by Jeff Vrolyks
“Why wouldn’t I? Are you still in high school then?”
“Tonight sounds wonderful. I took the bus here, so I’ll have to catch a ride with you, if that’s okay.”
“Give you a ride? To dinner and a movie? Are you sure you don’t want to take the bus and meet me there?” It was light-hearted raillery.
“A ride would be great. I’ll see you after you whoop Sacramento then. I’ll be routing for Roseville.”
“A Sacramento woman routing for us? I think I’m in love with you, Mae.” His face was pure bliss. He touched her arm and walked away.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. He said he’s in love with me. He thinks I’m a woman. This is too good to be true.
“I’m happy for you,” Breuer said from beside her, startling her. “Sorry for sneaking up on you. I’m going to let you go, okay? The best things in life are better done without someone guiding you and holding your hand. You are a woman, you heard the man. You can handle yourself. I’m proud of you, Maeve. Be yourself tonight and have fun. If you need me, just call my name.”
Okay. Thank you so much, Breuer. Really, this is the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me. What about getting home, though? Do I take the bus? Do they run that late? Probably not.
“Bus? Minnow, the lad has a car. He’ll drive you home.”
Oh that’s right. I’m not used to associating with someone who has a car; who isn’t a parent, that is. Thanks again. Love you.
“Love you, too.”
He vanished for the night.
Chapter 19
At the bottom of the third inning, Trent hit an inside-the-park homerun, sliding into home plate on a late (but good) throw from deep in the outfield. He was pronounced safe by the spirited ump and limped off toward the dug-out. Mae felt sick for him. Poor Trent!
Trent conversed with his coach, wincing as he worked his hamstring with both hands. Then went in the dug-out and took his big bag full of baseball stuff and limped toward Mae on the bleachers. He waved her down. She hurried to him. He asked if she was ready to go: she was never more ready in her life.
Once they were distanced from the crowd, Mae said, “Is it bad? Is your leg hurt?” Trent said that it was fine, he just didn’t want to wait another six innings to get to know her better so he faked it. She could scarcely believe what she was hearing.
He led her to his silver Audi convertible. It still had paper plates on it. It must have cost a fortune. He opened the door for her and she thanked him. And they say chivalry is dead. Ha! They obviously haven’t met Trent. He put his bag in the trunk, got inside and started the car, summoned the rag-top by the push of a button, powered the seat-heaters, and jacked the climate control up to eighty-degrees on both sides.
He knew a great place to eat not too far from here, assuming she was okay with Mexican food. She wasn’t a fan of Mexican food but she was Trent’s biggest fan so she said yes, that would be nice.
They grazed on chips and salsa. The chips were warm and oily; not the cheap stuff they serve at Chipotle. The place was dimly lit with spacious high-backed booths eager to please, if privacy was your thing. Even in the meager light she could see the energy churning in his pale gray eyes. They were knowing eyes, the kind that made you nervous lying to because they’d know. Inquisitions put forth by the man behind them would be done so not to find answers but to gauge your character, how honestly you might answer them. There was no gentleness in them or any part of Trent’s exterior. His strength was appreciable without example. Muscles were hard and compact, not bulky. If you were to compare the strength of, say, a lithe Bruce Lee type versus that of your standard jock swaggering out of Gold’s Gym, you’d be surprised how much stronger the jock isn’t. Tightly woven muscle fibers. Muscle density. Meatloaf versus beef jerky, Trent was a hundred-and-eighty pounds of dry hardened beef stuffed in a casing of the softest golden-brown skin—a result of playing outdoor sports his entire life. His hair was brown at the root and sun-bleached sandy blond at length, which straggled its way to mid neck, mid ear, mid eye. His hardness was balanced by a shave so close that you wondered if he was unable to grow a beard. Perhaps a beard wouldn’t grow out of respect for the beauty and charm of the boyish face. He swept aside the renegade locks to better see Mae.
Trent wanted to know her story. She said as little as she’d get away with. She admitted to being in school, but not that she wouldn’t start high school until fall. She mostly spoke of her interests, which were watching movies, playing X-box 360, performing magic tricks (that Breuer taught her, shh!) and drawing, though she wasn’t very good at it. She directed the conversation back his way. He divulged what she already knew, thanks to Breuer. He was living in an apartment by himself and attending college. He didn’t know what he wanted to be, but considered becoming a doctor. He claimed to have no memory of his father, which is fine because his mother said he was the abusive type and a total asshole. He wasn’t that way until they were married, of course, as is always the case. The total asshole was nice enough to have a life insurance policy, though, and it came in handy when the accident took his life. A lawyer had read the story in the paper and actually sought his mother out and encouraged her to sue. An unethical attorney: who’d have thought? She hired him on the spot and months later they settled out of court for a small fortune. His mom was a recluse and rarely left the house. She was an alcoholic, which she’d never admit to, and possessed a hearty appetite for drugs, though not the kind from drug dealers. More like the kind that come in yellow bottles inside stapled paper-bags. She had several doctors with loose pens and Trent was sure that she doctor-shopped.
