Girls on the Verge

by Sharon Biggs Waller

  Annabelle’s face is white, and her eyes are as wide as dinner plates.

  “Jesus, take the wheel!” I blurt out.

  Annabelle stares at me for a second, and then I burst into laughter. Annabelle sits back in her seat, laughing and crying at the same time, wiping tears away with the back of her hand.

  Bea pats Annabelle on the shoulder. “That was some good driving,” she says.

  “Poor Buzzi,” I say. “I hope she’s all right.”

  Bea turns in her seat. “Someone’s coming.”

  A big white pickup truck with shiny chrome pulls up behind us. A man and woman get out and run to our car.

  I roll down my window. “You girls okay?” he asks.

  The woman leans over him. “We saw the whole thing,” she says. “That Jeep drove you right off the road. Do y’all want us to call the cops?”

  “It’s fine, we’re okay,” Bea says. “Those boys are long gone anyway.”

  “Your tire ain’t okay,” the man says. “Looks like you had a blowout when you came off the highway.”

  The three of us get out of the car. He’s right; the front passenger-side tire is a shredded pancake.

  The man squats down and examines the tire. “I can change it for you. You gotta spare?”

  Annabelle nods.

  “There’s a tire store a little bit up yonder where you can get a replacement,” he tells us.

  “Can’t we drive on the spare?” I ask. We’ve already lost so much time.

  “Nah, it’s not good to drive on those doughnut tires.” He picks at the rubber. “Looks like y’all had some dry rot. Probably caused that blowout. You should probably get a whole new set of tires.”

  “A new set?” Annabelle’s voice catches.

  “How much do you think a new tire will cost, Hank?” the woman says, glancing at Annabelle.

  He thinks for a moment. “Oh, about a hundred bucks for the one tire.”

  “I can pay for it, Annabelle,” Bea says. “I can call my mom. I mean, it’s my fault those boys ran us off the road.”

  “You girls go sit in the truck with Tammy,” Hank says, his voice gentle. “It’s safer there away from traffic. Tammy, get them girls a Coke.”

  “Can I stay?” Annabelle asks. “I want to watch you change the tire, if you don’t mind. I’d like to learn.”

  Hank pushes his hat back on his head. “Why, sure. I don’t mind a bit.”

  Hank starts to change our tire while Tammy takes us to the truck. SWEETWATER QUARTER HORSES is lettered on the sides.

  I pull Bea aside. “You can’t call your mom, you know that, right?”

  Bea looks confused. “Why? She’ll pay for the tire with her credit card over the phone.”

  “I don’t want your mom or my mom involved in any of this because they might tell us to turn around and come home. And anyway, you’ve got to quit expecting your mom to wave a magic money wand and fix everything every time you have a problem.” I say this kind of hard, and then I immediately regret it. It’s not Bea’s fault she’s so sheltered, and that her parents do everything for her.

  Her shoulders slump. “I’m sorry, Camille. I didn’t think.”

  “No worries, okay? I can cover the cost of the tire. I think my paycheck will be deposited today anyway.”

  We get in the back of the truck. Tammy is sitting in the passenger seat.

  “I’m sure sorry that happened to you girls,” Tammy says. She rummages around in a cooler on the floor and hands us each a Coke. “Those boys were hell-bent on running you off the road. Y’all know them from high school or something?”

  “No. We saw them at the gas station earlier,” Bea says. “They were kind of harassing us.”

  I crack open the can and take a drink. The cold feels good on my throat. Bea doesn’t open her Coke. She holds it in her hands and stares out the window at the traffic swooping by.

  Tammy hooks her elbow over the seat. “Boys like that remind me of my ex-husband. You girls going far?”

  “Kind of,” I say. “We’re going to a flea market in the Rio Grande Valley.”

  Her face brightens. “Hidalgo flea market?”

  “You know it?”

  “I sure do. Lots of good stuff there. Alamo is a sweet little town. Have you been to the wildlife refuge?”

  Tammy proceeds to tell us about all the birds and butterflies that pass through. I know she’s trying to take our minds off what happened, but Bea isn’t saying a word. She looks defeated, like someone pulled the plug on her and all her energy drained out.

