Payton Hidden Away

by Jonathan Korbecki

  Ritchie stops and frowns. “Why?”

  “You go on ahead,” I say. “I’ll catch up.”

  “When?”

  “When I feel like it.”

  Ritchie looks at me like I’m nuts. “Come on, you know better than to make me cross that log more’n once, but I’ll do it if I have to.”

  “What’s the big deal? Just go on without me.”

  “If you don’t get on your feet pronto, I can assure you I will not be a happy camper.”

  “Go,” I insist, shooing him away.

  “I can’t go by myself.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.” When I don’t say anything else, Ritchie frowns, puts his hands on his hips and spits. “I wasn’t invited.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “Don’t make me beg, man. And what’s the matter with you? There’s gonna be girls there.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “The hell I will. You know that’s not my forty.”

  “Forte,” I correct.

  “Number one,” he continues, undeterred. “Kristie’ll be there, and if she’s there, her sister’ll be there, which means you gotta be there to take my back. Number two, both the towns of Lawton and Payton is gonna be there except for you if you chicken out, and number three, I’m your best friend, and best friends help their buddies out.”

  I just sit there.

  “I need your help.”

  “I got a headache from those beers you made me drink,” I grumble.

  “It was two beers.”

  “Four.”

  “Four beers. Big deal.”

  I clamp my mouth closed, glaring.

  “Come on, bro,” Ritchie begs. “I can’t go without you.”

  Sighing audibly, I shake my head, groan and stand. Carefully wiping the grass from the backside of my jeans, I make my way toward the rotted log that serves as a makeshift bridge over the water. “I’m not your bro.”

  “I’m the closest thing you’re ever gonna have to one.”

  “That’s still not all that close,” I mumble.

  I stare at the log stretched across the stream. Unless you’re willing to take off your shoes and roll up your jeans, the only way to cross the Old Beaver is a three-million year old tree that fell across it forever ago. There’s a town-wide bet on when the termites will win the war and collapse Beaver Crossing as we’ve come to know it.

  “Come on,” Ritchie coaxes.

  The Old Beaver serves as the dividing line between the towns of Payton and Lawton, and since neither Ritchie nor I come from money, it’s our only way to cross without walking the ten blistering miles around.

  I hesitantly test the log with my foot. Ritchie made it across, and he’s a lot heavier than me, so the odds are in my favor that it’ll hold. Using my arms to balance, I take a timid step forward, one foot in front of the other.

  “You’re such a pussy,” Ritchie complains. “Grow a pair.”

  “You are more than welcome to go on by yourself if you’re in such a hurry,” I answer. “My balance sucks.” Ritchie throws a small pebble at me, and I waver—nearly falling in. “Cut it out!” I shout. “You do that again, and I’ll kick your butt.”

  Ritchie smiles. “In your dreams.”

  Another step forward. The water running underfoot is deep. Four feet or more. A slip here, and I might as well call it a night and go home rather than show up at a party smelling like the Beaver. Another pebble hits me, this time in the face. Ritchie is laughing as I waver and nearly take a cold plunge.

  “I swear…”

  Ritchie giggles as he hurls another pebble my way. It zings past my face, making me incensed, but before I can get too mad, he turns around, drops his pants to shows me the dark side of his moon.

  Sometimes I wonder why I hang out with him at all. Then again, Ritchie is Ritchie. For better or worse. I can’t stand hypocrisy, and neither can he. He’s about as genuine as a person can get. What you see is what you get, and while I was right when I said he wasn’t my brother, he was just as right when he said he was the closest thing to one I’d ever have.

  I step off the other side of Beaver Crossing and shove him with the underside of my shoe even while he’s still hunched over and giggling with his pants down and his hairy butt waving in the sunlight. He stumbles forward and falls face first into the weeds. Pulling his pants up, he’s less than amused as he gets to his feet. “Now I got dirt all over me.”

  “You really think a little dirt will make much of a difference?”

  “I can’t let Joanne see me like this.”

  “Good,” I mutter, looking back across the stream toward Payton. “Can we go home now?”

