A & L Do Summer

by Jan Blazanin

  “That’s stupid. It’s not like you’d hang around him.” Laurel drags a wet cloth around the floor with her foot. We’re supposed to use the mop for spills, but that only happens when Willie’s watching. “Now, I’d hang as close to him as I possibly could.” She sighs. “He still hasn’t hooked up with anyone, has he?”

  Knowing Manny, he’s hooking up as often as humanly possible, but Laurel doesn’t need to hear that. “Manny doesn’t exactly confide in me, but I don’t think so, especially since he’s going to Iowa State at the end of August.”

  A car pulls up to the menu board. “I’ve got this one,” Laurel says as she snatches up the headset. “Welcome to the Sub Stop, hot stuff,” she coos in a tone so sultry the bread delivery guy behind her nearly swallows his tongue. “How may I tempt your taste buds today?”

  There’s a pause on the other end of the intercom. Then a male voice answers, “Let me get back to you on that when my kids aren’t in the car. For now I’ll just have a Barn Burner special and two chicken Cabooses.”

  When Laurel finishes entering the order, I turn on her. “What was that? The only women who talk that way are charging two ninety-nine a minute.”

  She shrugs. “I’m just trying to liven things up a little.”

  “By getting arrested for being a smut-monger?”

  “There’s no smut involved,” Laurel says. The car pulls up to the window, and she hands the bag of sandwiches to a chubby, middle-aged guy with a receding hairline and an eager smile on his flushed face. When she leans halfway out the window and purrs, “Thank you, and have a delightful day,” he looks like he’s about to stroke out.

  “My God, Laurel, that’s disgusting!”

  “He didn’t think so.” She smiles. “And he’ll be back. I guarantee it.”

  “Either that or he’ll be waiting to jump you in the parking lot after we close. Listen, if you want to liven things up, say something funny to the kids in the car.” Anything is better than Smut Girl.

  Thankfully the next customer is an older woman, and Laurel plays it straight. After that is a mom with three little kids. “Hewwo. Our special today is the wascally wabbit sandwich.” Her Elmer Fudd isn’t half bad. “Would you like to order thwee of those?”

  When the mom drives up to the window, she’s smiling even though her kids are bouncing in their car seats, demanding to see Elmer and Bugs. For the rest of our shift, Laurel keeps the headset clamped on and refuses to switch with me when it’s my turn to take orders. I don’t mind so much when she’s trying out her cartoon voices. But she still uses her two-ninety-nine-a-minute voice on every male customer who drives through.

  And even though the customers all leave smiling, I’m sure this voice thing is going to blow up in her face.

  Tuesday is our day off. After I take Carmine for his morning walk and check my Facebook news feed, I’m at a loss for something to do. When I think it’s late enough for Laurel to be awake, I call and ask if she wants to go for a bike ride along the Raccoon River Valley Trail. She’s still laughing when she hangs up on me. Undaunted, I decide to fly in the face of convention and ride alone.

  It’s a beautiful June morning with scattered clouds and a light breeze. The temperature is just above seventy degrees, and the humidity hasn’t kicked in. Now that I’m on my bike, having some alone time doesn’t seem like a bad thing. I’ll ride across town and catch the trail where it runs through the city park. The first mulberries should be getting ripe. Even if they’re not ready yet, I’m positive the wild serviceberries are. This early in the morning, there shouldn’t be anyone around to see me filling my face with fruit or to make fun of my purple tongue. Maybe it’s a good thing Laurel didn’t want to come with me. Last fall she was horrified when I ate a crabapple straight off the tree in our backyard. “Aren’t you going to wash it first?” she gasped. “Bugs have probably pooped all over it!” Like possible bug poop is worse than the pesticides on the fruit they sell at the grocery store.

  “Aspen Parks, I’m talking to you! Didn’t your parents teach you that it’s rude to ignore people?”

  No. Life can’t be that cruel. But Miss Simmons is standing on her front porch, shaking her wrinkled fist at me.

  Since there’s no way out now, I jump the curb and steer my bike onto her front walk. “I’m sorry, Miss Simmons. I didn’t hear you.”

