Radical

by E. M. Kokie

  Wow. His dad has a stake. Are they buying him out? And does that mean the others are out, too?

  “We were hoping that with fewer distractions, Mark would refocus his efforts and attention in training. Perhaps find a new place as training units begin to form.”

  I swallow.

  He’s waiting for me to say something, but there is nothing I can say. “Please let Mark know that he was missed at training, and we hope that his new job won’t keep him away from training for long.”

  I nod. And I will. Maybe he’ll start hanging with Daniel again and get back on track.

  “Should you have any further trouble from Zach or . . . any of the others, please let me know. I don’t want anyone committed to being here to feel disrespected. Understand?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  Dad’s truck rounds the curve and turns into the parking area.

  “I hope that you all feel comfortable coming to me if there are other concerns, anyone else causing problems. My door is always open. I hope that if you hear of any problems brewing, or anyone who is maybe going down a bad road, you will encourage them to come to me. I can help. Or if they won’t come to me, that you will come to me yourself. In confidence, of course.”

  I nod, because my mouth is dry and my tongue is tied and I don’t know what to say.

  He smiles and waves at Dad, and moves to get up from the table. When he turns his back to the parking area to pick up his discarded lunch bag, his face is all serious.

  “I knew I could count on you,” he says, but what he means is he expects me to be his spy.

  It’s one of those super-slow summer days when working here is nearly mind-numbing. It’s been storming off and on, so not even the Four Hs are hanging out. The few cars and trucks from today’s repairs were picked up hours ago. The phone hasn’t rung much. I’ve already stocked the shelves, helped Mike inventory the parts and supplies we keep on hand, and even cleaned up a little.

  Only a few people stop by for gas or diesel, and they all use credit. Most everyone else probably went to one of those bigger places with the large canopy covers that stretch almost to the door of the fancy store to keep the customers dry.

  It’s so slow that Uncle Skip didn’t say a word when he came through earlier and I was surfing around on my phone. I took that as an invitation to surf around on the computer, too.

  I check to see if that girl with her own YouTube channel has a new video up — it’s been a while since she posted. Nothing but a few shout-outs to her from some of the other YouTubers, wondering if anyone’s heard from her. Maybe they finally did it, went off the grid. Lucy and I text back and forth for a while. Mom calls to check on me, and to tell me about some thing Hannah is going to and do I want to go. No. But it will be so much fun. No. The school . . . No. Have you read . . . ? No. See you Saturday. Love you. Bye.

  I wander back to the office. Uncle Skip and Mike are deep in conversation, and it stops just before I reach the office door.

  “Still slow?” Mike asks.

  “Dead.”

  “Why don’t you go ahead and get out of here,” Uncle Skip says.

  “You sure?”

  “We can handle it if anyone calls or needs something in the next hour,” Mike says.

  “Great. See you later.”

  I text Lucy that I’m done early.

  We’ve timed it. She is exactly seventeen minutes away from our usual pick-up spot, and it takes me about eight minutes to walk across the back lot, across the field, and down to the church parking lot.

  I’m halfway across the field when the phone vibrates in my pocket.

  “Hi,” I answer, knowing it’s Lucy.

  “I’m here, so . . .”

  “I’m almost to the road.”

  “I’ll get you there.”

  By the time I clear the field, Shelby — Lucy’s wagon — is pulling onto the shoulder.

  “Hey.” She pulls the emergency brake, undoes her seat belt, and leans across the seat for a kiss. A good kiss. One that makes me squirm closer.

  My stomach flips as she puts the wagon back in drive and pulls out onto the road. We’ve been out for pizza, ice cream, movies, to the lake. We’ve driven around for hours. Sunday night we parked behind the station for a while. We’ve talked. We’ve kissed. We’ve made out. But the only time we’ve had any real privacy was the night we went back to her grandparents’ house. There’s only so much making out either of us are going to do in the car, in public, even by the lake or behind the station. Tonight will be another night of filling time before making out as well as we can in the wagon. And still, I can’t wait to get to the making out. The dinner, movies, ice cream, whatever, is all fine, but the making out is the best part. The part that I replay over and over when I’m by myself, and then imagine the next steps.

