“You can’t have some boob. Boob is not a quantity you can have some of.”
David closed his eyes. The sunlight felt good on his lids, leaving its dreamy orange wash on his retinas. “Haven’t we had this conversation before?” he said.
Clay chuckled. “What do you mean you can’t have some boob? You can have some ass . . .”
Artie laughed so hard he spilled the bag of peanuts. It slumped lazily to the ground, dumping a powdery red dust on the concrete.
“You guys want to get out of here?” David said.
Clay retrieved the bag and salvaged what remained. “So tell me more about Viking.”
“Her profile pic is pretty hot.”
“Nice.”
“Guys, are you listening to me?”
“Yeah. Blond, sort of. Like, bottle-blond.”
David got out of the car and trudged toward the school. Across the field, a Saint Seb’s kid was running toward the lot, waving his arms.
“Davie, where you going?” Clay called. His lips were stained with pepper flakes.
David ignored him.
He went inside. The halls were cool and dark. Someone slammed a locker and the sound ricocheted through the empty corridors, slapping against David’s exhausted brain. Muffled music came from the auditorium. Then, the doors David had just passed through burst open and Paul Lampwick, red-faced and gasping, jogged into the hall.
“Da —” he started, and coughed. “Hey, David. Wait!”
“Not now, Lampwick.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked on, but Paul caught up.
“I just got a call from Charlie Nuvola, from my sister’s phone?” He seemed to expect a response, but David said nothing. “He was calling about your old girlfriend.”
David stopped. Paul waited for the information to sink in. Finally David turned. “What about Willow?”
“Not Willow, the other one. The redhead everyone’s talking about.”
David tried to comprehend the improbability of this statement. It was flying pigs, talking bears. Ridiculous.
“They were looking for this place for, well . . .” He looked up the hall to see if anyone was coming. “David, was she a Companion?”
David worked his jaw, saying nothing.
“It’s OK. I have one, too!” Paul said, stepping closer. “She’s nothing like yours, though. She’s . . .”
“Shut up, Paul.”
“But why’s yours with Charlie? Did you, like, sell her or something? Isn’t that against the rules?”
“I said shut up!” He pushed Paul backward, knocking the other boy into the lockers.
“But . . .” Paul looked ready to cry. “But, we’re the same!”
David stalked away, blocking out whatever Paul said next. He felt a tickle at the back of his throat. It turned into a furious mumble, a growl. By the time he reached the stairs, words were forming, a series of half-real, half-invented curses, the gibberish coming out hot and low under his breath. He ducked into the men’s room — the one for male faculty — and shouted himself hoarse in the mirror. He yelled at the oblivious stragglers crossing the courtyard out the window, at Saint Sebastian, whose radius of spikes reached out to nowhere, connected to nothing.
Finally he slumped to the dirty tile floor. The close air was clogged with words. They hung like toxic gas, suffocating.
The door flew open. On the other side was Dr. Roger, his eyes wide and curious. He looked like he’d been running.
“Jesus,” he said, startled to find a student there. “Was that you screaming?”
David couldn’t speak.
Dr. Roger opened the door a little farther. “Come on out,” he said. “You look like you need someone to talk to.”
David took a long breath, and nodded.
It was getting late; the yellow sun was falling. They’d caught the five o’clock bus back from May’s. They followed the path down to the campsite. The sky burned crimson through the bowed branches, which seemed to close over the pit, like eyelashes, Charlie thought.
Rose sat in the dirt and hugged her knees to her chin. Charlie sat too, a little apart. The dead lanterns lolled by the fire pit, tipped toward each other, dark. They watched the sky transition through crimson to purple and finally into pitch night. The moon was full, a shiny dime.
“Was it because of Rebecca that you had to ask a million what ifs?” Rose asked suddenly.
Charlie squinted, not sure what she meant. Then a sad smile found its way to his lips. “No, not Rebecca. When I was in the eighth grade, my mother left my dad. And I wondered if it was because of me. I mean, I know it wasn’t. But . . . I guess I’ll never know, really.”