  He frantically wipes at the dirt on his knees. “What’s it gonna take to get her to like me?” He continues swatting at his pant leg. “It’s like she sees me and goes the other way.”

  “Maybe if you sneak up on her, put a bag over her head and suffocate her,” I suggest, turning toward Lawton which is visible in the distance, though the heat of the afternoon makes it look like it’s wavering under water. I begin trudging along the game trail toward town.

  “It’s ‘cause I’m ugly, isn’t it?”

  “Jesus, Rich, you’re not ugly, and it’s not my decision. Joanne likes you as a friend. Just be happy she’s okay with you hanging around. Who knows what might happen down the road.”

  “Why you always gotta be so vulgar?” he snaps.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know how I feel about you taking His name in vain.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t get you. You have the filthiest mouth in town, yet you get your panties in a wad anytime anyone says anything.”

  “It’s just that there’s a difference. There are good bad words and bad bad words. My dad taught me.”

  “You hate your dad.”

  “That don’t make him wrong.”

  This is the hard part of being friends with a guy like Ritchie. Most people think he’s the life of the party, and a lot of the time he is, but all they see is a big teddy bear. And while I love him like a brother, taking care of myself is hard enough without having to drag him around as my sidekick. It’s like he can’t have fun unless I’m there, yet one tiny little slip—a bit a blasphemy—and he goes ballistic.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. “Won’t happen again.”

  Ritchie looks at me as though he might kill me before shrugging, turning his back and slumbering toward Lawton. “Come on. We’re gonna be late.”

  I follow but from a distance. I’ve upset him. “Sorry, man.”

  “I said forget it.”

  I catch up. “Seriously, are we cool?”

  He hesitates before turning. The sun is behind him, the shadows hiding his face. He stands there for a second, his face hard. Then he lurches out and socks me in the arm. Which hurts. I’m rubbing the pain out when he breaks into a grin and slaps me on the shoulder. And that’s how friends are, I guess. Argue, fight, whatever. All it takes is a moment to pull everything together, and we’re suddenly best buds again, sharing secrets and talking shit. Except we’re not talking. We’re walking side by side with him lost in thought, and for Ritchie Hudson, that is no small feat. He’s not a big fan of thinking. He’d rather react. Like the time he stole a car because it seemed like ‘fun,’ or the time he lit a tree on fire because he was mad at the neighbors for blowing all the fall leaves back into the Hudson’s front yard. Ritchie exudes drama, but he doesn’t fully understand it. It’s just the way he operates.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask.

  “Nothin’.”

  “You’re thinking something.”

  “I ain’t.”

  “Come on. What is it?”

  “Stop it. You’re antagonisticking me.”

  I shake my head. “Antagonizing, stupid.”

  He shoves me, and I go sprawling, nearly doing a face plant. I bust up laughing, but he just frowns. He was right, though. I was antagonizi
ng him. I know darn well he’s thinking about Joanne—Kristie’s twin sister. Both are blond bombshells with blue-eyes, a perfect rack and legs that go all the way up. They epitomize the all-American girl, and I’m the luckiest guy in the world to be dating Kristie. She could have had anyone, and for some reason she picked me. Richie hasn’t been as lucky. He thinks the world of Jo, but she feels indifferent toward him.

  Joanne is unique. She’s as pretty as her sister, but different in a million and a half ways. Legally, she’s deaf which has made her the butt of everyone’s joke since grade school. Now that she’s ‘sprouted,’ guys want to think she’s just like her sister even though all they see is the clumsy little girl with no depth perception who used to run into trees and flagpoles on the playground. She was finally fitted with a headband a few years ago called a ‘bone conducting hearing aid,’ and while her hearing is far from perfect, she can at least participate in conversations now. She never learned to read lips very well, she still slurs her words when she talks, and sometimes you need to repeat yourself, but I think she’s awesome. She’s a total dork that doesn’t take crap from anyone. And she’s smart too. The problem is, Ritchie doesn’t like her because she’s pretty or smart. Ritchie seems to like her because she’s the only girl in two towns who doesn’t give a shit about baseball.