  She snorts. “A girl your age should have perfect hearing. If you kids didn’t listen to that shouting nonsense on the radio, you’d—”

  “You’re absolutely right, Miss Simmons,” I cut in, “and that’s why I’m going for a nice, quiet ride in the country.”

  “Hmph!” She peers up and down the street. “Before you go riding off, you need to do something for me. This blasted hip replacement is taking forever to heal, and the cold, damp weather is making it act up even worse.”

  My scalp feels sweaty under my helmet. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Miss Simmons makes another nervous sweep with her eyes. What’s she doing, selling contraband laxatives?

  “With this hip bothering me, I haven’t been able to take Sammy Stripers on his walks. The poor little fellow is getting restless.”

  “You take him out on a leash? Aren’t you afraid somebody will see him?”

  Miss Simmons looks at me over the tops of her glasses. “Your brother was blessed with the looks in the family. I thought you might have gotten the brains.” She shakes her head. “Of course Sammy doesn’t walk. He rides in his stroller.”

  What was I thinking? People everywhere push their pet skunks around in strollers.

  “So, what are you waiting for?” she demands. “The stroller is here on the porch, and Sammy’s in his crate. He prefers to have his walks around sunrise, but since you’re here so late he’ll have to make do.”

  No way.

  “Miss Simmons, you aren’t…You can’t be…You don’t really expect me to push your pet skunk around the neighborhood in a stroller…do you?”

  “Why not?” She stumps across the porch behind her walker. “You’ll get fresh air and exercise—it might even brighten up your sallow complexion. It’s a pity when a girl your age has such drab coloring.”

  This is my only day off this week, and I want to ride my bike. Why should I let her boss me around? “Wait a minute, Miss Simmons. I haven’t agreed to take Sammy for a walk. And, to be honest, I don’t want to.”

  Miss Simmons doesn’t even break hobble. “Is that so? Well then, little Miss I Don’t Want To, I’ll have to tell your parents about you and your flashy redheaded friend out gallivanting until four o’clock in the morning a few weeks ago. Naturally I won’t want to….”

  Why am I being punished? Was I a serial killer in a previous existence?

  “Okay, you win.” I prop my bike against the porch and steer the stroller out of the corner. From the looks of this thing, Miss Simmons probably rode in it when she was a kid a hundred years ago. The wheels wobble and creak with age. When I shake dust off the sun-bleached cover, I can see daylight through it. “Once around the block, and I don’t have to touch him.”

  “I’ve already promised him two times.” Miss Simmons lowers herself into a padded rocker. “Carry his crate out here and I’ll show you how to get him out.”

  So much for my demands. “He’s been fixed, right?”

  “Of course, he’s been neutered,” she says indignantly. “And I give him rabies and distemper shots every year.”

  “That’s not the kind of fixed I’m talking about. Has his…stinker been destunk?”

  “Absolutely not! That’s Sammy’s natural protection.”

  My hand freezes on her front doorknob. “What’s to stop him from spraying me?”

  “As long as you don’t expose him to dogs, cats, or loud noises and don’t make any sudden movements, you should be fine. And if anyone comes near, put the top up and tell them the baby is asleep.” Miss Simmons motions me to go into the house. “Just remember, if he lifts his tail and stamps, you’ve upset him, an
d you’d be well-advised to move at least ten feet away.”

  Getting Sammy out of his crate was surprisingly easy. After he sniffed my fingers, he toddled into my waiting hands and let me lift him into the stroller. Except for his sharp toenails, he seems harmless. I was worried he might jump out of the stroller, but Miss Simmons says it won’t be a problem. His skunk eyesight is so awful that he’d be afraid to jump without knowing where he would land.

  Except for feeling like an idiot, I’m having fun pushing Sammy. He’s a handsome little guy, with coarse black fur and white stripes that run from one end to the other. And it’s cute the way he rests his little front paws on the rim of the stroller and swivels his head back and forth, his black nose twitching nonstop.

  We’re on our second trip around the block. After the first time around, Miss Simmons made me push him up her sidewalk so she could make sure he was enjoying himself. While she was cooing and scratching Sammy behind the ears, I almost forgot what an old witch she is.

