“Maybe the baby doesn’t like shopping,” I say as I help Mom out of the car. Then I see a strange figure sitting on our front steps. It’s wearing a black leather vest over a white T-shirt, and jeans, despite the fact that the afternoon heat is intolerable. What is Denny doing at my house?
“Wait a minute.” Mom’s eyes narrow as she spots him, too. “Who’s that?”
“He’s the guy I work with at Gas ’n Git,” I tell her. “I have no idea what he’s doing here, but that’s who he is.”
“Oh. Well, all right.” I quickly introduce Denny to Mom, and then she goes inside to lie down. She’s not feeling well enough to interrogate him.
“So what are you doing here?” I ask Denny as I get the shopping bags out of the car. “Why are you waiting outside?”
“Your dad said the kids were taking a nap, so.” Denny shrugs. “Anyway, could you give this to Charlotte? I thought you’d see her before I do, so . . .” He hands me a brown paper bag.
“That depends. What is it?” I ask.
“I made her a mix,” he says. “Of my favorite U2 songs. We were talking about it and she said she sort of liked them, but she didn’t have any of their songs, so . . . you know. I would have made a few mixes but I can’t afford more because I’m saving all my money for a trip to Ireland.”
I am so jealous that for a second I can’t speak. Everyone has plans to get out of Lindville. “You’re going to Ireland?” I ask. “When?”
“I don’t know. Soon, though,” he says.
I try not to hate him. “This feels heavier than just one CD.” I shake the bag and hear rattling cases inside.
“Yeah. Well, it was going to be one ninety-minute CD,” he says. Where his little mustache used to be, there’s now a red strip of skin that looks like sunburn. “But then I couldn’t fit them all on there, so . . . it’s actually three and a half CDs worth of songs.”
I don’t say anything for a minute, because I’m thinking how Charlotte has three hundred minutes of U2 and how nice it would be to have someone that devoted to either me or to my band.
Thwarted
Inside Edison High the next day, everything is as usual. We have the golf player substitute again. “Unfortunately, Monsieur LeFleur has suffered a relapse in his health, due to the stress of attending the family funeral,” the sub tells us.
“What? But the funeral was two weeks ago,” I say. “And last week he wasn’t here because of a family emergency.”
“Yes. Well, I’m not sure exactly what’s going on, but he won’t be able to make it today. However, he wanted me to thank you all very much for your cards, and I have corrected homework to hand back to you, and a worksheet, as well as a CD of him teaching a class, which we can all listen to.”
“Someone else’s class?” I ask. “Like, we’re getting a repeat?”
“Are we going to get credit for this course? Because I’m really starting to wonder here,” Charlotte says.
“You will certainly get credit—if you can pass the exam at the end of the summer term,” the substitute says. “It’s an oral and written exam.”
“How are we supposed to pass an exam when we never speak French in here?” another student asks. “There aren’t enough subs that speak French, and we never practice. It’s not fair.”
“I’m sure Monsieur LeFleur will go easy on you. He’s not expecting you to make a hole in one without a lesson from the pro, if you catch my drift,” she says.
We don’t. Or at least I don’t want to. If I start having a rapport with golf pros, I’m not sure what that would mean about me, but it can’t be good.
“As usual, he has prepared special materials for you.” She walks around the classroom, her golf-shoe spikes clicking on the linoleum floor.
I stare at the worksheet she places on my desk. Monsieur LeFleur has made a list of vocabulary words for us, and we have to use them in French sentences. This is the list, which is titled Emotions:
Sad
Gloomy
Cheerless
Angry
Furious
Irate
Enraged
Depressed
Frustrated
Disturbed
Thwarted
Despondent
Hopeless
I’m not sure why the last word isn’t suicidal, because it seems like the most natural progression. I go up to the front of the classroom, where the golfer is sitting at the desk filling out an attendance sheet, or her scorecard, perhaps. “Listen,” I whisper to her. “Is Monsieur LeFleur dying? Does he have inoperable cancer or something?”
