by J. C. Geiger
The officer squeezes Lance’s shoulder harder than he needs to.
“You must be the Wildman,” he says. “Come with me.”
The booth wraps around them like wooden curtains. There is no one else: just a salt-and-pepper mustache and brown eyes and a painfully bright badge that reads Officer Perkins. Lance tries to feel sober, but his focus keeps coming unglued from this man’s face, like eyes too tired to keep reading.
“Why have you been avoiding my calls?” he asks, leaning forward.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“What’s your relationship with James DeWitt?”
“Who?”
“Back there,” Officer Perkins says, pointing at the service window. Stone is there, head wrapped in a bandana. Eyes looking a bit better. He sets down a plate of fries, rings a bell. “They call him Stone.”
“I just met him,” Lance says.
“So you don’t know him?” He’d already forgot Stone’s real name. The repetition of these stories. Stone, Stone, Stone.
“No,” Lance says. “I don’t know him.”
“Okay,” he says, flipping out a notepad. “I understand you were first on the scene at the accident Saturday night. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me who was driving the vehicle?”
“Stone,” Lance says, because that’s the story. His eyes sting. A prickling up his back, but no time to think. Questions come rapid-fire from behind the mustache.
“And Breanna was in the passenger seat?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe they were intoxicated?”
“Yes.”
“Was Stone unconscious when you arrived?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you just confirmed what everyone already knows,” he says, flopping his hands on the table. “You’ve single-handedly held up this investigation. And wasted my time.”
“I apologize,” he says.
“Sure you do,” he says. Very slowly, he closes his notebook. “There’s more to discuss here, Wildman. We have confirmed reports of an assault at the accident site. Pushing. That’s simple assault. And someone matching your description pulled a knife right here at The Float.”
“Pulled a knife!” Lance says, shocked. But, right. That was him.
“I could haul you in for any one of those things. Understand? Would you like to explain?”
“I think I haven’t been myself lately,” he says.
“You think? You’re not sure?”
“I don’t know.” His answer isn’t winning him points. Jail is suddenly plausible. Lance Hendricks could go to jail tonight. No speech to worry about. No choices. A few square meals and a cell. He nods to himself, thinking it through.
“I’ve spoken to your mother.” Officer Perkins smiles, proud of his achievement. “And some folks from your school. I understand you’re valedictorian.”
“Yes, sir.”
Officer Perkins leans forward. The table creaks. “So which track do you want your life to be on, son? You want to be successful? Or you want to end up like those losers?”
Back at the table, Rocco is holding up a french fry.
“Your whole life can go off the rails, just like that.” He snaps his fingers. “I see it all the time. It just takes one bad decision.”
“I understand.”
“See that you do.” He gets up. “You might want to think that over in the next ten minutes, before my partner and I circle back and start asking for IDs. We clear?”
“We’re clear,” Lance says. He stands and Officer Perkins offers his hand—a bone-crunching grip.
“Good job at the accident scene by the way,” he says. “You probably saved Stone’s life. Whatever that’s worth.” He winks, then walks away. The breeze from the closing door brushes Lance’s face. Outside, the crackle of a police radio. Information moving from here to there.
Whatever that’s worth.
Stone stands behind the bar, framed by the service window.
Lance tries to hear James, but it’s Stone, Stone, Stone. The song is finally stuck in his head. Stone looks at him. They make eye contact and Lance nods and Stone nods back, like they’ve just reached an agreement.
Lance stands up and walks back toward his friends, wondering which name they’ll let him keep.
The campfire seems like a good idea.
Mason swears Officer Perkins won’t come back, but no one is buying it, so five minutes later they’re spilling out into the parking lot. When they hit gravel, Darren and Jonathan start screaming about their feet. Their elbows and knees are popping up in the air, and Meebs is beatboxing, imitating their movements—the Shoeless Shuffle.
It’s great.
“Assholes!” Darren takes a step and shrieks. “Urchins! There are goddamn urchins in these rocks!”
“Hey Mason,” Jonathan says. “Any chance we can grab our shoes? Just until we leave?”