Charlie looked at the sky. Rose looked at Charlie. She threaded her fingers through his and squeezed. “I’m so sorry, Charlie.”
He looked her in the eye. “I lied to you. I’m still asking. And I won’t ever stop. Not after a billion. Not after a hundred billion. But . . .” He turned so their bodies faced each other.
“I think you’ll stop asking someday,” Rose said. She kissed the tip of his nose. Charlie took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. They were a gray blue, almost smoky. They were startling. “Thank you, Charlie. You didn’t have to help me, you know.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“You had to run away from home, from school, go to an illegal chop shop. Of course it’s a big deal.”
“Jesus, Rose, they would have shut you down,” said Charlie. “I couldn’t let that happen.”
Something in his tone reminded her of David — a certainty, and a hardness to the words. But of course, the words were so different, words David would never say. She thought of that night they nearly hit Charlie. Jesus, Rose. Just be thankful that isn’t us. Charlie was the cloud to David’s sunshine. The dark side of his moon, Rose thought. Something in her brain twitched. Charlie was the flip side of David’s bright spot, the shadow side. The map began to turn, breaking into the third dimension. And her unbending arrow, pointing to David, pointed also to Charlie. It was a feeling, reflected.
Rose felt warmth swell inside — a universe expanding rapidly outward. And suddenly there was room enough in her world for one more person: Her choice. Her Charlie.
“Come here,” she said.
And she kissed him.
Electricity crackled. Not electricity that hurt, but a radiating energy. Rose opened her eyes. The lanterns were alive. Burning. She kissed him again, her fingers pressed into his back. Charlie’s hands moved over her, her legs, her chest. Different hands, new hands, but oh-so-right hands. The lanterns burned hotter, brighter.
She pushed him gently and lay on top of him. Her hair fell around his face, and he felt her breath on his eyelids, his lips. She kissed him and folded her arms behind his neck.
They stripped awkwardly, until their clothes were crumpled tendrils in the dirt. Charlie’s fingertips and toes tingled. His face was numb. He thought he might pass out.
Their bodies connected, a completed circuit. An arc of blue-white electricity jumped from Charlie to Rose and back again, like a ribbon of light. A blue fairy. They were joined, linked up, bound together.
And Charlie had a vision. He saw his town as if from space, and saw the tiny blue dash that was the light connecting him to Rose. And he saw that light jump to someone else, and then to someone else, to David, to Rebecca, to Artie, to his father, to the wispy-haired man. Everyone, all of them were connected by bands of light, and the town lit up like a power grid, an unbreakable glowing web, burning brighter and brighter but not burning his eyes, until it was all light, all of it, everything alive. Charlie’s heart fluttered. He was flying, passing through unharmed into all that blue. He gasped.
The lanterns exploded in a shower of sparks.
Afterward, Rose kissed his forehead.
They lay in the pit for a long time, watching the blue stars make their slow arc across the sky, feeling as if the Milky Way shimmered in ovation, just for them. Charlie was too dazed to speak. He felt o
verwhelmed, spacey, untouchable. Eventually they were both asleep.
There was connection. Everything was connected. And he wouldn’t lose her. Not ever.
Charlie rolled over, feeling the sun on his face. He pressed his cheek into the damp sand, and when they were ready, let his eyes open slowly. A silvery moth perched on Rose’s jacket, drying its wings in the breeze.
Charlie sat up. The sudden movement startled the moth into flight. He looked right, left, stood. Cold breeze blew through the pit. Tracks in the sand led from the stairs to where Rose had slept. Men’s shoes. They’d taken her. She was gone.
Charlie was alone.