“What? No. That’s absurd. Do you realize how absurd that is?” she asks me.
I nod. “Yes. But look at this list. The man is in trouble somehow.”
“Well, he’s not that sick,” she says.
“Not that sick? Then how sick is he?” I ask.
“That’s personal—but he’s not dying. And I really have no idea. I’m sure it’s just a sort of flu,” she says.
I put my hands on my hips. “Then explain where he’s been for the past three and a half weeks. The most dedicated teacher in Lindville. Missing.”
She shrugs. “Look, I don’t know; they don’t tell me any more than you. All I know is, he has someone pick up the students’ work and drop off his assignments. But I think you should go back to your seat now and get to work on that . . . worksheet.”
I glare at her for a minute, then go back to my seat.
Charlotte taps my arm with her pen. “You were sort of harassing her up there. What happened?”
“I’m so mad about this class. I just—” I stare at the worksheet. “I really identify with this list right now.”
“Me too,” Charlotte says. “Except—what does thwarted mean?”
“You know. Me and Steve. Because of Jacqui,” I explain. “Like that.”
“So why didn’t he just write sucky?” Charlotte asks.
“I don’t think sucky is a word,” I say. “But it should be.” In French it could be sucké, and I could use it in several sentences, all relating to this summer.
We both focus on the list for a few minutes. Then Charlotte leans over and asks, “Hey, you want to go to IHOP after class?”
“Sure,” I say. Then I remember: I have to take the kids to the park. Maybe this is a good thing. I’m not sure if I could take watching the “IHOPpers in Love” routine again. “Actually, I can’t. But hold on—I have something for you.” I dig the paper bag of CDs out of my bag and hand it to her. “These are for you. From Denny. His U2 favorites.”
Charlotte peers into the bag. “Wow. This is so cool!”
“He’ll probably quiz you sometime, so just be prepared, okay?” I ask.
Suddenly Monsieur LeFleur’s voice booms out of the CD player on the sub’s desk and she jumps up to turn down the volume. “Sorry, kids!” she says as a man’s voice screams, “Bonjour, mes amis!”
Wild Streak
I finish loading the dishwasher as fast as I can on Tuesday night.
“Peggy, don’t break the dishes,” Mom says critically, as she sits at the kitchen table, watching me. “Just put them in.”
“Mom, don’t call me Peggy,” I say. “All right?” I drop forks and spoons into the silverware basket.
“Well, you’re touchy,” Mom says, which is a funny comment coming from someone who’s so cranky she swore at the stove earlier for burning the kids’ mac and cheese.
“Ray and Charlotte are picking me up in two minutes,” I say. They’re back together again, so I have a ride tonight. I wash the saucepans and drop them into the drainer, while Mom goes into the living room to monitor Dean and Torvill, who are building a fort out of the sofa pillows.
“You’re going out with Charlotte again?” my father asks as he holds Dorothy in the air above his head, preparing her for her career as either an air force pilot or a pairs skater doing a lift. “It’s a Tuesday night.”
“Dad, I’m not on a school schedule.”
“I know. It’s just that you work at the store tomorrow morning. You’ve got French. And I’m not exactly sure how I feel about you spending so much time with Charlotte.”
“What do you mean by that?” I ask. “Don’t you like her?”
“Sure. Of course. But she has quite a wild streak, doesn’t she?” Dad says. “I could tell, when I met her outside French class that day. She just has that look. Or maybe it’s an attitude.”
“Wild streak? No, not really,” I say, thinking, Unless she really does streak. “I mean, she’s creative. She has a lot of creative energy.” And creative ideas about driving nontraditional vehicles on town streets. But that hasn’t gotten back to my parents yet, so I don’t think it’s going to.
“Translation: wild streak,” my father says as he twirls Dorothy upside down. “P. F., I wasn’t born yesterday, okay? I had friends like that. I was sort of like that.”
I wipe my hands on the dishtowel. “You? Come on, Dad. Be serious.”
My father glances at me with a wounded expression. “Why is that so hard to believe?”