  We slide into our regular booth at the pizza place and order the usuals, plus breadsticks because I’m starving and they’re fast.

  “Do you like mushrooms?” Lucy asks, doctoring her tea with multiple packets of sugar.

  “They’re okay.”

  “I want to make you this chicken dish. It has mushrooms, but it’s really good. My dad asks me to make it all the time.”

  “Okay.” I can’t really see Lucy cooking, for me or anyone else.

  “Good,” she says, breaking her breadstick up and dousing it with Parmesan cheese and red-pepper flakes. “Friday my grandparents are going to dinner with friends and then to a concert. They’ll be gone until at least midnight. I’m going to cook for you.”

  Hours alone at her grandparents’ house. “How long does the chicken thing take to make?”

  I love the way she laughs. “It’s easy. And there’ll be plenty of time for after dinner.” She pretends to be scandalized, but her face is just as flushed — and happy — as mine.

  We eat our pizza slowly and then get ice cream. Drive back the long way.

  “I thought my grandparents were going to go out tonight, but they didn’t,” she says, mirroring what I was thinking. “Anyone at your place?”

  No, right now no one’s at the house, but I can’t risk it. “Yeah,” I lie, leaving it vague.

  She sighs, and I try to ignore the idea rattling around my head. But it’s hard to ignore with her so close and so ready. I look at my watch, try to listen to the good Bex on my shoulder, but the bad one wins out.

  “The station should be empty by now.” She glances at me quickly, turning back onto the main road.

  Parking behind the station is safer than the lake or somewhere else.

  She holds my hand while we drive, her fingers playing with mine, and I feel that goofy grin on my face. And the heat rises as we pull up to the station.

  “Stop.” I can feel my heart hammering in my chest. There are two trucks parked behind the station, and the back door is propped open.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Someone’s still working,” I say. “Just, let’s get out of here. Go.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Just go. Back up and, yeah, good,” I say, when she’s pulling out of the lot.

  My heart won’t slow down.

  “I didn’t think they’d be working this late,” she says.

  “Yeah. Me, either. I guess there must have been an emergency repair or something,” I lie. “Or maybe paperwork?”

  We drive around and then park by the softball fields for a while. Back behind the far field, the lot is empty. The making out is great, but it’s also kind of frustrating, since it’s clear we both want more. And I can’t concentrate just on her.

  Eventually I make up an excuse about being tired so we can call it a night.

  When I get home, Dad and Uncle Skip are watching the game.

  “Have fun?” Dad asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, and move to go upstairs before he can ask more.

  “Hey,” he says. “Your mom wants me to go with her to some thing on Saturday, so Mark’s going to pick you up for training.”

  “
No, he won’t, Dad.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the TV. “Dad? Dad.” He finally drags his eyes away from the game. “He won’t show up. Just like last time.”

  “Yes, he will. He promised.”

  “But . . . is he sure he’s going to training?”

  “Yeah, why wouldn’t he?”

  “He’s missed some,” I say.

  “I know,” Dad says. “But Darnell is away this week, so he won’t need Mark and them for the extra shifts they’ve been working.”

  That’s what Mark told Dad? That he’s been working extra for Darnell?

  Maybe I should just tell Dad about Mark skipping training, about Riggs asking about him. But Mark would probably just lie anyway, and Dad always believes him.

  “Bex, what?” Dad asks, annoyed to be distracted from the game.

  “Nothing. ’Night, Dad.”

  I’ll just text Karen. See if she can come get me on Saturday.

  It takes forever to fall asleep, and not because I’m thinking about Lucy. What was Mark doing at the station, and who was he with, beyond Zach, whose truck I recognized? They must have heard Lucy’s car. The only question is whether they saw that it was us. Me. And how do I tell Uncle Skip without explaining why I was there and who I was with?

