by Jan Blazanin
“I have to get out of this house!” Laurel howls. “I haven’t seen another living person for days!” She’s been texting me all day, each one more frantic than the last.
I say good-bye to R-rated Clay and stack the pillows behind my head. “What about your dad?”
“I said a living person. My father doesn’t qualify.” Laurel groans dramatically. “Please, Aspen, I have to see you. I’m losing my sanity.”
Wisely, I refrain from commenting. “Sorry. I’m getting time off for good behavior, but I still can’t come over for another week. And that’s only if it’s okay with your dad.”
“A week? No way!” She’s working herself into a hysterical frenzy. “The walls are closing in on me! If I don’t get out of here tonight, I’ll go insane!”
“Come on, Laurel. You can get through this.” I haven’t used my “talking down from the roof” voice for a while, and it’s a little rusty. “Take long, deep breaths, drink some warm milk—”
“Nooooo! I can’t! Please …” Everything else she’s saying drowns in sobs. After a long minute, she recovers her voice. “Please, please, please, Aspen,” she says between hiccups, “meet me in the park by the swings. We can swing and talk and pretend we’re little kids again. Please.”
Laurel goes on like that for another ten minutes before I finally give in. Sneaking out is the stupidest thing I could possibly do. But Laurel is in genuine pain. As her best friend, it’s my obligation to help her through this.
There’s no sense trying to make Carmine stay home, so I don’t even try. We slip out the back door and through the gate into the alley behind our house. The sultry air leaves a coating of dampness on my skin. It’s hard to believe it’s already the second of July. If I get away with tonight’s escapade, maybe Clay and I will watch the Fourth of July fireworks together Sunday night. All I have to do is talk Manny into bringing him over.
The park is halfway between my house and Laurel’s, so it’s easier to walk than drag out my bike. Flags hang limply from streetlight poles and most front porches. Mailbox planters overflow with geraniums, petunias, and out-of-control sweet potato vines. Fireflies dance over the freshly cut lawns to a chorus of serenading cicadas. The cicadas make me think of one summer years ago when I collected dried cicada skins and used them as invading aliens in skits with my dolls. I don’t think Laurel would have been excited about playing with me back then.
Carmine bounds ahead of me, smelling for any new pee-mail deposits and making his own contributions. That dog has a bladder the size of a basketball.
Carmine and I walk on the asphalt driveway past the soccer fields, volleyball and tennis courts, and the Frisbee golf course. The driveway will lead us to the pavilion and picnic area just west of the playground. Beyond that, it connects to a jogging/biking trail that circles the park, continues past the business district, and joins the Raccoon River Valley Trail on the other side of town. The entire park is only about two blocks long, but it’s the social center of Cottonwood Creek for picnics, family reunions, and little kids’ play dates. The only teens you’ll see here during the day are those playing sports, but I’ve heard the shadowy areas by the creek see plenty of action at night.
The park closes at ten thirty, but the city keeps the streetlights by the pavilion on all night to discourage vandalism. Which makes me wonder why they’re not on tonight. The only light I see comes from the crescent moon. Although I’m a little creeped out by the darkness, Laurel is counting on me to show up. Besides, I have Carmine to warn me if some pervert is waiting to spring.
Because it’s so dark, I can’t see Laurel until I’m a few feet away. She’s slouched on the wooden seat, listlessly swinging back and forth.
“Hey!” I whisper as I approach. “Your human and canine reinforcements are here.”
“You came!” Laurel steps out of the swing and hugs me fiercely. “I knew you would.” Her voice is muffled against my shoulder.
While we’re hugging, Carmine takes the opportunity to stick his nose up her rear. “Carmine, you haven’t changed a bit in the last two weeks!” She laughs and pushes him away.
Laurel lets me go, and we drop into adjacent swings. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you—and your perverted dog.” Carmine licks her bare knee, and she rubs his neck. “He’s given me the most action I’ve seen all summer.”
I swing a little to stir up a breeze. “Feeling better now?”