  “What’s the matter, honey?” Tammy asks.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything to those boys,” Bea says. “It’s all my fault we got run off the road.”

  “It’s okay, Bea,” I say. I put my arm around her shoulders. “It’s only a tire. Nobody died.”

  “But that’s the point,” Bea says. “We could have died. We don’t know what those boys meant to do.”

  “Sugar, being run off the road ain’t your fault at all,” Tammy says. “Don’t you think that, okay? No matter what you said to those boys, you didn’t deserve to be treated like that.”

  “You don’t know what I said,” Bea insists. “I called them assholes and then I put up my middle finger. Both hands!”

  “Now you listen to me, Bea,” Tammy says. “If those boys could see you now, they’d be happy as clams. They want you to cry; they want you upset. Are you going to let them win?”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “You kick the dust off your feet now and forget about those boys.”

  Tammy starts talking about her horses, and I tell her about the horse camp Bea and I used to go to.

  “My Jesus money!” Bea blurts out. “I can pay for the tire.”

  Tammy looks startled. “Jesus money?”

  “Bea keeps a hundred dollars behind a picture of Jesus in her wallet at all times,” I explain to Tammy. “She’s supposed to use it if she meets someone in need.”

  “I just love that,” Tammy says. “A hundred dollars behind Jesus. Bea, you are as sweet as all get out.”

  Finally, Bea smiles.

  Hank returns to the truck, sweat pouring down his face. Annabelle stands behind him; her hands are filthy and there’s a smudge of dirt on her cheek, but she looks triumphant. Tammy hands them both wet wipes from the glove compartment, followed by cans of Cokes. Tammy and Hank are prepared for everything.

  “You’re good to go, girls,” Hank says. “Now you take the next exit and make a right at the light. You’ll see the tire store on the next corner. Tell Dale that Hank sent you. He’ll give you a good price.”

  “How long do you think it will take to fix?” I ask.

  “Oh, say an hour? Dale’s real fast.”

  We get out of the truck, and Hank and Tammy walk us back to our car.

  “Thank you,” Annabelle says. “I don’t know what we would have done without your help.”

  “Happy to be of service.” Hank puts his arm around Tammy.

  Tammy and Hank say goodbye and return to their truck. Hank holds the door open for Tammy. He makes sure she’s safe inside with her seat belt on before he shuts the door.

  I watch them pick up speed on the verge and move onto the highway. I’m sorry to see them go.

  NINE

  Inside the tire store, a guy around my dad’s age dressed in brown Carhartt pants and a shirt with FAST TIRE embroidered on the pocket is standing behind the counter. A toothpick dangles from the corner of his mouth.

  Annabelle goes up to the counter. “We’re looking for Dale?”

  “You found him,” the man says. “Help you girls?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say. “A guy called Hank told us to come. We need a tire.”

  “Model, make, and year?”

  “It’s a 2007 Ford Focus,” Annabelle says.

  Dale types one-fingered onto a keyboard smeared with grease and frowns at the computer. He leans against the counter and rubs his chin. “We’re outta
tires here for that make, but I probably have it at the warehouse.” He taps the keyboard and squints at it. “Looks like they can get that tire on the truck … that should take you…” He chews on the toothpick for a second. “Be outta here about four—no later’n six. That sound all right?”

  “I thought this place was called Fast Tire,” Annabelle says.

  “I’m sorry, girls. Best I can do for you. You can go on and wait in the customer lounge. There’s free coffee and a TV. Coupla doughnuts might be left.”

  Dale charges us ninety dollars for the tire, which includes Hank’s discount. Bea hands over her Jesus money.

  They take our car into the garage. The flat tire flaps.

  “Poor Buzzi,” Annabelle says. “She didn’t deserve that.”

  * * *

  We trudge across the street to a little kids’ playground. Annabelle leans against a slide and Bea sits on a swing.

  “Why do guys have to be like that?” I ask.

  Annabelle snorts. “That’s the question of the universe.”

  “I can’t imagine girls running people off the road,” I say.