  And that’s the other thing. Ritchie’s the starting pitcher for the Payton Pirates, and he’s good. As in amazingly good. His ERA this year is .63, which is insane at any level, but what makes it even more impressive is that his outfield is terrible. He’s practically doing it all by himself. It’s either strike them out at the plate or keep the ball on the infield. He’s already smashed every record in the entire state. Every girl knows him, and most of them like him, but because Joanne doesn’t, she’s become the only girl he’ll ‘settle’ for.

  “Just try being a little less you,” I suggest.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know exactly what it means.”

  He frowns. “I don’t get it. What’s so wrong with me?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with you. Just relax.”

  I guess that’s why we’re best friends. I’m the brains. Ritchie’s the brawn. Ritchie relies upon me to make sense of the world, women and everything else the way I rely upon him to sort out the more obvious decisions such as how to not get my ass kicked when I say the wrong thing to the wrong person.

  “You’re around her more’n me,” Ritchie says as we make our way through the tall grass of the field. “Does she ever say anything?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Beside, I think she’s seeing someone.”

  Ritchie stops and turns—a sour expression on his face. It’s an expression I know well, and secretly fear. When he looks at you like that, he means business. “Who?”

  I shrug. “I have no idea. It’s not like I hang out with him. I’m just saying.”

  “I knew it.” He shakes his head. “I mean, I didn’t know it, but I knew it.”

  “It’s not like she’s engaged or anything,” I say in a casual attempt to undo what my stupid mouth has already done.

  Now he’s upset. Lawton is less than a half-mile away. We’ll be there in under ten minutes just as the sun is setting, and Ritchie, the big lug, is lumbering ahead, head down, his slouch emphasizing his disappointment.

  “Relax, Rich. It’ll all work out.”

  “Doubtful.”

  Ritchie has his share of problems, but when it comes to girls, he’s as innocent as a spring rain. I love him for who he is—his excitement over the dumb stuff, his seriousness over baseball, his disregard for authority, his color blindness as it pertains to race, his ability to shrug off pressure, his adoration for women, his misperception for how things really work, and his sometimes impish, sometimes simple take on life. And I guess that’s why I sometimes also fear him. For the same reasons. Ritchie is Ritchie. For better or worse.

  Part II

  “Hey sweetie.” Her face peels back in one of those adorable smiles I can’t seem to get enough of. Her arms are opened to me, and she’s all dolled up—a bit of eye-shadow and lipstick, her hair slightly curled, and a miniskirt that reminds me why boys chase girls.

  I close my arms around her and draw her close as I bury my face in her hair so I can relish the scent of her shampoo. My hands slowly caress her back, and I’ll admit that I’m slightly aroused at the feel of the bra-strap under her shirt.

  “Are you wearing cologne?” she asks as she pulls away, her eyes gleaming.

  “My secret weapon.”

  She smiles and leans up on her tip-toes, inhaling and smiling. I swear there is nothing like being a teenager. It’s the best feeling in the world. She kisses me on the lips, and I can taste the remnants of a raspberry drink on her tongue. She settles back flat on her feet and rests her head against my chest, squeezing me. “I missed you,” she says quietly.

  I smile and tell her that I missed her more, but my mind has drifted. I do have a secret, but it’s not my cologne. It’s something she needs to know, but I can’t say it here. Not now. Not like this. When I tell her, she’ll act excited, but she’ll be crushed. I’ll see it in her eyes no matter how she smiles or what she says. She’ll be crushed, and seeing that hurt in her eyes will crush me.

  “You okay?” she asks,

  “Are you two done?” Ritchie interrupts, smacking me on the back of the head as he enters the house. “Where’s the beer?”

  Kristie stares—her eyes searching mine.

  “I’m fine,” I say, exaggerating a smile.

  “I’m on the hunt,” Ritchie calls from inside.

  “I’m good,” I repeat.

  “Yeah?” she asks.

  “Where’s Joanne?” I whisper, looking around.

  “Upstairs, I think. Why?”

  “Might want to keep her up there.”

  “Are you changing the subject?”