  I’ve written a hundred texts to Mark, but I’ve deleted them all. Can’t exactly text, Hey, what’s going on? Because you’ve been lying and acting weird and Riggs was asking questions and you haven’t been to training and I keep dodging Riggs so he won’t ask any more questions and one of these days Dad is going to say something and I’m going to have to tell him. And why were you at the station? He’s probably just goofing off, but if he’s not, he’s not going to tell me. I can’t tell Dad I think something is going on, because Dad will believe whatever lies Mark tells him. Maybe if Mark comes by to do laundry or get food, I can just ask, casually.

  My phone vibrates. My heart pounds. Could it be Mark? Did I send that last one by mistake?

  No, not Mark. Karen.

  “You okay?” Mike asks. He’s standing there staring at me. “Bad news?” he asks, pointing to the phone.

  “No.” I shove it in my pocket. “What do you need?”

  “Mrs. Frankle’s number and estimate.”

  “Bad?” I ask, handing him her signed work order.

  “Not good,” he says, walking away.

  I look at the text from Karen again. Are you working today?

  Yes, I text back. Then, Why?

  “Need more coffee,” Mr. Hirsh says, holding the empty pot up so I can see it.

  I make a fresh pot and then go out to the picnic table and pour refills for the Four Hs.

  “That’a girl,” Mr. Hoff says, holding out his mug.

  “Gin,” Mr. Heinman says, slapping his cards down. He’s been winning all morning and crowing about it. But the others are grumbling only halfheartedly. So either he’s dying or they’re just thrilled to have their fourth back.

  “Eh, I’ve had enough for today,” Mr. Hirsch says, holding his hand over his cup.

  “Coffee or cards?” Mr. Heinman asks.

  “Both,” Mr. Hirsch says, tossing his cards into the center of the table.

  “Me, too,” Mr. Henderson says, adding his cards to the pile.

  “Bex, how about a hand?” Mr. Heinman asks. “These old geezers have crapped out on me.”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Heinman. I’ll keep my dimes, thanks.”

  The teasing continues as I head inside. It’s good to see him back. They were incomplete at three.

  My phone is blinking at me when I get to the counter.

  We’re coming by. And a smiley face.

  We? And a smiley face?

  OK? Karen texts.

  There are only three more cars to be picked up. Even if all three come in at the end of the day, Uncle Skip or Mike can cover.

  OK But I need to leave at 530.

  I obsess all afternoon about why “they” are coming by. I start to get anxious at four, four fifteen, four thirty, and they’re still not here. I text, Where RU? I need to leave at 530.

  At least most of the cars have been picked up.

  At twenty to five, Karen texts, ETA 5.

  I only need seven or eight minutes to walk over to the church lot to meet up with Lucy. Plenty of time.

  I’m vibrating with nerves when they pull up — Karen’s out of the passenger side before Cammie’s even shut the car off. Cammie.

  “Hey ya,” Karen says, walking through the front door, Cammie right behind her. They’re in street clothes instead of workout gear. Karen doesn’t look all that different in jeans and a T-shirt. But Cammie’s femmed up enough that I bet some people would be surprised she trains, let alone leads. She’s wearing a skirt. Her shirt is crisp green cotton, with slightly puffy short sleeves that show off her arms. Her hair is loose and curling. She’s even wearing makeup.

  “So . . .” Karen says, looking around the shop and then back at me, then at Cammie. “Where’s —?”

  “Not here,” I say, looking toward the door to the service area. “I mean . . .” I don’t know what I meant. I don’t know why they’re here.

  “Wow,” Karen says. “I was going to say bathroom. You do have a bathroom, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Sorry. Over there.”

  “Hi,” I say to Cammie when it’s just the two of us.

  “Hi,” she says.

  It’s weird, like we’re different people here from at training.

  Cammie looks at the clock. Ten to five. “You almost done?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You okay?” she asks, and her whole face is softer, and I can’t square this Cammie with the one who barks orders and glares to wound.

  “Yeah,” I say again. “But I have to leave by five thirty.”

