by Mindi Scott
I turned, and there was Carr, laughing his fake-friendly vice-president laugh. I don’t know who he was trying to fool. I haven’t been in a ton of fights—mostly just Jared kicking my ass when we were kids—but after putting up with so much of Carr’s shit, I was about this close to throwing down so he could see exactly what kind of trash he was dealing with here.
“Goodwin, why don’t you mind your own fucking business?” I asked.
He smirked in response.
Vicki sighed loudly, pulled her phone out of her back pocket, and handed it to me. “Here. Call her.”
So I did. Rosetta picked up on the second ring.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get here soon enough to see you,” I said. “Vicki said your uncle told you to come home?”
“Yes. He says there’s some crazy storm coming and he doesn’t want me walking around at night in it.”
“I really wanted to see you tonight,” I said, trying to keep from sounding whiny—and only halfway pulling it off.
“Me too. Do you want to meet me at the golf course after you get off work tomorrow? Then we can see each other all afternoon.”
“That sounds good.”
Which it did. But even if she’d said “Do you want to meet me on the surface of the sun?” I’d still have agreed to it.
9:56 P.M.
I was almost to the exit when Kendall came in. She lunged straight at me, jumped up, and wrapped her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. The collision knocked me backward, but I managed to keep on my feet. Barely. I held her ass with both hands to keep her weight from pulling me to the floor.
With her face inches from mine, she said, “Hi, nonenemy!”
“Damnit, Kendall,” I said, looking over her shoulder and see who was paying attention to this ridiculous scene she was causing. I have to say, everyone was. I tried to set her down, but she squeezed tighter. So tight, I could hardly breathe.
“Don’t let go,” she said in my ear. “Please, please, please. And if you don’t mind, can you try to make it look like you’re enjoying this a little?”
The only thing I wanted to do was let go, but she wasn’t allowing it, and I knew we’d both end up on the floor if I tried to force her off. “I’m not playing this game to make your douchebag boyfriend jealous anymore. That was a one-time deal.”
“Oh, really? Whatever happened to ‘I’m so sorry, Kendall. I’ll make this up to you somehow’?”
Despite how pissed Kendall had seemed at Rosetta and me after the dance, she’d been pretty decent about it, actually. In the car ride to her house, I’d kept apologizing and offering to let her keep her money, but she’d kept insisting that she wasn’t mad at me and that she wanted me to have the cash so I wouldn’t drive on my “sketchy” spare tire anymore.
Standing like this, my back was killing me now. I tried pushing Kendall’s legs to get free, but she wasn’t budging. Christ, she was strong. “You aren’t the lightest thing I’ve ever had to hold up,” I said.
“And your breath isn’t the freshest thing I’ve ever had to smell, so I guess that makes us even. Doritos, right?”
Fuck.
I opened my mouth and breathed full on in her face. She shrieked so loudly, I swear to God, everyone in the place could have heard—which is really saying something—but at least she jumped down and let me go.
“Kendall, you can’t do shit like this. I’m with Rosetta now.”
She straightened her skirt and looked around. “Weird. Does she have one of those magic invisibility cloaks?”
“You know what I mean. We’re getting together. Seeing each other. Whatever you want to call it.”
“Well, the only reason you have this ‘whatever’ going on with her is because of me setting up you two at the dance,” Kendall said, putting on her biggest smile. “Can’t you just do me a favor and stand there looking fascinated by everything I say for a few minutes?”
“No.”
I headed for the door, expecting her to chase after me, to try to drag me off somewhere like she always did. But this time she let me keep on walking.
I don’t know what made me do it; I glanced back. Kendall was watching me, and her eyes were bright with tears.
Fuck again.
9:59 P.M.
I’m 99 percent sure a real Ferrari 246 Dino has only one steering wheel, but the video game version Kendall and I were in at the bowling alley arcade had two. Kendall was gripping her wheel with both hands and venting loudly enough for me to hear over the revving engines/squealing tires sound effects while I was resting my elbows on my own side.