  “Because they wouldn’t.”

  “Hank was nice,” Bea points out. “And Mateo is, too. And Léo, don’t forget.”

  “Who’s Léo?” Annabelle asks.

  “This really cute French guy—”

  “Really cute,” Bea interrupts.

  “He was Hamlet in our spring play, and I was Ophelia. He’s at Willow now.”

  Annabelle listens, nodding from time to time as I tell her about how I met Léo. She snorts when I get to the part about puking on him.

  “How would it work out anyway, him being in France and me being here?” I say. “But still. It would have been nice to know him better.”

  “Has he reached out since closing night?” Bea asks.

  “No, and I don’t blame him. Who would want to be with a girl who threw up after she kissed him? And I don’t want to text him. I don’t want him to think I’m desperate.”

  “Maybe he’s thinking the same,” Annabelle puts in. “Maybe he thinks you don’t like him.”

  I shake my head. “Guys don’t think that way.”

  “Maybe this guy does, and you’ll never know if you don’t reach out. Why does saying what you feel make you look desperate?” She says this like she doesn’t know the answer, either. “It’s such a ridiculous standard.” She kicks at a dandelion poking out of the gravel.

  “Maybe you’re right. Maybe French and British guys are different from Americans.”

  She snorts. “No.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to say to Léo anyway. ‘I didn’t come to Willow because I’m pregnant’? That’s not a good way to start a relationship.”

  “You’re allowed to keep some things to yourself, you know. And besides, he’d be an asshat if he dumped you because of that.”

  “I know he’ll understand,” Bea adds. “He really is a good guy.”

  “I’m beginning to think good guys are the exception rather than the rule,” Annabelle says.

  Bea pushes her swing back. She drags her feet in the dusty hollow under the swing. “Was your guy nice, Camille? The one you…” She blushes.

  “Dean?” I sit down in the swing next to her. “I wouldn’t say he was nice like Léo’s nice, but to be honest, he noticed me and that felt really special at the time. He had nice eyes and he didn’t care what anyone thought about him, and I liked that.” I twist in the swing and then let it go, spinning around in a circle.

  “But, like, what was it like?” Bea asks.

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yeah,” she says quietly, a little shy. “I really do.”

  TEN

  APRIL

  Dean was a regular at Iggy’s, the ice cream shop I work at, which happens to be wedged between a strip joint and a truck stop. The strippers would come over, jeans pulled up over their sequined costumes, to buy chili cheese dogs and hot fudge sundaes, and the gas station guys would come over for extra-large root beer floats, and to flirt with the strippers.

  Dean was one of those gas station guys. He was about eighteen and cute, with thick, dark hair that somehow managed to always look good, and the most unbelievable eyelashes I’d ever seen. The other Iggy’s servers had determined that Dean was mine before I did and drifted away from the window whenever he came up, smelling faintly of diesel, his shirt half–tucked in. He’d smile as he picked up his milk shake, his hands rough and dirty with oil. He’d always order an extra puff of whipped cream and double rainbow sprinkles. The goofiness of that made my heart squeeze.

  Two weeks of barbecue sandwiches and large vanilla milk shakes later, Dean asked me out. We went to a taco stand and ate burritos at a splintery picnic table. He told me about his family and how they liked to dress up as pioneers on the weekend and demonstrate frontier skills like whittling and hatchet throwing.

  “I’d be happy to whittle you something,” he said. “Do you like horses? I do a good horse.”

  “I love horses.” I wasn’t even sure what whittling was, but I didn’t tell him that. I really wanted that horse.

  “I’ll do you a horse, then.” He slid his legs out of the picnic table and went to the window, returning with another plate of tacos.

  Two hours later, we were parked in the soccer field making out. We kissed until my lips were raw. He squeezed my breasts, lifting my bra from the bottom up, not bothering to try to undo the clasp.

  “I have condoms,” I whispered. Right after New Year’s, I’d gotten it into my mind that I wanted to lose my virginity for no reason other than I wanted to feel more like an adult. I’d wanted to go on the pill, but I had to get a parent’s permission to get it. So I ordered condoms from Amazon and hid them in an Altoids tin in my purse for whenever the chance might come along.