She leans back in the swing and looks up at the stars. “I am. I never realized how small our house is. My claustrophobia kicked into high gear.”
“Is your dad speaking to you yet?” I pump my legs harder, loving the way the wind feels on my face. Laurel starts swinging, too.
“Barely. He—”
A muffled explosion cuts into Laurel’s words. Two more louder and closer blasts follow the first. Carmine’s ears flatten. He lets out an unearthly squeal and tears in the opposite direction with his tail plastered against his rump.
More explosions come one after the other—some echo as if they’re going off inside a cave, some are deafening. I bail out of my swing with Laurel close behind.
“What is that?” she gasps.
“Probably fireworks,” I say, although the blasts seem too loud for firecrackers. “Or someone is using the pavilion for target practice. We need to go.” I start walking back the way I came.
“Wait!” Laurel says, catching up to me. “Shouldn’t we see what’s going on?”
I keep walking. “No, we should not. We’re not even supposed to be out here. Remember?” Three more explosions reinforce my decision.
Laurel clutches the sleeve of my T-shirt. “But you said it might be target practice. What if someone’s shooting at animals?”
My steps get slower.
“Suppose they found a nest of bunnies and they’re killing them one at a time?” Her eyes are round with horror. “Or they’re wounding them and watching them suffer.”
I know guys who are that perverse. “Okay, but we have to be really careful.”
This section of the park is mostly open space, so there’s not much cover for us. We slip from tree to tree, hiding in the meager shadows. My muscles tense as if I’m expecting a bullet to hit me between the shoulder blades.
“Let’s get behind that.” Laurel points at a tall metal trash can across the driveway from the pavilion. It seems like as good a place to hide as any, and we dash toward it.
“Hey, Buster! Somebody’s over there!”
Laurel and I duck behind the trash can, but it’s too late. If I had two brain cells to rub together, I’d have known in a nanosecond who was making all the noise in the park. But a person with two brain cells would be home in bed, not cringing behind a smelly, overflowing garbage can.
“Come out, come out, whoever you are!” Ferret calls in a creepy singsong voice.
Just like that, my bladder is bursting. And squatting here is putting pressure in a very uncomfortable place.
“Save your breath, Ferret,” Buster tells him. “I’ll flush the rats out of their hole.”
A small, round object lands on top of the garbage can. It’s too late to run, so I squeeze my eyes shut and clap my hands over my ears. Everything happens at once. There’s an ear-shattering explosion. The metal can trembles. Shredded trash rains on my head.
And a police siren screams in the distance.
Laurel and I exchange looks of horror, but neither of us moves from our hiding place. I feel like the opossum Carmine cornered in the backyard last summer, except playing dead won’t make Buttferk give up and leave us alone.
“Haven’t had enough?” Buster yells. “There’s plenty more where that one came from!”
Three golf-ball-size firecrackers plop at our feet. Laurel and I break cover and sprint for the closest tree. When the M-80s detonate with cracks like rifle fire, Laurel’s mouth opens as wide as a bear trap. I’m almost positive she’s screaming, but my ears have gone numb.
More M-80s shower around us. I c
ringe and cover my ears, but nothing happens. Then I see that their fuses aren’t sparking. Why are those dimwits tossing unlit firecrackers?
Buster, Ferret, and Kong jump into Buster’s pickup. He guns the engine and pulls a sharp U-turn in the driveway. The truck screeches to a stop in front of us. Buster and Kong leap out. Before Laurel and I can run, they back us against the tree we’ve been using for cover. My bladder almost lets go when I see a thick chain dangling from Buster’s right hand. Kong is passing a tire iron from one giant paw to the other.
“What is it with you two bitches? Every time I turn around you’re messing in my business,” Buster snarls in my face. “Now you call the cops on us for having a little fun.” My ears are buzzing, but at this distance I don’t miss a word.
“W-We didn’t.” Laurel’s voice breaks. “We were just—”
“Shut up!” Buster grabs her shoulders and shakes her like a damp towel. The chain he’s holding slaps against her leg. “When the cops get here, you’re going to say you was shooting off them M-80s.”
