by E. M. Kokie
“Is that the technical term?”
“You know what I mean.”
I know he thinks they’re crazy or dangerous. I’ve heard him and Dad, what passes for heart-to-hearts between brothers who have spent a lifetime mastering nonverbal communication with each other. But the people at Clearview aren’t crazy or dangerous, not even Devon and them. They’re not afraid to think practically about ammo rationing and regulations, to be planning now for the next phase of disarmament, or to organize into training units. I would be happier if they were primarily about mobility, but I get that for now they’re focused on getting the club ready and recruiting. Not sure I like that people — maybe whole families — can just buy in if they have enough money, without any proof they have skills or can learn. Every good MAG and group out there says to be wary of leeches with money. But more paying members means more facilities, more equipment, better ranges, and better preparation. It makes sense, so long as you don’t take on more dead weight than you can handle.
Dad’s happy to have Riggs’s attention. Stupid happy, like he’s got a new best friend. More and more meetings he has to go to. More and more certain that a paycheck — a “good one”— is right around the corner. Riggs’s hand on his shoulder when they walk together.
Mark’s all in. He looks more in every time I see him, which is only when we run into each other out there, since he’s crashing with some of the guys now. Puffed up with how cool and in he is — and I’m not. He acts like he doesn’t even know me. Like he’s finally, finally moved past me, or like he’s won.
People still stare at me when I’m out there. I can feel them watching sometimes, even when I don’t see anyone, like on the walk from the parking area, past the buildings to the trails.
I know there are probably training sessions happening beyond the open sessions. I’m not sure when or where, how official they are. For all I know, none of the girls are allowed. Maybe that’s how they’re placating the guys.
The bell rings and I look up. Another shiny tourist SUV and two over-dressed richies out for an afternoon drive. Inside, they blink in the dimness, look around like they were expecting some big fancy store. She needs the bathroom. He needs directions. She comes out, scowling, coating herself in hand sanitizer like even the soap and water were dirty. He studies the drink case. She browses the snacks. She’s scrutinizing the labels, frowning and muttering. He’s ready to go.
Ultimately she decides on Twizzlers, which makes no sense after whining about the “additives” in the granola bars. They continue to talk like I’m not there. He prepays for gas, and I can’t imagine what this leisurely drive will cost. They’re miles from home, and that thing gets no more than fourteen miles per gallon highway. Less in the city, where they probably live.
I watch them drive away, knowing they are asleep. By the time something wakes them up, it’ll be too late. Their money will be useless. That shiny SUV will be an albatross. Their fancy clothes and need for comfort and fear of hunger will cripple them. They’d last a week if they could hide at home. Less if they’re caught out.
For the first time, I don’t feel like I’m in this alone, like I’ve got to research and plan because no one else is. Clearview may look like a club, but at least some of them are thinking like a MAG. Maybe better than a MAG.
While I’m on hold with one of the suppliers, trying to find a part for Mike, the bell dings. I’m all ready to be helpful until I see Mark and Zach.
Mark struts in like he owns the place. Every time I seem him, he’s strutting harder — makes me want to trip him. His too-cool routine is getting old.
“Where’s Skip?” Mark asks.
“Uncle Skip is under the Chevy in the first bay. Why?”
“None of your business.” Mark puffs up bigger, like whatever he’s here for is important, like he’s on a mission.
“What’s your problem?”
“No problem,” he says, but he looks smug, like he knows something I don’t know. He wants me to ask. He used to do this when we were kids, pretend to know some big secret, but refuse to tell. Made me nuts. He knows it makes me nuts.
“Zach, have a pop or something. I’ll be right back.”
Zach makes like he’s going to jump at me, and then snort-laughs like he’s hysterical. He wanders around, picking up one thing and then another.
“You going to buy anything?” I ask.
He knocks a whole row of snacks off the shelf. “Oops,” he says, stepping over it all with a slight hesitation, like he was going to step on them.
I can hear Mark in back, but the supplier comes on the line, and I have to pay attention to ordering the part. I try to keep an eye on Zach and watch the door. Mark’s been back there too long, given that Uncle Skip’s in the service area.