“Sure,” Mason says. “As soon as you give me back those beers you drank.”
“Dude,” Darren says.
“You will never get those shoes back,” Rocco says. “Stop crying.”
“Hop on,” Mason says, turning his back. “Ride the Mason Train. C’mon, Rocco. Take a passenger.”
“You kidding me?” Rocco says.
“I got Mason!” Jonathan says. He leaps onto Mason’s back, latching on like a monkey. Darren fumbles his way up Rocco’s back and shoulders, which is awkward, since Darren is taller. The pairs move at an unsteady canter down the switchbacks, bickering.
“Watch the branches, damn it!”
“How much do you weigh, man?” Rocco says. “Did you eat like six cheeseburgers?” Everyone is laughing too hard to walk. They keep stopping, letting the piggybackers go ahead. When they finally reach the fire, Dakota is there. Already beside the pit, stacking wood. There is a rhythm to her movements, a soothing percussion.
tick—TACK—tick—TACK
Big logs, little logs. A nest of tinder.
“Dakota’s interesting,” Miriam whispers.
“Yeah?” Lance says. The construction of the fire looks perfect.
“She keeps looking at you.”
Lance freezes, eyes on Miriam. “What?”
“Not that I blame her.”
“What?”
“I like your jeans,” she says. She pulls his hand closer, puts it on her thigh. Tingling. He looks at her. “Are you excited to come home with me tonight?”
“I am.”
“You are,” she says. He has not sounded convincing.
“But the car isn’t fixed. It’ll be fixed tomorrow.”
“We can’t stay the night, Lance. We already missed the campus tour. Your orientation is tomorrow.”
“Orientation?”
“At the bank?”
Miriam is squinting, her angry look. Dakota glances up. She might be looking at them. Her face is blank. He needs to know what she’s thinking. She strikes a match and her fire catches. Flames pulse in the glass bottles around the fire.
“Nice work,” Darren says, nodding his approval. “What’s your name again?” Darren is talking to Dakota. Otherwise, the groups have separated. Breanna, Mason, Meebs, and Rocco on one side of the fire; Lance, Miriam, Darren, and Jonathan on the other. Everyone but Jonathan is drinking. He looks itchy, and keeps checking his phone.
“Let’s tell ghost stories,” Breanna says. “Dakota, tell the one about the hitcher.”
“No,” Dakota says. “Too scary.”
“C’mon, Dakota,” Mason says. “It’s your best story.”
“Can’t,” she says. “Just can’t.”
She is wistful. Slow. The way she was in the cemetery, after he wouldn’t touch the tree.
They begin to chant: Hitch-ER! Hitch-ER! The Bend crowd picks it up, and Dakota tosses her hair back, chin up. She leans forward.
“Okay. It was two years ago. I was coming down Highway 2 through the Wenatchee Wilderness, twenty miles from the nearest
gas station.”
The Baring group cheers like they just heard the opening chords of a favorite rock song. Dakota keeps talking, weaving something. A tapestry, wrapping them up in her words. Firelight flickers across her cheeks and dances in her eyes and it’s finally okay for him to stare at her. For once, everyone is staring.
“I only picked him up because of the storm. The sky to the west was a big black sheet of rain. But when he got close to the car I almost floored it. I should’ve. This guy was scarecrow-junkie thin, carrying this little green backpack. I could see his joints through his jeans. And I could smell him halfway to the car. That street smell, you know?”
“Oh man,” Jonathan says.
“So he got in, and the guy wouldn’t talk to me. I kept asking Where are you going? Why are you out here? Dead quiet. He just kept shoving his green backpack under his seat. It was really quiet, so I turned on the radio. The guy reached out. Turned it off.”
“No!” Darren says. “He turned off your radio? End of the ride.”
“Before I can say anything, he starts messing with his little green backpack again, so I ask, Hey, what’s in the bag?”
“What did he say?” Darren asks.
“He looks at me with his big, junkie eyes and says, None of your fucking business.”
“What!” Jonathan says.