“Because!” I peer out the window over the sink to see if Ray and Charlotte are here yet. “You’ve told me a thousand times how you got up at four to skate before school and how your schedule was so grueling and all that.” And I can’t exactly picture the male-figure-skating clique being known for its wildness.
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t occasionally do stupid things,” my father says. “So. What do you two do exactly, when you go out?”
“Nothing, really. I mean, just hang out with people.” I shrug.
“By people, I assume you mean . . . boys?” my father asks. “Anyone in particular I should know about?”
Fortunately, I see Ray’s truck pull up outside just then, so I grab my Rollerblade bag just in case I need to skate home later. “I’ll be home by eleven,” I say.
“Be careful!” my father calls to me. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Two hours later I am making out with Mike Kyle in a do-it-yourself car wash.
I don’t know how this happened, but it did. We met up with him at the Lot. Mike wouldn’t stop talking about how cool I looked when he saw me skating across town the other day while he was out delivering pizzas in his Geo. He says I should audition for some kind of roller demolition derby they’re supposed to be having at Rodeo Days this year.
“I think there’s a roller-skating exhibition for kids, and a demolition derby for cars,” I told him. “It’s not combined.”
“Oh. Well, have you seen Rollerball? You could do that. You’d pulverize the competition.”
So he thinks of me as a bruiser, I thought. Not exactly the sort of girl anyone wants to go out with. It wasn’t exactly shaping up to be a date night, which was fine, because I really didn’t feel like yet another gruesome foursome evening, spent staring at Steve—and Jacqui.
I sat on the tailgate of Ray’s truck while Mike tried on my Rollerblades. Everyone said they would be too small for him, but the skates fit Mike exactly. He’d never been on Rollerblades before, so I offered to help him out. We went to a corner of the Lot and he held on to my arm as he tried to steady himself. We kept laughing because whenever he got going too fast he’d sort of panic and I had to jog over and keep him from falling. There were all these pieces of broken glass he had to step over.
All of a sudden we heard shouting, and looked back over toward the pickup. “They’re just CDs!” Charlotte was screaming. “If you’re so mad, then take me home!” She got in and slammed the door. Ray slammed the door, too, and they took off.
“My shoes were in that truck,” Mike said, and we started laughing.
So I drove Mike’s car, because he was still wearing my skates. I didn’t tell him my parents keep my license in a locked box so I can’t drive. I figured I wouldn’t get pulled over on the way to the Cone Zone, for ice cream.
Afterward he wanted to take me home, and he was driving in his bare feet. It was sort of sexy, because he has really nice toes, which is a very weird thing to notice about a guy when you are hung up on that guy’s best friend.
All of a sudden Mike pulled into the car wash. I knew this was a place people went to make out because it’s on a side street, and because it’s private since it has walls on two sides. But it didn’t feel very private to me. There were other couples and cars in the next few bays, and people kept cruising by to see who was there.
Not sure what else to do, I got out of the car, and Mike did, too. I was joking around with the foaming brush and pretending to scrub the rust off Mike’s car, which is practically all rust, when Mike just took my arms and sort of gently pushed me back a little toward the concrete wall. He was about my height in his bare feet, and his lips were soft and matched up with mine perfectly, like they were the matching half of a puzzle piece. I knew I was getting carried away, thinking things like this, and I just sort of gave in to it. There was cold water dripping from the rinse wand onto my feet and it was so cool and oasislike. I didn’t even care that it smelled like wet metal and bad cleaning agents. Lindville seemed about a million miles away.
“So.” Mike smoothes my cheek with his thumb, then kisses me again.
“Wait. Wait!” I push him away. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” I say. I stare at this yellow caution sign on the wall that shows a person falling down. WARNING: ICE MAY FORM ON WET SURFACES DURING COLD WEATHER.
“Why not?” He lifts a strand of hair off my forehead and starts kissing me again.
