three should do it, and that’s all we have, so I guess it will have to. “I’m less worried about him right now, and more worried that you’re sorry you ever gave me your number and will never go out on a date with me, because now you’re thinking all my friends are trash and we really have nothing in common.”

  “Is that so?” I peel off the paper backing for the second butterfly bandage. “And why do you even like me if we have nothing in common?”

  “Well, you’re a knockout, obviously.”

  No one’s ever called me this. I feel my chest getting fluttery and warm.

  “And you laugh at my jokes.”

  A laugh bursts out—I can’t help it. That’s . . . so very Porter. It’s self-absorbed and kind of endearing at the same time.

  “Don’t get me wrong, you’re pretty witty yourself,” he adds, cracking one eye open.

  “Oh, am I? That’s awfully generous of you.”

  He gives me a sheepish smile, chuckling, and shoves at my hands, because I’m playfully slapping
him on the shoulder. “You’re welcome. And, and—listen, now! Oww! I’m injured. Stop laughing, damn you, and listen to me. You have to admit, if you think about it, we get along really, really well when we’re not fighting.”

  Is he right? Do we?

  I think we just might.

  Porter makes a growling noise. “See, but that’s the other thing. I talk too much when I’m around you. You make me feel way too comfortable, and that drives me bananas.”

  I laugh one final time and blow my hair out of my eyes. “You drive me bananas too.”

  There it is, that stupid, sexy smile of his. He reaches for my hand and stops halfway, groaning. “That is not a good way to move my arm.”

  Now I’m concerned again. I ball up the bandage papers and close the first-aid kit. “Davy didn’t injure any anything serious, did he? Ribs?”

  “If you want me to take my shirt off, all you have to do is ask, Rydell.”

  “I’m serious.”

  He sighs. “I don’t think so, but I’m not gonna lie—starting to feel a little achy-breaky in the riblet region. Think I’d better take a peek, so you might want to look away if you’re sensitive to dynamite male bodies. I don’t want you swooning at the sight of raw surfer.”

  “Lord knows I’ve been forced to stare at Davy’s naked chest a hundred times, so I’m pretty sure I can handle yours. Come on, let’s see the damage.”

  But as he unbuttons his Cave guard shirt, it’s the least sexy thing in the world, because all I’m preoccupied with is how I’m going to drive this van if he’s got a broken rib. And it only gets worse when his shirttails flap open.

  If I thought Davy was built, I was wrong. Davy is a twig. Porter is a cliff. He’s what happens when people use all their muscles at once to balance on a tiny plank of wet wood on massive, monster waves every day for years. All at once, I’m amazed at the beauty of the human body, ashamed at myself for using mine to do nothing but walk around the block and watch movies on Dad’s couch, and, most of all, I’m completely and wholeheartedly shocked by what Davy has done to him.