“So, okay. I keep driving. We go a little farther, and he’s back at it again, tapping the side of the bag, messing with the zipper, and I say, Look, man. I’m cool. I smoke and do whatever. Is there something you need in there? I’m not going to judge you. And he looks at me again, straight on, and says None of your fucking business.”
“Oh my God,” Miriam says, clasping Lance’s hand.
“So I know I got to get this guy out,” Dakota says. “I start messing with the clutch. Tapping the brakes. Making the car all jerky, like the wheel’s flat. I pull over and tell him there’s something wrong on the passenger side. And I need him to get out and take a look. Guy just stares at me. This cold stare.”
Jonathan shifts on his log. Wood creaks.
“He won’t leave the car. He just kind of puts one foot on pavement and leans partway out. And I say, I think you need to get all the way out. And he looks down at his bag and says, Like hell I will.”
“No way,” Jonathan says.
“So BOOM—I floored it.”
“While he was stepping out?” Miriam asks. “What happened?”
“The door banged into him and he hit the concrete, screaming. Just kept screaming. God. I can still hear him, you know?” She closed her eyes. “Then the storm blew in. Rain and wind and hail. I was so freaked-out. I didn’t even pull over to close the door until I was back in town.”
“Whoa,” Darren says.
“Did you ever see anything in the news?” Jonathan asks.
“Nothing,” Dakota says. Miriam’s hand tightens. In the distance, the white-noise rush of the highway. Sputtering Jake brakes.
“What about the bag?” Darren asks.
“Excuse me?” She looks up from the fire.
“The green bag,” Darren says. “Did it fall out with him?”
“No,” Dakota says, lowering her eyes to the fire. “It was still in the car.”
“Wow,” Jonathan says.
“So what was in the bag?” Darren asks. The fire crackles and Dakota stares at him blankly, her eyes like polished stones.
“What was in the bag?” she says slowly.
“Yeah,” Darren says.
She stares back. “None of your fucking business.”
Darren’s mouth drops open. Goosebumps race up Lance’s arms, breath catching. Then Meebs claps. The other side of the fire erupts. Wild applause.
“Holy shit!” Darren says, leaping to his feet. “Did you make that up?”
“Gotcha,” Dakota says.
“No!” Darren says. “You’re evil!”
“That’s my girl,” Mason says.
Everyone is howling. Everyone but Miriam. She’s quiet, watching Lance. Giving him the same look she gave the copier drawer at Bend High, right before she knocked it shut.
“I need a drink,” Darren says. “C’mon, Jonathan.”
“Okay,” Jonathan says. “Just one.”
“I’m in,” Lance says. He walks with Jonathan and Darren to the stump where Mason has arranged the bottles.
“What should we do next?” Jonathan asks, grabbing one bottle by its neck, tilting it.
“I want to do that hot little number back there,” Darren says. “Da-ko-ta.”
“Oh my,” Jonathan says, and he can tell Jonathan is watching him. He tries to keep his face blank, listening to Darren talk.
“Oh yeah. She’s got that country thing. The way she says got. I got to get this guy out. And concrete. Like kahn-crete. That’s hot shit.”
“You okay, Lance?” Jonathan asks.
“Yeah,” Lance says, trying to soften his eyes. “What?”
“Aw. Did I offend you, Blower?” Darren asks. His high, drunken giggle.
A hot pounding in his temples.
“Shut your mouth, Darren,” Lance says.
“Oh, wow. Look at you, Wildman. What are you gonna do with those tight jeans? Make me sorry?”
“Guys,” Jonathan says. “Have a drink.” Lance had hit Darren once before, after the seventh-grade Sweethearts Dance. It involved a girl, and he’d punched him square in the nose, knocked him on his back.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Darren says.
“I’ll tell you whatever the hell I want.” Lance’s hands are fists. Eyes wide and straining in a crazy way. He can’t make them go back to normal.
A commotion by the fire. Stone has appeared, white apron slung over his shoulder. They both look. Jonathan hands them each a drink, and they drop their conversation at the stump. When they reach the fire, Rocco has launched into the more pregnant story. Lance can’t believe they haven’t all heard it yet.