Mark comes out with a bag and hands it to Zach. There’s a six-pack of pop sticking out the top, but also probably some of the beer Uncle Skip has in back for poker night and when he and Mike have to do paperwork after hours. “Take this out while I talk to Skip.” Maybe something else, too. The bag is bulging and heavy, not just two six-packs and snacks. It’s solid and full. Mark takes a cold can of pop from the case, opens it, and takes a gulp.
“You gonna pay for any of that?” I ask, playing along like it’s just pop and snacks.
“Shut up.” Mark pretends to toss the can of pop at me, and then laughs when I react. He laughs all the way to the service bays.
Fifteen minutes later, Mark bursts back through the door, slamming it into the wall. He forces a smirk when he sees me looking and resumes his strut, but it’s for show. For Zach. He’s pissed.
“Yeah, no problem,” he says into a cell I’ve never seen before. “It’s handled. I . . .”
When did he get a new cell? He’s out the door, still talking, but I can’t hear. He stands there in the parking lot for another few seconds and then flips the phone the bird before shoving it in his pocket. He climbs back into Zach’s truck. Zach stares at me through the window, letting me know he can see me watching them, and then he guns the engine and peels out of the lot.
Mark’s whole “handled” bit leaves a weight in my stomach. What was in the bag? I could ask Uncle Skip what Mark wanted, but he’s back under the Chevy, so not now.
A few people come by to pick up their cars and trucks, and then Uncle Skip pulls me in back to look up parts and codes so we can get stuff ordered before closing. When the bell rings that there’s a customer at the pumps, I jump up to check if they’re paying cash and see a familiar station wagon in the lot.
It’s like the air changes when she comes in the door, hot and cold and thin all at once, leaving me lightheaded. She’s wearing those perfectly worn-in jeans with a crisp white cotton shirt. She glances at the counter and then oh-so-casually around until she sees me and smiles. Not even hiding what she’s doing.
“Hey,” I say, wiping my hands on a towel as I walk toward the counter.
“Hi.” She touches her hair and then smooths her shirt down over her stomach. She’s soft under the shirt, breasts and curves and belly. I want to touch her, to run my fingers over her skin and see if my hand fits as perfectly above her hip as I think it will. “I’m gonna,” she says, pointing to the snacks. She touches candy bars and chips and, in between, her hair or her hips.
The more I watch, the slower she moves, the more her body moves over her legs, like the start of a dance. I should feel weird watching her. I should feel nervous, but I don’t. It’s like she gave me permission. Or I didn’t need it.
Finally she picks up some candy and walks back toward the front, even slower than before. My nerves kick in all at once.
She seems quieter, less silly than last time. But the way she looks at me, tucks her dark, curly hair behind her ear, it still feels like we’re doing something here.
“I have a burned-out taillight. What would it cost for you guys to fix it?”
“Not much. Uncle Skip would probably cut you a break, but he’d have to charge something for the la
bor. You could get the bulb at any automotive store, and you could probably change it yourself.”
She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t even know how.” She starts fiddling with the lighters by the register, sorting them by color so that each row in the display is all the same color, in rainbow order.
“I could do it if you want. Then all you’d have to pay for is the bulb.”
“Really?” She continues to sort the lighters but looks up in between placing them. “Do you know how?”
“Sure.” If she tells me the make and model, I can figure it out. I watch her straighten the sorted rows.
“I’d need it fixed before Monday.”
“We could do it Sunday. In the afternoon? We’re closed, but you can meet me here. It won’t take long.” And if I can’t figure it out, Mike can do it first thing Monday morning.
My heart pounds. Uncle Skip would probably do it cheap. But the thought of getting to see her alone is too much to resist.
“That’d be great.”
A car pulls up to the pumps.
I give her a piece of scrap paper to write down the make and year of her station wagon. When she hands it to me, I stare at her handwriting. It doesn’t look like I thought it would. I don’t know what I expected — maybe loopier.