  A horn honks on the street beside me, three friendly beeps like someone saying hello. I check Sammy to make sure the noise hasn’t freaked him out before looking over to see who’s honking. When I see Clay’s dark green pickup pull up to the curb, my heart does backflips.

  “Hey, Aspen. I thought that was you.” Clay cuts the engine, pushes his baseball cap back, and leans his forearm on the open window. “Manny said you’re working at the Sub Stop. But you’re babysitting, too?”

  Sammy cocks his head toward the sound of Clay’s voice. “Uh…no…I mean yes.” I fumble to lift the top of the stroller before Clay sees what’s inside. Naturally, the stupid thing is stuck. I jerk the cover, the stroller lurches, and Sammy starts chattering in an unhappy way.

  If Sammy’s unhappy, there’s a good chance that nobody’s going to be happy.

  “Hold on a sec,” Clay says as he climbs out of his truck. “I’ll help you.”

  “That’s okay. I can get it.” I grab the cover with both hands and yank. The fabric splits with a nasty-sounding rip, and my bony butt slams onto the sidewalk. Agony shoots up my spine, and I taste blood.

  Through tears of pain, I see the stroller rolling away. Even worse, Clay is running behind it, reaching for the handle.

  “Don’t, Clay! Skunk!” With the wind knocked out of me, all that comes out is a gasp. I watch in horror as Clay drags the stroller to a standstill. He’s going to get blasted with skunk spray, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  My tailbone is splintered into at least a thousand pieces, probably crippling me for life. Despite the blinding pain, I struggle to my feet and speed-hobble toward the impending disaster.

  “Okay, not what I expected.” Clay backs away from the stroller. He turns, sees me struggling, and slides his arm around my waist to support me. “Sorry I didn’t help you up, but I thought it was a baby.”

  “Most people would.” I wrap my left arm around Clay’s firm middle and let him hold me up. My rear still hurts, but the rest of me is feeling better. Much better. “I tried to warn you, but I couldn’t catch my breath.”

  “The little guy must be used to people,” Clay says. “Otherwise, I’d have gotten a world of hurt in the eyes.” He helps me take the few steps to the stroller. When I look in, Sammy’s sitting calmly with his front paws folded.

  “Yeah, he’s tamer than I thought.” I lean into Clay’s side. “But I’m no skunkologist.”

  “Understandable,” Clay deadpans. “Skunkologists are a rare breed.” He lets Sammy sniff the back of his free hand. Then he scratches him behind the ears. “I take it he’s not yours?”

  “No, he belongs to my neighbor, Miss Simmons. She had her hip replaced and can’t take him out.” Then I remember why I was trying to cover Sammy. “Please don’t mention him to anyone. I guess keeping skunks as pets isn’t legal, and she’s worried somebody will turn her in.”

  Clay removes his arm from my waist. “First you lie to an officer of the law. Now you’re concealing illegal wildlife. What’s next—smuggling drugs?”

  My face sizzles with embarrassment. “I…It’s not …”

  He laughs. “Relax. I’m just giving you a hard time. It’s great that you’re giving your neighbor a hand.”

  I duck my head modestly. This is not the time to tell Clay how Miss Simmons blackmailed me. I change the subject. “So, what are you doing here?” it comes out sounding more like an interrogation than a casual comment.

  “I was on my way to your house. Manny said his engine is running rough, and he asked me to take a look at it before work.”

  So much for my fantasy that Clay came by to see me.

  Sammy has his front paws back on the edge of the stroller, and his head is swiveling like a weathervane. “I think your buddy’s impatient to get back on the road,” Clay says.

  Stupid weasel. “I guess so.” I fold down the ripped cover as well as I can. Miss Simmons will have plenty to say about that.

  My one chance to talk to Clay, and I’m chauffeuring a stink bomb. “Well, thanks.”

  The cool person always leaves first, so I nudge the stroller a baby step forward. I don’t want to intimidate Clay by seeming too cool.

  “How’s your…uh…back?” he asks.

  “It’s all right.” I bravely take another pain-wracked step.

  “You know what? I can help you finish your walk and still have time to give Manny a hand with his car.” Clay slips his arm around my waist again. “Or if you’re in too much pain, I can load the stroller into the truck and drive you.”