“We was never here,” Kong says in case Laurel and I couldn’t figure out what Buster meant. Kong slams the tire iron against the tree trunk so hard I feel it tremble.
“Because if we even think you’ve ratted us out, no fancy home alarm system is gonna protect you.” Buster bares his snaggy brown teeth at Laurel. “Understand?”
Laurel’s head bobs up and down, and she looks like she’s going to throw up. She was hoping her Facebook post about their new home security system would scare Buster off.
“You”—Buster pulls the chain tight between his fists and holds it in front of my throat—“and your smart-ass boyfriend will get double whatever she gets.”
“Don’t forget her asshole brother,” Kong adds helpfully.
Buster’s lip curls in a malicious smirk that makes me feel like cockroaches are crawling under my skin. “Oh, I won’t.”
Now the police siren sounds like it’s coming from the next block. Buster moves in on me. I smash my body against the tree to prevent body contact. “Remember what I’m saying, Tree Scabs.” He cuts a look at Laurel so she won’t feel left out. “One word from either of you, and people will get messed up real bad.” He cracks the chain against the ground for emphasis.
“Come on. Let’s hit it.” Buster signals Kong, and they both swagger to the pickup. Buster slides behind the wheel while Kong vaults into the truck bed.
My leg muscles turn to pudding, and I slide down the trunk to the ground. The buzzing in my ears seems to get louder. Buster guns his engine and swerves the truck so close that gravel showers my legs.
Ferret, who’s always bravest when he’s running away, leans out the passenger window and yells, “Beep your house hut, switches!” as they speed off.
Laurel gives me a hand up. I test my shaky legs, which haven’t decided what they want to do. “What did he say?” My voice sounds hollow.
She puts her mouth to my ear, which is buzzing like a swarm of bees. “He said, ‘Keep your mouths shut, bitches.’”
“We were never here, so what’s to talk about?” My legs have steadied enough to support my weight. “Let’s get out of here before the police arrive. The smartest thing to do is stay off the streets.”
But Laurel is gathering up the unexploded M-80s and stuffing them in her shorts pockets.
“What are you doing? Leave those here and let’s get—”
A police patrol car pulls up to the pavilion with its lights flashing and its spotlight sweeping the area. I squat behind my new tree friend where Laurel is scooping up illegal explosives, but it’s hopeless. The light trains on us and sticks.
Déjà vu really sucks.
I shade my eyes from the glare with my right hand and stand up. Mom is going to go up like a Roman candle when she hears about this.
An officer steps out of the car and starts toward us. The glare makes it impossible to see details, but his size and shape are horribly familiar.
“You’re not going to say anything, right?” Laurel is talking from the side of her mouth like a gangster. “If we tell, they’re going to do something really awful to us. Or our families.”
I shiver. When Buster held that chain up to my throat, I thought he was going to strangle me. He already hates Laurel and me, and he hates Clay for making him look like a fool at Miss Simmons’s house. Buster is looking for an excuse to take revenge, and Kong and Ferret will be happy to tag along. I can see Buttferk ambushing Clay or Manny in an isolated spot where it would be three against one. And what about Ferret’s threat to slash more than our tires? If those goons hurt people I care about because of me, I’ll never forgive myself.
Officer Sierra throws his hands in the air. “You have got to be kidding me! I was sure you’d be grounded until the Second Coming.”
Laurel’s voice has suddenly gone missing, so I have to answer. “Well, we sort of are…grounded. But Laur—we were feeling really, really cooped up. So we walked over here to swing and get some fresh air.”
Officer Sierra looks at the fragments around us. “And how do these illegal fireworks fit in?”
“Well…uh—”
Laurel jabs her elbow just below my left boob. “Those were my idea. You know, Fourth of July, firecrackers? The perfect combination for a little harmless fun.”
“Except in Iowa, fireworks are illegal.” He holds out his hand and Laurel hands over one of the unlit firecrackers. “And these M-80s aren’t legal anywhere—at least, nowhere in the Midwest. So I’m interested to know where you got your hands on them.”