For the first time in our lives, I’d dragged her off somewhere, and we’d now been not playing this racing game for about a minute. The arcade was empty, which is why I’d chosen it.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Kendall said.
Her whole breakdown-crying thing was about her secret boyfriend, naturally—the secret boyfriend she was still semidefending and refusing to name even though I’d already told her I’d figured out who it was on my own.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you, either,” I said.
It came out sounding harsh, but she didn’t seem to mind.
She wiped her eyes, and if it wasn’t for the black streaks from her makeup—and you know, her boobs—she would have looked just like she did after her dog was hit by a car when we were kids. “I hadn’t even spoken to him since the dance. But then I see him here, and the next thing I know we’re hooking up in his car. And, of course, when he’s done, he just goes back to his friends and acts like I don’t exist.”
Now I was clenching my steering wheel. This Pete situation was getting way past annoying. And Kendall was letting it be that way. “It isn’t like it was an accident. You chose to go out with him, right?”
She sighed. “Right.”
“So if you don’t want to do it anymore, then don’t.”
“That’s the thing, though. I do want to. I like him. Or I did like him. I just want him to give a shit about me and stop acting like I’m not good enough. More and more it seems like it isn’t going to happen, though.”
The demo game on the machine was running on its constant loop, and I almost wished I had a few quarters to throw in just to make something different happen on the screen in front of us. “You should have realized he was using you when he told you he didn’t want anyone to know you’re together,” I said.
“That part was my idea in the beginning,” Kendall said, shaking her head. “I didn’t want Isaac to find out I was with someone else, because it would make him try harder to win me back. I knew I’d give in and get with him again if that happened.”
I turned to stare at her. Every time she talked about how things had been with her and Isaac, it sounded worse and worse. “Jesus, Kendall.”
She looked away. “I know. I’m as bad as my mother. Jim is the best thing to ever happen to her, and she’s always worrying about what’s going to happen if he leaves. I don’t want to be like that. Like her. I want to be like your mom.”
I snorted. “That’s a good one.”
“I’m serious.”
And the weird thing is, I could tell she was being serious. She didn’t get it.
“You know that dumb poster of rabbits in a basket we have hanging in our living room?” I asked.
“I think it’s cute!”
“Well, Mom put it up to cover a hole one of her ex-boyfriends punched in the wall. In fact, I’d say about half the crap you see hanging on our walls has a gaping hole behind it.”
“I know that. But what I’m saying is—”
“Have you seen that broken TV under our carport?” I interrupted. “That’s from when that asshole we call the Psychopath threw a bottle of whiskey right through it. All the restraining-order stuff with that guy made for some good times.”
“Okay, but—”
“And, of course, there was also that dickhead who got my mom knocked up twice by the time she was eighteen and
then skipped town for good before the second kid was even born. You see what I’m getting at here? She isn’t known for picking winners.”
More sighs from Kendall. “I’m telling you, it isn’t who she picks that I admire. It’s that, unlike my mom, Anita kicks them to the curb and then doesn’t let them come back. I want to be like that.”
It didn’t seem like much to aspire for, but what the hell did I know?
“Do it, then,” I said, shrugging.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
I couldn’t tell whether she meant she was going to take my advice or if she was just acknowledging that she should. But with her calmed down and finished with the crying, I climbed out of our race car. “I’m taking off now. You gonna be okay?”
She looked up and nodded again. “You’re a decent nonenemy sometimes, you know that? Keep it up and I might have to start calling you my friend or something.”
“Oh no,” I said, laughing a little as I took her hand and helped her up. “Anything but that.”
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 16
7:38 A.M.
The next morning. If the Three Stooges had a van-loading company, it would have been a lot like what was going on outside Studio 43: guys bumping into one another, almost dropping things, and cussing as they tried to pack all the gear while still leaving enough room for everyone to ride in semicomfort.