“Someone remind me why I hang out with you assholes,” Stone says. He sits between Rocco and Breanna, rolling a joint. He nods along as they tell the story, keeping time to a familiar beat.
“So Stone says, Can’t she get more pregnant?” Meebs breaks in, capping the story.
The group howls. His friends clap. All but Stone and Miriam.
“More pregnant,” Darren says, shaking his head. “Awesome.”
“That’s funny,” Miriam says to Dakota. “But you know it’s possible, right?”
“Sorry, what?” Dakota says.
Stone straightens sharply, like someone just jerked him up by the hair.
“What do you mean it’s possible?” Mason says. “I thought Bend had good schools.” People laugh.
“It’s called superfetation,” Miriam says, meeting Mason’s eyes. “It happens in people and animals. It has to do with hormone levels. A female can actually release another egg during pregnancy. Sometimes two kids are born, but only one is full-term.”
“Really,” Dakota says. “Our bodies can do that?”
“Uh, yeah. It’s science,” Miriam says. “You can look it up. Or I can.” Miriam takes out her phone. Lance stares at the fire.
“It’s science,” Meebs says to Rocco, making his eyes big.
“Whatever,” Breanna says.
“As if Stone knew about superfrutation,” Rocco says.
“Exactly,” Mason says.
“I did know, you idiots,” Stone says. “That’s why I said it. So it doesn’t matter if it’s possible. Is that what I’m hearing?” He looks at Mason, then Breanna.
“More pregnant,” Darren says. He and Mason laugh. Jonathan is itchy again. Back to looking at his phone.
“All right,” Jonathan says. “I can drive in half an hour. Lance, do you need to pack up?” He sees Dakota, and there is a flare behind her eyes. Alcohol mixed with something he hasn’t seen before. Miriam keeps patting his thigh. Softly. Not now, Miriam, he wants to tell her. Please don’t touch me now. But she’s patting harder and h
arder. Painful.
“What?” Lance says.
“Your leg. You’re going to roll the log into the fire.”
“Mr. Jumpy Legs!” Meebs says.
“It’s restless legs syndrome,” Miriam says. “It’s really great.”
“Sorry,” Lance says, locking his feet to the dirt. The thing inside him pulls marionette strings in his calves, cords pulling taut.
“You know there’s a cure for that,” Dakota says. “I meant to tell you earlier.”
“I don’t think so,” Miriam says. “We’ve tried everything.”
“Sex,” Dakota says. “That’s the number one cure for restless legs syndrome.”
“I don’t think so,” Miriam says, stiffening.
“Yeah. It’s science. You can look it up.” Dakota takes out her phone. “Or I can.”
Howling, around the fire. A pack of wolves.
“On that note, time to go,” Jonathan says, standing. “Lance, let’s go.”
“But my car’s not ready.”
Meebs throws another log on the fire. Sparks shower the dirt. Mason tosses a bottle of whisky over the flames and Rocco catches it, hops it from hand to hand, pretending he’s been burned. People are drunk.
“So wait,” Jonathan says. “You’re not coming back with us?”
“I can’t leave without my car.”
“What’s the deal with your car, Blower,” Mason says. “Do you have a physical relationship with your vehicle? Something we should know about?”
“My dad gave it to me,” he says, bracing for a joke. But Mason’s face slackens and his lips draw into a line. He nods and says nothing.
“You should go tonight,” Breanna says with a grin. “If you stay, you’ll never leave.”
“True,” Stone says. “Escape while you can. Last chopper out.”
“You can always come back,” Rocco says. “We aren’t going anywhere.”
“I am,” Meebs says.
“Where, Meebs?” Rocco says.
“Somewhere.”
“Meebs, you will die in your parents’ basement playing Xbox,” Rocco says. He mimes a corpse, rigor-mortised hands clutching a controller. Everyone laughs but Mason. That quiet look, still sinking in. Cheeks hanging like jowls.
“After a while you can’t leave,” Mason says, like he’s speaking someone else’s words. “A place gets into your bones.”