  Karen comes back out of the bathroom and detours for the snacks. “Oooh,” she says. “I love these!” She picks up two bags of Swedish Fish. “Want some?” she asks Cammie.

  “That’s a lot of sugar,” Cammie says.

  “I’ll ration it out,” Karen says. I ring them up and take her money. “Outlet work?”

  “Huh?”

  “In the bathroom,” Karen says. “Does the outlet work?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  She nods at Cammie.

  “Okay, Mrs. Frankle is good to go,” Uncle Skip says, coming through the door from the service bays. “You can . . .” He looks at them, and me, and them, and me.

  “Uncle Skip,” I say, because there doesn’t seem to be a way out, “these are my friends Cammie and Karen.” They smile at him. “And this is my uncle Skip.”

  “Well, hi,” Uncle Skip says, big, like he’s trying too hard.

  Karen says, “Hi.”

  “Hi, Mr. Mullin,” Cammie says. “You probably don’t remember me, but my grandfather Ben Baxter used to —”

  “Cammie Baxter. Of course,” Uncle Skip says. “But last time I saw you, you had pigtails and braces. How’s your grandfather?”

  “Good,” she says, all smiling nice girl. “He’s up at the cabin for the summer.”

  “Well, say hello for me. I can call Mrs. Frankle,” Uncle Skip says to me.

  “Are you sure?”

  “No problem.”

  I wait for the door to close behind him. “We can go outside if you want,” I say to Cammie and Karen. Not knowing why they’re here is bugging me.

  Karen rips open the first bag of Swedish Fish. Then she gives Cammie a look, and when Cammie doesn’t say anything, nudges her with her shoulder.

  Cammie narrows her eyes and then says, “Come on,” wanting me to follow her.

  “Where?” I swallow.

  “Just come on,” she says, tugging on my sleeve as she passes me.

  She’s acting so weird, but Karen is still smiling, easy, chowing down on her candy.

  I follow Cammie, very aware that Karen is behind me. When we get near the bathroom, Karen practically shoves me inside, and they follow me
in.

  I recover and turn on instinct, crouched low.

  “Whoa,” Karen says, laughing.

  “Seriously,” Cammie says. “Relax. It’s not an ambush.”

  I don’t like surprises. I don’t trust surprises. Especially from people who may or may not be my friends. Cammie hangs her bag from the hook on the door and fishes around in it for a minute. When she turns around she’s holding clippers.

  “We noticed how much it was bugging you the other day,” Karen says.

  “And no offense, but it looks like a deranged toddler cut it,” Cammie says. “With safety scissors. So I borrowed my mom’s stuff.” It takes me a few seconds to follow. “She’s a stylist,” Cammie says. I keep staring at the clippers and the small black case in her hands. She gives Karen the clippers and opens the case to show scissors. Several pairs, and other things. “I can clean it up for you if you want.”

  “It’d look cool totally buzzed,” Karen says, turning my head so I can see the side and back in the mirror. “All this, just buzzed short.”

  I touch the hair near her hand. It is a choppy mess.

  “She’s good. Promise,” Karen says. “Does mine,” she says, brushing her fingers over the newly trimmed sides of her hair.

  “I do what she asks me to,” Cammie clarifies, like she’s not taking credit for a mullet. “You tell me what you want and I’ll do it.”

  I swallow. I touch the back near my neck.

  “Or you can just trust me. Can’t be worse.” Cammie’s ready, clippers all plugged in. “Turn around.”

  I give in and turn around, but I can feel how tense my shoulders and neck are. I’m poised for flight.

  Cammie pulls a rolled-up towel out of her bag and drapes it around my shoulders. She thought of everything.

  “Hold still,” she says, and starts the clippers. The buzz vibrates over my skin before they even touch my hair.

  What’s the worst thing that could happen? She cuts it all off? It would grow back.

  Her fingers touch my neck, and I shiver.

  Karen starts to open her other bag of candy, and Cammie says, “Oh, gross, you can’t eat in here!”

  “Yeah, no,” I add, shuddering.