Mae commented on her uncle being a doctor, how he wrote prescriptions that her mom asked for, and joked how Trent’s mom would love Mae’s uncle for that reason alone. “It could be a double wedding,” she said with just the right amount of silliness. They both laughed. Her heart melted.
Mae regretted not thinking through what she revealed next. That her mom coaxed uncle Matthew into writing a prescription for birth control pills for Mae. She thought it hinted at sex. Unprotected sex without fear of consequence. She amended that she wasn’t really taking the pill, that her mom had lied to her and was giving her some other pills. She couldn’t believe she just said that, either. She was digging herself a hole and was headed straight for China. She then said that the pills weren’t needed, that her mom thought she was whacko and figured crazy-pills were the only solution, “But I’m not crazy,” she insisted. Mae listened to herself say that and wanted to die right then and there. What the hell is wrong with me? Now he thinks I’m crazy. Just stop talking!
Sensing her embarrassment, as Trent had a knack for doing, he rescued her once again by saying, “Isn’t that just like parents to think their kids are nuts? They couldn’t be more wrong about you. You are perfect in every measureable way, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you how painfully beautiful you are. A beauty whose equal I have yet to stumble upon, and likely never will.”
“Thank you. But it’s the restaurant—it has favorable lighting.”
“So you’re not usually this pretty?” She said no. “Hmm. Cause I could swear that you looked like an angel sitting in the stands, too.”
“The lighting was favorable there, too. Or what’s the word?—complimentary?”
Trent thought she had to be kidding. “So how do you look with typical lighting?”
“Not ugly. Not ugly at all. I hope that doesn’t make me sound conceited, because I’m not. I know I have plenty of flaws, imperfections, blemishes—”
“So you’re not pretty?” Trent interrupted.
“My dad say’s that I’m still growing into myself.” Why? Why did you just say that?
“Your dad is wrong. And cruel. If he implied that you aren’t attractive yet because of your age, he’s cruel. Speaking of age, how old are you?”
“What movie should we see after this?”
“I don’t care. Whatever you want. Did you just change the subject on me?”
“I want to see Pirates of the Caribbean. Is that okay with you?”
“I’ve been wanting to see that, too. Awesome. Stop changing the subject.”
“I’ve had a thing for Johnny Depp since I watched The Astronaut’s Wife.”
“I don’t blame you. He’s a looker. So how about you tell me—”
“When I take baths I fantasize about Johnny Depp. About him being in the tub with me.” She had to take a bullet one way or another. It beat confessing that she was a kid.
“Oh yeah?” He hummed. “Interesting.”
“Very. He scrubs my back and shaves my legs. Not once has he nicked me. And you know what he does that turns me on the most?”
“I’d love to hear.”
“He never asks my age.”
The waitress waited for Mae to finish speaking before taking their order. He ordered the carne asada burrito with a side of rice and beans and she’d have the same, thank you. Mae began ruminating over what she had said. God, it was horrible, just horrible. It made her sound like a slut, undeniably. But she’d have plenty of time to redeem herself if given an opportunity. The important thing was he seemed to forget about her age for the time being. All in all, it was worth it. But it was a topic that couldn’t be ignored forever.
* * *
The movie ended. Neither had any idea what happened in the flick, other than a bunch of belligerent pirates were being rowdy and indifferent to the romance taking place in the theater before them. Her lipstick was smudged all over his face. She didn’t remember how that came to be. It was awfully dream-like what had happened. Two hours felt like two minutes. She reflected a moment and recalled him touching her thigh, and maybe she touched his. But once that first kiss landed, that sting of the worst and best kind, it numbed her like the venomous bite of a spider. A good spider, mind you. A good poison, not like the kind she learned about on the Discovery Channel. What was it, the Brown Recluse spider? Yeah, that’s the one. Also called the fiddleback spider because they’re identifiable by a mark resembling a fiddle on their backs. Poison that suffuses the flesh unabated until their desired is all-consumed. If there was a kinder Recluse, perhaps a Pink Recluse, she could see how his kiss might be like its bite. What happened after that first kiss was a free-for-all of wet kisses and groping.
She regretted not one second of it, not one decision she had made all evening thus far. He treated her like an adult and she felt like one. She may have been fourteen (almost fifteen) and was still growing into herself, still filling in to her shoes and bra, but Trent didn’t seem to notice or care. He was infatuated (if not downright enamored) by the woman—as he so justly deemed her. For all Trent knew, she just as easily could have been someone who sat beside him in Introduction to Science class, jotting down notes whilst leering over at the handsome boy and praying to be asked out on a date. What they did during Pirates of the Caribbean could have been a late night study session that turned all hot and sexy on them, and from out of nowhere! And through no fault of their own. This was science, after all. The birds and the bees. The bite of a spider. The weaving of love’s web and those lucky enough to be ensnared within.