Me too. I glance at Laurel.
“Sorry. I can’t reveal my source.” Laurel lifts her chin. “Supplier/client privilege.”
Officer Sierra snorts. “There is no supplier/client privilege. What’s the story? Did your boyfriend buy the fireworks for you?”
I choke back a laugh, which starts a coughing fit. He waits until I catch my breath, then he pounces. “Okay, Aspen, you tell me. Where did you girls get them?”
His eyes and Laurel’s bore into me as I bite on my lower lip, trying to decide what to do. The way Buster and Kong scared the crap out of me just now, I’d love to tell Officer Sierra and let him handle them. On the other hand, he’s caught Laurel and me lying twice and I’ve puked on his shoes, but he still hasn’t thrown us in jail. I’d rather take my chances with the law than have Buttferk stomp us into dust. “They just kind of fell out of the sky.”
Officer Sierra massages his forehead. “All right, then. You know how this goes.” When my parents hear about this little adventure, they’re going to lock me up and flush the key.
He marches us to the squad car and opens the back door. Before we get in, he makes us empty our pockets and puts the rest of the M-80s into a plastic bag. Once we’re locked in and he’s in the driver’s seat, he says, “Bright and early tomorrow morning, I’ll be back out here to see if you girls did any damage with your ‘harmless fun.’”
He turns around and puts the car into gear. “If I find any damage at all, I guarantee that you girls will personally make restitution. That’s in addition to any monetary fines you’ll be required to pay. Depending on the judge’s mood, those can be anywhere from one hundred to two hundred fifty dollars.”
Laurel and I gulp in unison.
This is without question the worst summer of my entire life.
sixteen
“THIS IS THE MOST DISGUSTING THING I’VE EVER DONE. THESE portable potties are grosser than pig poop,” Laurel whines through the scarf wrapped over her nose and mouth. “I swear I’m going to puke.” She swipes at the flies swarming around her face and hair, but it’s pointless when we’re outnumbered a million to two.
I dip my sponge into the bucket of disinfectant and water sitting outside the portable toilet. My gloves are industrial-strength rubber and reach almost to my elbows, but the infested water slops over the top and drips inside. “You’ve said that at least ten times. Just throw up and get it over with!”
; Laurel’s lucky that I haven’t dumped a bucket of slop over her head. Because of her I’m spending my Saturday scrubbing crap from the portable toilets in the park instead of doing my shift at the Sub Stop. Saturday of the Fourth of July weekend is our busiest day of the summer, and Willie was monstrously pissed when I called this morning to bail on him. I hope I still have a job on Monday.
I suppose we’re lucky that creating volcanic human waste in portable potties is the worst damage Buttferk did with their fireworks last night. Too bad the Parks Commission brought in ten extra toilets for the Fourth of July celebration. And Buster, Kong, and Ferret dropped M-80s into every one of them.
If I were in a thankful mood, I’d say that at least we’re scrubbing the toilets before several thousand people use them to relieve themselves of their Independence Day hot dogs, corn on the cob, and beer. But my mood is not thankful.
It was nothing short of pathetic at twelve forty-five this morning when Laurel and I took our usual places on the wooden bench at the Cottonwood Creek Police Department. What kind of lowlife has a “usual place” in a police station? I was furious at Laurel for dragging me into another mess, but almost as pissed at myself for letting her. So I sat boiling mad on the hard bench and kept my mouth shut.
This time Laurel’s dad didn’t look the least bit sleepy when he marched in to get her. He was wearing a tan polo shirt neatly tucked into pressed khakis. His hair was slicked into place. But his jaw could have been made of cement, and he wouldn’t even look at Laurel. When Officer Sierra spelled out the details of our latest crime, Mr. Piedmont’s face turned from red to white and back again. Instead of taking Laurel home after Officer Sierra finished talking, he leaned against the wall and tapped his shiny loafers on the floor until my dad showed up.