  “No. I’m worried about Ritchie.”

  She snickers. “Relax. He’s a teddy bear.”

  “That’s what I keep hearing.”

  “Hey,” she says, drawing my attention to her pretty eyes. “Focus on me.” She points at her chest. “Boobs. Remember?”

  Boobs.

  Girls aren’t stupid. They know exactly what we’re thinking. I don’t know if I’m in love or not, but if I’m not, I’m awfully close. And if I’m awfully close, then I’m awfully turned on. And if I’m awfully turned on, then there’s this uncomfortable and somewhat difficult ‘issue’ I need to hide brewing slightly below my belt.

  “Yo, Triple A,” Ritchie interrupts, grinning. “Beer’s gettin’ cold.”

  “I thought that’s the point,” I answer sarcastically.

  “Well, yeah…I mean…”

  “Haven’t you got anywhere else to be?” I snap. “Like, I don’t know, stalking someone?”

  Ritchie’s face goes dark. “Kiss my grits, buttface. Maybe I’ll stalk you.”

  “Whatever gets you off.”

  He frowns, but he must have gotten the point, because he turns his back and wanders back into the living room.

  “That was kind of harsh,” Kristie whispers.

  “He’ll be fine.”

  She smiles, her hand brushing the bulge in my pants. “What’s this?”

  Blushing, I push her hand away, turn away with embarrassment and enter the house. She follows me in, wrapping her arms around me from behind. A few of Kristie’s friends are seated around the living room. There are six chairs and ten girls. Ritchie is sitting in one of those chairs facing the couch. He’s sitting rigidly, his legs restless. I can’t say that I don’t know what it feels like to be nervous like he is, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s on his own. If I say anything, it’ll only make things worse, particularly for me.

  I take my place beside Kristie on the couch. She leans over and whispers in my ear that she loves me. It’s awkward, but I think she likes that it’s awkward. In fact, I think she’s reveling in the a
wkwardness while doing whatever she can to make me feel even more awkward. I do my best to take my own advice and relax.

  The conversations taking place around the Lambert’s living room are what I would expect on an afternoon like this—bad jokes, little giggles, a few bored looks. It’s a group of acquaintances pretending to be friends without realizing that being friends isn’t something you really need to work at. But it’s still good and calm and relaxing right up until the moment that she appears.

  Joanne.

  Ritchie was relatively quiet before, but now he sits straight up, his fingers digging into the edges of the armrests he’s clinging to. His face goes beet-red as he clumsily tries to steal glances while trying not to get caught, but Joanne knows it. So does everyone else. The other girls are covering their mouths to keep from giggling while Ritchie squirms. He’s my best friend, and the fact that they’re toying with his mind is starting to irritate me. Ritchie’s a good guy. He just wants what every other guy our age wants; he wants to be someone’s hero.

  Joanne wanders to the center of the room where the keg is perched on the coffee table. She begins filling a paper cup while slowly tracing her upper lip with the tip her tongue. Ritchie just sits there fidgeting nervously. Staring.

  Bless his big ol’ dumb heart.

  She finishes pouring her drink and looks over as she straightens. It’s her way of remaining the object of his affection as well as the centerpiece of the entire room. And she certainly has our attention. Everyone’s looking. Me, Ritchie, the other guys—even the other girls. She’s proving that she can be every bit as sexy as her sister, and as long as she doesn’t speak, no one can tell the difference.

  “My sister’s a tramp,” Kristie murmurs.

  “She’s just having fun,” I return. I feel bad for my friend, and I feel bad for Jo. Yet in a way I’m relieved. I’ve always been a bit jealous of the way Ritchie can own an entire stadium filled with screaming fans—the way he can tip his hat just slightly, and the place goes bonkers. He grins that stupid grin, and kids, adults, and old farts alike roar until they’re hoarse. He doesn’t have the same power here. Here it’s different. Here, that power is hers.

  Kristie says something, and I nod even though I don’t hear a word she says. I just smile like a trooper and play along. My mind continues to wander, drifting to that ugly subject I’d rather avoid.