I should protest again, a little more forcefully, but I don’t. Kissing Mike isn’t like kissing Steve, but it’s better than nothing. It feels good to be kissed, to have someone want to kiss me.
I shouldn’t be doing this, though, because I still want Mike to be Steve. I’ve spent months obsessing about him. I can’t just drop my Steve fantasy in a car wash because of someone’s nice toes. Really, really nice toes. And lips.
“I—I should go,” I say as I pull away. “I have this really strict curfew, so . . .”
“So we’ll just start earlier tomorrow night,” he says.
“Right. Exactly. That’s exactly what I was thinking,” I lie.
I’m jamming my feet into my Rollerblades and telling Mike how I’m going to skate home instead of catching a ride with him, when this single bright headlight shines right on me, like a police flashlight. Then I hear an engine cut off, and the light goes out.
My eyes adjust to the dark again and I see Denny sitting on his motorcycle. He flips up the visor of his helmet and glares at me, as if I’ve just set fire to a stack of U2 CDs. “What are you doing here?” he asks, making this not-so-sly head gesture toward Mike, who’s standing by his car. “People only come here for one thing.”
“In that case, what are you doing here? Unless your date fell off the back of your bike and you didn’t notice?” I reply. “Or did you plan on washing your motorcycle?”
He leans back on his bike. “For your information, I was sort of looking around,” he says. “I thought maybe Charlotte would be around here somewhere. You said you guys were planning to hang around at the Lot tonight, so when you weren’t there, I thought I’d drive around and look. So, is she around?”
I shook my head. “She left.”
“Where did she go?”
I shrug.
“Did you give her the CDs?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“Miss Talkative strikes again,” Denny says in disgust, as if I’m deliberately withholding information. Which I am.
Mike pulls out of the car wash, giving me a little wave over his shoulder. He honks the horn a couple of times, then peels out.
“I can’t believe you were here with him,” Denny says disparagingly. “That’s the guy who came into the store, talking about trading in his Camaro. Right?”
“Did you come here just to ruin my night?” I ask.
“Why? Was it really special?” Denny asks.
I glare at him. “At leas
t I’m not driving around aimlessly looking for someone. You know, you could always go work at Shady Prairies so you can be close to her,” I say. “Jamie would miss you at Gas ’n Git, but she’d get over it.”
“Hey, you couldn’t even hold a job before you came to Gas ’n Git,” Denny scoffs as he starts up his motor again. “And at least I’M not making out with an IDIOT in a CAR WASH!” Denny flips down his visor, revs the engine, and then turns out onto the street. He pulls away from me, going faster and faster, until he has to stop for a red light about two blocks away, which sort of ruins his dramatic exit.
I sit down on the pavement to finish fastening my skates. It wasn’t such a horrible thing being with Mike, no matter what Denny said. So he likes me. So . . . okay, good. Someone should.
Suddenly there’s a loud sound approaching. I look up and see Denny circling back. He pulls up beside me. “So do you want a ride? Because it’s not safe, skating after dark. By yourself.”
“No, thanks,” I say, getting to my feet.
“Come on.” He scoots forward on his seat. “Fleming, come on. I’m not leaving here without you.”
I consider my options. Neither one is all that great. “Do you have an extra helmet?” I ask.
He pulls one out of the black leather bag on the back of the bike. I put it on and climb on behind him. I’m trying to hang on by touching him as little as possible. I start to give him directions, but he reminds me he already knows where I live. I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before. I like the way Denny leans the motorcycle down toward the street when he turns corners. It reminds me of the death spiral in pairs skating, where the woman’s entire body skims just above the ice.
We’re about four blocks from my house when I see the Doberman leap the fence and race toward us.
I’m convinced the dog has some sixth sense that screams “Rollerblade Girl” whenever I’m within leaping range. He sprints out toward the bike, but we blow past him, leaving him stunned and gazing forlornly after us.
Denny drops me off at the end of the block. He must know my parents wouldn’t want me showing up on his motorcycle.
“That was the Doberman,” I say as I hand him the helmet.
Unforgettable Summer Page 30