“It’s not too late to change your mind, Dick,” Daniel said, yawning big. This was the earliest he’d dragged himself out of bed since he’d been in school last June. “Craig won’t let us use his van if we kick him out of the band, but you can come along as my roadie if you want.”
The big day was here, and my former band was about to hit the road for the Rat Rodders’ tour. I’d driven Jared and Daniel over to meet Mikey and Craig and stayed to help with the packing and hauling, but it was about time for me to head to the car wash to get the morning crew going.
“Daniel, if anyone needs his own personal roadie, it’s me,” Mikey said. “You have only a guitar and amp to move. I have a bunch of drums and cymbals and stands and—”
“Is it my fault you’re bringing all that shit?” Daniel asked.
Jared pushed past carrying his pedal board. “Nobody’s getting a roadie here. Sorry, Seth. No room.”
“Aw, shucks,” I said, snapping my fingers. “Way to stomp on my dreams, big brother.”
Mikey and Craig started cracking up as they heaved Jared’s amp into the back.
I followed Daniel over and stood next to him while he leaned against the building and lit a cigarette, which was right in line with his never-do-manual-labor-if-someone-else-will-do-it-for-you philosophy. “Dick, be honest.” He was using a quiet voice—probably so Craig couldn’t hear. “You’re regretting it now, aren’t you? You wish you were coming on tour with us.”
I nodded. “A little bit.”
Which was kind of downplaying it. I mean, I had no idea how I was going to get onstage for Scratching at the 8 Ball’s gig at Good Times here in town, and the thought of trying it in other towns at clubs I’d never been to was even freakier. Still, like everyone had been saying from the start, chances like this didn’t come up all the time. And it was kind of an ego thing too. I’d been the bass player who helped get the band to this point; it sucked that Craig would get the credit. If things had been different, if Isaac were still alive, maybe we all would have been going on this trip.
“I knew you’d be kicking yourself,” Daniel said, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t listen to me. I still want to kill you for bailing on us. But I did figure out one good thing that’s going to come of it.”
“What’s that?”
Still talking in his quiet voice, he grinned and said, “You may have noticed that the dude we got to replace you isn’t much of a looker. Which means, of course, that more chicks are going to be keeping their eyes on me while we’re playing.”
I laughed as I pulled my keys out of my pocket. “All right,” I said, loudly enough so that they could all hear. “I’m out of here, you guys. Have a good trip. Make sure you break your legs and all that stuff.”
Mikey and Craig were arranging the amps in the back, but Mikey shot his hand out to wave. “Try not to run my dad’s business into the ground, Seth.”
“Sure thing.”
My brother walked with me to the Mustang. “What do you think of ‘The Jared McCoy Band?’” he asked.
After all this time, the guys hadn’t been able to agree on a name, so it was looking like they were stuck touring as the Real McCoys after all. But Jared still wasn’t giving up on his search for something new.
“I think Mikey might have a problem with you trying to name the band after yourself again.”
“Yeah, good point. I hate this band-naming shit.” Jared pulled out his cigarettes. “Anyway, you take care of Mom, okay?”
As I was nodding in answer, he reached over and patted my back for about two and a half seconds. I almost could have sworn it was supposed to be some type of tiny partial hug thing, but I guess it’s also possible that there was an insect on my jacket he was trying to squash.
4:45 P.M.
If I’d made a list of the places where I wanted to spend time alone with Rosetta, behind the cart barn at her golf course wouldn’t have come to mind. I was happy with whatever I could get, though, so if it turned out that she wanted to stand here all day like this, I had absolutely no problem with it.
“I told the guys in the pro shop,” Rosetta said between kisses, “that we’d be teeing off”—kiss—“as soon as you got here.”—kiss—“So we should”—kiss—“probably go do that.”—kiss—“Don’t you think?”
“Definitely,” I said.
Then we went back to kissing.
Yup. This. All day. More than fine with me.