He would go to May. May would know what to do. But Water Street was blocked off. Charlie slowed as he approached, coming to a halt by the wooden police barrier. Several cruisers were parked across from May’s building, their lights silently twirling. Men in uniform milled around the open door and neighbors hung out of windows, gaping. A small crowd had gathered by the barrier, and Charlie had to crane his neck to see over the taller gawkers. Men pushed handcarts and carried large boxes toward black vans, taking back their equipment.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“A drug bust,” one man said. “Or something. Looks like someone was running a meth lab outta that apartment.”
He felt something tap his back. He turned. A small person in a tie-dye hoodie stood apart from the crowd. She’d thrown a pebble at him.
Charlie backed away and edged toward May. Her eyes were hidden behind large, bug-eye sunglasses. She didn’t look at Charlie when she spoke.
“Not too close. Don’t let them see us together.”
Charlie was shaking. Somehow he’d made it this far without saying it to himself. “They took Rose. Somehow they found us and they took her.”
“Someone tipped them off.”
“Who?”
“My bet is the guy in the Cadillac. He rolled up with the fuzz.”
Charlie glanced at the pair of police cruisers parked in the far lot. Beside them was a sleek sports car — far too nice for the Worcester police department.
“That’s David Sun’s car.”
May shoved her hands in her pockets. “What does he have against me?”
“Nothing against you,” Charlie said. “I’m sorry, May. Your shop.”
She shrugged. “It’s all right. I can rebuild. They can shut us down, but they can’t stop us.”
“Could you be arrested?”
May turned to Charlie and grinned. “Only if they catch me.”
When she reached the corner she turned, flashed him the peace sign, and disappeared.
Charlie made for the lot.
“David.”
The cruisers were empty. David Sun sat behind the wheel of his Cadillac, arms folded. When he saw Charlie, he jumped. The window came down with a whir.
“Nuvola.”
Charlie’s voice was low, calm. “Get out of the car.”
David stared, his face blank. Obediently, he got out.
“Where’s Rose?” Charlie said.
“What?”
Charlie shoved David against the car.
“I said, where’s Rose!”
David’s eyes narrowed. He shoved back. “The hell with you.”
“Where did they take her?”
“It’s none of your damn business,” David said. He grabbed the front of Charlie’s jacket and shoved him backward.
“Tell me where she is, or I swear to God —”
“Piss off, Nuvola. This isn’t about you.”
David turned to get back in the car. Charlie whirled him around and socked him in the stomach. David’s eyes bulged. He doubled over and coughed, spitting bile onto the pavement.
“Son of a —”
David didn’t finish his sentence; he countered with an uppercut. Charlie’s jaw exploded in pain. His feet left the ground as he rocketed backward, bouncing off the police cruiser and slumping to the ground. David was on top of him.
“I’m going to beat the shit out of you.”
Charlie was on his feet again. “You took her.” He punched David’s right arm. “You took her!”
They grappled. David plowed his forehead into Charlie’s chest, beating furiously on his stomach.
“You stole her from me!” he shouted. “She’s not yours!”
“She’s not yours!”
They were on the ground, writhing between the cars. Charlie had never felt so connected to his body. Every punch David landed was exquisite. Every blow he delivered was joy. He felt himself release, everything inside him flowing out like the blood that dripped from his nose, pattering onto the sidewalk, onto the front of David’s shirt, mixing with the blood from David’s lip.
“Screw you! Screw you!” David screamed.
Charlie screamed back a litany of gibberish. David’s palm pressed against Charlie’s forehead. His knee landed hard in Charlie’s stomach. Charlie shoved his elbow into David’s shoulder and punched him in the side. David shoved back so hard, Charlie’s own fist hit him in the face. He couldn’t tell where David ended and he began.
Charlie felt someone pull hard on his jacket. He was jerked back and landed on his butt. A uniformed officer stood over him.
“What the hell’s going on here?”
Another cop held back David, who clawed at Charlie’s pant leg. David’s mouth was contorted into a strange grimace, and Charlie saw tears rolling down his cheeks.
“Stop it! Stop it!” the other cop shouted. “Jesus, boy. Calm down.”
Charlie felt his rage drain away. His heart pounded, he was breathing hard, but he felt calm. It was over.