“Well . . . should I just come by or . . . ?”
I shove the paper in my pocket. “I could give you a call when I know when I can meet you.”
She pulls out her cell and hands it to me. “Give me your number — then I’ll text you so you have mine.” Her cell is fancier than mine, and I fumble with the buttons. She takes it back, pulls up the right screen, and hands it to me. I can barely type with her watching me. My fingers keep hitting the wrong places. But I get my name and number entered and hand it back. She looks at the screen and smiles. “Great.”
“Great.”
We’re just smiling at each other like idiots. “Well . . .” she says. “So you’ll call?”
“Yeah, as soon as I know,” I say, trying to be cool.
“See you.” She leaves without taking the candy.
Uncle Skip is quiet when he comes through a few minutes later, but I don’t look at him, hoping he didn’t hear me with Lucy. It isn’t until I’m getting ready for bed that I remember I was going to talk to him about Mark.
It can wait until tomorrow.
I had a lie ready to go — different lies, in fact, for Mom and Dad and Uncle Skip, so that I could meet Lucy at the station without anyone wondering where I was. As it turns out, all that planning was completely unnecessary. They’re all vacating the house, unusual on a Sunday, but it means no one will miss me until dinner.
“David!” Mom yells up the steps. “We’re going to be late!”
Mom rechecks her hair for the third time. She’s wearing a dress and her nice heels. Must be more than brunch with Aunt Lorraine and Uncle Nathan; must be brunch at “the Club,” and when she and Aunt Lorraine say it, they mean country, not Clearview.
“Who will be supervising?” Mom asks, referring yet again to trying out the crossbows tomorrow night. I shouldn’t have told her.
“One of the adults, I’m sure,” I lie. “But Karen is practically one of the trainers anyway.”
“But she’s not.”
“Because she’s a girl,” I say. “A woman, really.”
Mom narrows her eyes. “Mom.” I close the book but keep my finger in to pretend to mark my place, like I can hardly wait to get back to it. “It will be totally safe.” She’s still looking at me like it’s a bad idea. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Me, making friends?”
“I’d hoped for friends who wanted to go places, do things, normal things,” she clarifies.
“Yeah, well . . .” Dad already said I could go. He’s thrilled, in fact, that I’m “in” with Karen and Cammie. I’d think he asked their parents to put them up to it, if he hadn’t been so clearly shocked when I told him they’d invited me.
“Well, just be careful.”
“I will,” I say, holding eye contact, making her see that it will be okay.
“There’s some leftover potato salad and chicken from last night,” Mom says. “I made a double batch of chicken. Plenty of sliced turkey and cheese for sandwiches. And a casserole for tonight, good for a few days of leftovers as well. That should get you through the week.”
“We’ll be fine.” Her mouth turns down and her lips suck in. She needs us to need her, and to thank her, so she can go to Aunt Lorraine’s without feeling guilty. “What kind of casserole?”
“Cheesy chicken and broccoli.”
“With the crunchy top?”
“Mm-hmm.”
I give her a real smile. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Well, I figured you’d mostly be the one eating it. There’s some vanilla ice cream and fresh strawberries, too.”
For that she gets an even bigger smile.
“You have everything?” Dad asks, still buttoning his cuffs as he comes into the kitchen.
“Yes.” Mom pats the plastic-bag-covered clothes hanging over the chair, her small bag next to it.
“Bex,” Dad says, “I should be home by dinnertime. Stay out of trouble.”
“Of course.”
Mom and Dad both give me a look. I cross my heart and hold up three fingers, even though I got kicked out of Brownies for roughhousing.
Uncle Skip left hours ago to go fishing with Sanford and Mr. Johnson, and I’m sure they’ll stop for lunch on the way back.
No one will miss me until tonight.
I wait an hour, just to be sure Mom and Dad are gone, and then I text Lucy.