  I mold myself against his ribs like Play-Doh. “With you helping me, I’m sure I can make it. I did promise Miss Simmons.”

  With one arm around each other and steering with our free hands, Clay and I push Sammy along the sidewalk.

  For the first time I realize the benefits of working through the pain.

  twelve

  THAT AFTERNOON, LAUREL AND I ARE SITTING IN LOUNGE chairs on my deck. She’s holding a hand mirror and twisting herself into a pretzel to admire the new henna swan tattoo on her left shoulder blade. “Did he kiss you? Grope your ass? Declare his undying love? I need details!”

  “None of the above. It was broad daylight, and we were taking a skunk for a walk.” I shift the bag of frozen peas from my numb tailbone to my left butt cheek. Thanks to my dismal social life, no one will see the ugly multicolored bruises.

  “About that.” Laurel lays the mirror on the patio table and sinks back into the lounger. “Did Miss Simmons freak when she discovered that Clay knew her deep, dark secret?”

  “Not at all.” I smile, remembering how Miss Simmons kept forcing lemonade and cookies on Clay. He had to back out her door to escape. “I thought she was going to have adoption papers drawn up. According to her, Sammy’s an excellent judge of character, and it was practically a sign from heaven that he didn’t squirt skunk juice all over Clay.”

  “I’m sure Clay was thrilled.” Laurel picks up her tube of sunblock and squeezes some onto her legs. “Speaking of thrilling news, we’re invited to a kick-ass party Saturday night,” she says as if we’re kick-ass party regulars.

  Her comment may be carefree, but her eyes are shifty. “Really? Who invited us?”

  “It’s at an old barn in the country that has…something upstairs with hay in it.”

  “A hayloft?”

  “That’s it,” Laurel agrees, watching lotion sink into her legs. “So, what exactly is hay? And why do farmers keep it upstairs instead of on the ground?”

  Laurel’s trying to distract me, but I like knowing something she doesn’t. “Hay is made of alfalfa or clover. When the alfalfa gets ripe, farmers cut it off, rake it up, and let it dry in the field. When it’s dry enough, they use a machine to make it into bales.” I resist the urge to pat myself on the back. “The bales are put into a hayloft to keep them dry. In the winter farmers feed the hay to their cows and horses.”

  “Really?” Laurel actually looks impressed. “So how do you know all that?”
>
  “My uncle George and aunt Carol have a farm near Iowa City. When I was twelve, I stayed with them for a week during the summer and helped with the chores. One of the chores was to pick up hay bales.” I check the bag of peas for leaks. So far, so good. “Now let’s get back to talking about the party.”

  “It’s only for seniors—which we are, of course—and grads. So no dorky underclassmen.”

  I know her too well to let her throw me off track again. “So who did you say invited us?”

  Laurel is rubbing lotion between her toes. “Tessa called me,” she mumbles without looking up.

  I throw up a little in my mouth. “Are you serious? Tessa Chandler called you and invited both of us to a party?”

  “Why not?” Laurel’s wandering eye is twitching like a strobe light.

  “Why not? I can think of a million reasons, but if you give me a few minutes I’ll come up with more.” I sit up, wincing as I crush a clump of frozen peas under my tailbone. “So what prompted Tessa to add us to her social circle?”

  “She heard some guys talking about the way I take orders at the Sub Stop, and unlike some people”—she pauses—“Tessa thinks using a sexy voice is very cool.”

  Now there’s a shocker.

  “Speaking of the Sub Stop,” I say, choosing to ignore Laurel’s attitude, “we have to work until nine o’clock on Saturday. That’s pretty late to be riding our bikes in the country.”

  “Ride our bikes! That’s social suicide!” The look of horror on her face is priceless. “Tessa and Wynter are going to pick us up after work.”

  Aha! “So you accepted for both of us without asking me first?”

  “So sorry not to have consulted you.” Laurel peers at me. “What event on your busy social schedule will you have to cancel?”

  I bite my tongue and adjust the bag of peas.

  Score one for Laurel.

  Saturday night Tessa and Wynter pull up to the Sub Stop at five minutes after nine in Wynter’s bright red slut-mobile. Since I fully expected them to leave us waiting like naïve fools, I’m forced to give them a point for following through.