He rubbed his palms on his jeans. They were crusted with grit. His shirt was a bloody purple.
One officer put a heavy hand on Charlie’s shoulder — not a friendly gesture.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? You can’t just beat the hell out of each other in the middle of a parking lot. You want to do that in the school yard, fine. Then it’s your principal’s problem. Here, it’s mine.”
The other officer released David, who’d stopped struggling. He stared at the ground, snorted, and spat blood.
“You wanna book ’em?”
The first cop rubbed his chin, then shook his head. “Naw.”
The second cop nodded.
“But if I have to break you two up again, I’ll throw you both in the cruiser, got it?”
Charlie nodded.
The cop released his shoulder and marched back to the barricade. His partner followed. “Twenty bucks says it’s over a girl.”
David and Charlie sat on the curb and watched the Sakora guys load the last of May’s stolen equipment into the van. They stayed until the street was empty and the green neon clock above the bank flashed 1:00. David put his head in his hands.
“What did they tell you?” Charlie asked
David took a breath. “That they could bring her back. And also make her forget.”
“Forget that you kicked her out?”
“Yeah.”
“She would have come back to you,” Charlie said. “She would have forgiven you. At first, anyway.”
David spat onto the curb. “I don’t think they’re going to bring her back.”
“No,” Charlie said. “Your lip still bleeding?”
“A little.” He stood up.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
Charlie biked home. Pedaling took a conscious effort. Thaddeus didn’t ask him where he’d been, and in the morning, when he left for school, Thaddeus patted him on the back and gave him a reassuring smile.
A door opened, Charlie wanted to tell him, and then it closed again, too fast for him to really see what was on the other side.
David wasn’t in school that day, nor the day after. When he returned, he nodded to Charlie in the hall, the barest sign of recognition. Charlie didn’t know that first day, but the nod would become a kind of tradition. Over the next few week
s, every morning when Charlie came to homeroom, David would nod, and Charlie would give a half-articulated “Hey.” This was the one ripple in the pond of their everyday existence, the otherwise unchanging glassy surface of their lives. David was still David; Charlie was still Charlie. Same as always.
At semester’s end, Charlie went to see the play. Rebecca, who’d decided to rejoin, was brilliant, even though she was only in two scenes. (Willow Watts’s Eliza Doolittle was atrocious.) The program read In Loving Memory of Nora Vogel. Charlie waited for Rebecca at the stage door with a bouquet of lavender and peonies, and they walked around to the front of Saint Seb’s, where a group of pigeons, displaced by cars parked on the grass, roosted on the statue’s spokes, along with that old necktie, still ensnared. Grinning, Charlie ran toward them, squawking and flapping his arms. The startled birds burst up in a gray plume. Rebecca’s laughter thundered as he swung back for another pass. The birds were already settling back, except for one red-tipped flutter that spiraled up in a gust of wind.
Then one night Charlie was out riding when he saw flashing lights across the lake. He rode down the hill toward a pair of police cruisers. David’s Cadillac had run off the road and was nearly into the lake. The front end was half-submerged. The guardrail was broken, and a pair of tracks drew straight muddy lines from the road to the bank. Otherwise there didn’t seem to be much damage. David sat on the back bumper of the ambulance, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, looking pale but unharmed. The car was only partway submerged; David must have regained control enough to brake before driving all the way into the water. But from Charlie’s vantage point it looked like the lake stopped the car, as if the water wasn’t water but an impermeable barrier the luxury automobile didn’t have the strength to shatter.
There was water in the Caddy’s engine, and the onboard computer was permanently fried. David suffered worse from his parents.
“Were you drinking?”
“He’s high right now! Look at his eyes!”
“You terrified us.”
“Do you see what you’re doing to your mother?”
David stared at the ground.
“You’re grounded,” said Mr. Sun. Then, into his headset, “No, not you, Larry. Talking to the kid.”
Girl Parts Page 15