In the bathroom at the station, I strip down to my tank and quickly wipe off the grime and sweat from riding my bike over. Maybe instead of a truck, I could just get a moped. I put on fresh cargo shorts. I layer up on top — leaving on the tank but adding a gray T and then a dark-blue polo. I step back far enough to be able to see in the mirror and try to decide whether to tuck in the T or leave it hanging loose underneath the polo. Eventually I decide to leave it loose and concentrate on combing my hair so it’s neat but not too neat. It can’t look like I’ve fixed it just for her. In fact, I pull on a clean work shirt and leave it open. Like I’m ready for the work, not like I’m ready for her.
I keep the lights off and stay in the service area, with only the back service-bay door open. From the street, no one would even notice we’re here.
The bulb for her taillight is ready and waiting, and so am I, a full half-hour before she said she’d be here.
I don’t turn on the computer. Too much chance of giving away that I was here. Uncle Skip’s emergency set of keys will be back where they belong, hopefully hours before he even gets home, and then no one will be the wiser.
Nothing to do but scroll through my phone, trying not to worry that maybe she won’t show up. Or, alternatively, that she will.
I’ve never been so nervous in my life.
Well, maybe the first time I tried to kiss a girl, but I was eleven then, and pretending to be a boy named Jake, and not wearing a shirt (best disguise for pretending to be a boy). And I wasn’t sure she would let me kiss her no matter who she thought I was.
But it’s the good kind of nervous, like the first time I shot a rifle all by myself.
When I hear a car pulling up around back, I hop off the counter and spit out the gum I’ve been chewing to keep my breath minty fresh.
Lucy. My head spins and sweat breaks out on my neck. I gulp some water from the bottle in the side of my backpack and try to talk my heart rate down. Could very well be that I’ll change the bulb, she’ll leave, and I’ll go home and think about what might have happened if she’d stayed.
I pick up the bulb, still in its package, and wave her through the service-bay door.
She carefully pulls in, intent and serious, inching in until she starts to trust me. Then she just focuses on me, waving her forward. There’s a flutter in my chest at her trusting me, following my directions. I like
the playful, flirty Lucy, but she’s even more interesting when she’s serious.
Once in park, she smiles, relieved. By the time she’s out of the car, all that hip-swishing front is back in place.
“Hey.” She takes her sunglasses off the top of her head and fluffs up her hair, looking around. “It’s okay we’re in here on a Sunday?”
“It’s fine.”
“Really? I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“Don’t worry.” I pick up the stuff I’ll need and walk around the wagon. “But don’t touch anything, and my uncle’ll never know.”
I give her my bravest smile, and she hesitates for a second before smiling back, still wary. Then she notices the stuff in my hand, and I can see her get more nervous.
“Are you sure you can do this?”
“Yes.” I put the rag, tools, and the bulb down and grab the printout from my back pocket. “Here are the pages from the owner’s manual I found online. We’re going to do exactly what it says. Unscrew a few screws, pull the casing out, switch out the bulb. Piece of cake.”
She’s still uneasy, glancing from the screwdrivers to the car, sort of rocked back on her heels like a rabbit ready to flee.
“Read it.” I put the stuff down and hoist myself up onto the counter. “Go ahead. We won’t do it unless you say it’s okay.”
Her face goes weird and then she cracks up. I replay the last bit in my head. “Totally not what I meant.”
“Sure it isn’t,” she says. “But good to know.” She looks up at me over the pages, a look that says we’re both feeling it. I’m glad I cleaned up.
She reads. I check her out. I don’t really have a type; I don’t usually go for slathered in makeup and perfume, but I can’t say I wouldn’t go there for a while. If I had a sweet spot, though, it would be Lucy. She’s got curves and she’s not afraid to show them off, not ashamed of the bit of belly or soft thighs. In fact, she’s soft in all the places I like soft. Her sundress looks old, blue cotton, pockets, straps that cross in back, and a neckline high enough that there’s not even a hint of cleavage, which makes me want to see all the more. Loose enough to allow access, but she could wear it to a church picnic if she wanted. Nice legs. Really nice. And short boots, well broken in and worn at the sides. I’d have looked even if I wasn’t thinking about touching.