But after only a couple of minutes, Rosetta gently pulled back. “You know, it might be kind of awkward if someone finds us here.”
I doubted that was going to happen. The storm her uncle had been talking about was on its way now, and no one except Rosetta and I seemed to be braving it. And anyway, I was dressed in the country-club–legal clothes I’d brought to work with me that morning, so there was nothing to worry about—unless they had some rule against making out behind the cart barn. Which, come to think of it, wouldn’t surprise me at this place.
“Okay, okay,” I said.
We headed over to the first tee. Without the building blocking the wind, the cold stung my face. Huge gusts pulled at our clothes, thrashed through the trees, and ripped over the flags. It sounded like we were surrounded by dozens of cracking whips. A round of golf didn’t seem to me like the best thing we could or should be doing right now, but it was important to her so I kept my mouth shut.
Using my borrowed driver, I hit a terrible shot—my specialty—and waited while Rosetta took her turn. Then we trudged to my ball. The wind was so rough that Rosetta had to hold on to both bags of clubs to keep them from crashing to the ground while I swung. Three shots later, I got my ball close to where hers had landed on her first try.
“This whole me-golfing thing is so lame,” I said.
Rosetta touched my arm. Loose strands from her ponytail were flying all around her face. “You have to remember that I’ve been playing since I was three years old. Think of this as a competition with yourself to get better, not to try to beat me.”
While I was nodding, lightning flashed across the sky. It wasn’t long before thunder started rumbling. “Um, that isn’t good,” I said.
“Why must you conspire against me?” Rosetta asked the sky, shaking her fist. Then she said to me, “Let’s try using the power of our brains to hold off the rain for another couple of hours.”
“Think that’ll work?”
“We’ll see.”
And then—right then—it started coming down. Boy, did it ever. This was not your typical Washington rain that drizzles on and off all day; it was a full-on, tropical-rain-forest-style downpour. It was as if God had pulled t
he plug on a lake in heaven and was funneling it onto Rich Bitch Hill Country Club.
Within seconds, our clothes and hair were soaked. The wind was picking up, making the evergreen branches slam together and the air whistle through. Rosetta pulled me under a tree, but it only blocked us a little because the rain was blowing sideways, too. “I guess we didn’t have to wait long to get the answer to that brain power question,” she said. “What’s our new plan?”
I held her close. Kissed her again. Being stuck in wet clothes and shitty weather is not one of my favorite things, but I wasn’t minding this.
Smiling, Rosetta turned her face away. “Seth, we need to focus here.”
I was focusing. Just not on what she wanted, I guess. “How about if we head to your place now?” I gestured across the way. “If we cut through, we’ll get there pretty fast, right?”
I’d never been inside her house, but she’d pointed it out to me once. It wasn’t the absolute hugest or fanciest around these parts, but it was pretty damn close.
“We could do that,” she said, biting her lip. “I don’t think you’ll like it much, though. My aunt and uncle are home, and they won’t give us even one second of peace. They’ll probably try to make us stay in the family room and play Scrabble with them.”
“That’s out, then,” I said, quickly. “I’m no good at that game.”
Rosetta laughed, and I’m sure she knew that I just wanted to be alone with her.
Another surge of wind rolled through, trees bent over, and there was a loud crack! A huge branch—longer and thicker than an entire Christmas tree—crashed about ten feet away in the spot where Rosetta and I had been standing before the rain came.
We stared at each other. Her eyes were wide open with shock, and I’m sure mine were as well.
“Holy shit,” I said.
“No joke,” she said.
5:09 P.M.
Rosetta handed the guy in the pro shop the bag of clubs she’d borrowed for me. “Just so you know,” she said all casual, “a huge widow-maker just fell in the middle of fairway one.”
That might have made zero sense to me if I hadn’t seen it myself—and if Rosetta hadn’t told me that when tree limbs fall like that they can spear right through a person and kill them instantly.