  He pulled back and studied me for a moment. “Why would you carry condoms?”

  “I thought, maybe, I should be ready.” I realized how casual that sounded, like I’d be okay to have sex with any rando that happened to look my way. “I mean, in case you wanted to…” My voice trailed off. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned the condoms. Maybe that was too much?

  He leaned back in his seat and draped one arm over his steering wheel. “I never heard of a girl doing that. That’s usually a dude thing, carrying condoms. A guy I know from work has a lucky condom.” He grinned. “I think it’s the same one he’s had since middle school.”

  “Oh,” I said because I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Can I see them?” He held out his hand.

  I hesitated. “Why?”

  He wiggled his fingers. “Come on.”

  I took a condom out of the Altoids tin and gave it to him. He took it, looked it over for a second, and then he handed it back to me.

  “Did I buy the right ones?” I asked. “I mean, the right size or whatever?”

  He didn’t reply, but he did unzip his jeans. I reached for his T-shirt to take it off, because I thought you’re supposed to be naked when you had sex. But he had other ideas. He pushed my hands away and left his shirt on.

  I kicked my flip-flops off and wiggled out of my shorts and underwear, the condom clutched in my hand. The pleather seat burned hot against my bare skin. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to put the condom on him or if he would do it. But before I could ask, he grabbed it out of my hand. He pulled at the top with his fingers, but it didn’t open. “Shit,” he mumbled, then ripped the packet open with his teeth. I looked away while he put it on, and then he knelt between my legs.

  I stared up at the roof; the material was torn at the corners and hung loose like polyester cobwebs. His truck smelled like grease and fried foods, the floor littered with bunched-up Iggy’s bags. His NRA belt buckle lay across my underwear and shorts.

  He buried his face in my neck. It felt awkward and smothering, like I was zipped all the way up in a sleeping bag.

  I felt it bounce against my inner thigh but it didn’t go
in. I tilted my hips, hoping to get him pointed in the right direction, but that didn’t seem to work, either. In the middle of all this, he looked up. “You’re so soft,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  He fumbled around a little more, and then I felt a pinch between my legs and Dean moved a little bit. “Yes!” he said. And then he groaned. And then it was over.

  I don’t know if he got all the way in, so I wasn’t sure if I had lost my virginity or not.

  Dean kind of just lay there on top of me, breathing heavily. To be honest, I really had no idea why he’d be so out of breath. Finally, he got up. He yanked off the condom and threw it out the window.

  “Was that okay?” I asked. “We can try again.” I started to pull my bra back down but I paused. “I mean, it was over kind of fast, so maybe—”

  “Actually, I really need to get home.” He started the truck.

  I sat up and put my clothes back on, sliding one leg at a time into my underwear and then into my shorts.

  He drove me back to Iggy’s and pulled up to my car. The truck idled. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel—drumming out the beat to a song we heard at the taco stand.

  “Well, I guess I’ll see you later?” I asked.

  “Sure.” He leaned over me and pulled the door handle. The door popped open, letting in a rush of hot air. I slid out and shut the door. I stood next to my car, watching as Dean’s taillights faded into the night.

  ELEVEN

  JUNE 30

  “That was the last I heard from Dean,” I said. “He never came back to Iggy’s ever. He never said goodbye. And I never got that whittled horse.” I tried to laugh at this last part, but my breath caught instead.

  “He sounds awful,” Bea says.

  “He sounds like he was a virgin,” Annabelle says.

  I turn my head and look at Annabelle, who is climbing the steps of the slide.

  “What?” I say.

  She slides down the short incline, her hands held out to the side. “He never had sex before, and he was embarrassed to tell you.” She arrives at the bottom of the slide, her sneakers hitting the dirt. “That’s why he struggled with the condom, that’s why he couldn’t get it in, that’s why he didn’t talk to you after. Total amateur hour. Guys don’t know how to handle being a virgin. It’s embarrassing for them. I mean, look how those dudes got upset when Bea embarrassed them.”