As they ambled to Trent’s Audi, Mae wished she was eighteen. Hell, sixteen. Because she loved making out with him and felt things wonderfully new and peculiar. Maybe she felt a tinge of it with Michael, but let’s be honest here: Michael was homework; Trent was the final exam. Was it hormones?—no doubt. Not even with Johnny Depp in the tub with her did she feel this way. Breuer thought sixteen was an acceptable age to lose one’s virginity. She had agreed with him, but that was a long time ago. Before she was a woman, in fact. More importantly, that was before she met Trent. To Trent she was suitable to be in college, and she thought Trent was right about that. Just because her body wasn’t eighteen didn’t mean her soul wasn’t. She’d have a hard time waiting a year or so to experience what had been on her mind since the Black Pearl came sailing onto the big screen; since her two heart-throbs thrust their swords forward in their conquest to plunder booty.
“Where to?” he asked as they fastened their seat belts. “Your house?”
“I guess.”
He narrowed in on her. “That wasn’t very convincing. My buddy Blake is twenty-one. I could have him buy us some beer and we could drink it at the park, or in the car, or at my place. Your call.”
“I couldn’t impose on you. I wouldn’t want you to have to drive me home from Roseville tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Or whenever.” She hated her fool mouth. Just let him do the talking. She had no idea what she was doing; the more she spoke the more he would sense that.
“I don’t mind driving you home tomorrow,” he said. She was now avoiding his eyes. “Lighten up. The minute you stop speaking from the heart and pretend to be someone other than who you really are is the minute that this date’s over. You’re by far the most interesting and beautiful girl I’ve had the pleasure of taking out. Don’t lessen that. Okay?” He touched her knee. She could feel the strength in his hand.
She hung her head and whispered, “Okay.”
“Where do you live? I’ll take you home.”
“I don’t want to go home.” She faced him. “I want to be with you.”
“If you’re sure that’s what you want. You can sleep over and I’ll be a gentleman, okay?”
“Meaning you won’t touch me?”
“If that’s what you want, yes.”
“That’s definitely not what I want.”
“What do you want? Do you know?”
“The honest truth would lead to a question that I don’t want to answer.”
“What if I promised not to ask the question if you tell me?”
She appraised his candor. Peering into his gray eyes—they looked deep blue in the shadowy Audi cabin—she couldn’t imagine him being anything less than wholly honest. “What I want is to be older. I feel like a damned kid. I can’t escape it. It haunts me.”
He nodded and put his hand on hers. “I understand you feeling that way. If I had to guess, I’d say you were the only one who thinks of you as a kid. Hell, I’m more of a kid than you. I play baseball for chrissake. Adults don’t do that unless they’re making millions a year.” He flashed her a disarming grin that landed squarely on her chest, left-center.
“You’re so sweet, Trent.” She sandwiched his hand between hers and said, “You make me feel like a woman, as corny as that sounds. You make me feel like I want to feel: normal. Pretty. What I want is this: I want to be around you. With you.”
“Then that’s what you’ll have.” He started the car and threw it in drive. “It’s about a thirty minute drive.”
The freeway was dead at this late hour. The car moved effortlessly up to eighty miles-an-hour and was as quiet as death. Following a somehow comfortable stretch of silence, Trent said, “I’ve been thinking with the wrong Trent.” She silently wondered what that meant, but refused to bring to air her confusion, wouldn’t further expose her naiveté if her life depended on it. “You’ve been avoiding telling me that you’re underaged.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“And the question that you didn’t want me to ask is how old are you. I won’t ask. I’ll never do something that you disapprove of; this I vow to you. Do you feel like you’re old enough to make the right decisions? Old enough to know better? Do you feel like an adult in a minor’s body?”
“Yes, yes and yes.”
“Then I don’t care about anything else. You could be thirteen for all I care, as long as you are confident in your decisions.”
“I’m older than thirteen.”
He smiled at the black open road. “Like I said, doesn’t matter to me. To me you’re an adult and that’s how I’ll treat you.”
“Thank you. I want to feel like one. I do feel like one, for the first time since…” She almost said ten but knew there would be questions following that she wouldn’t enjoy answering. “For the first time in my life.
”
“For the first time?” He looked over at her, reading into her ambiguous words. Her innocence was the brightest thing in the dark Audi cabin. “It will be your first time?”
“Yes.”
“We don’t have to do this.”
“I know. I want to have the most memorable night of my life. Do you listen to country music at all?”
“That’s a little random. Uh, yeah. A little.”
“There’s a song called Live Life Like You Were Dyin’.”
“Tim McGraw. I like that song,” he said.
“Tonight I want to live life like I was dying. Can you accommodate me?”
He suppressed a smile. “You bet. I hope you aren’t really dying.” Her sober face gave him a horrible idea. “You aren’t dying. Are you?”
“Not literally.”
He sat in silent perplexity for a moment. “Okay, I can’t let that slide. What’s that supposed to mean, not literally?”
“I’m concerned. About what lies ahead.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“I mean, I’m concerned about how I’m going to be once medication takes hold of me. I won’t be the same.”
“The crazy pills? They’ll change who you are?”
“That’s what I hear, from a good source, a reliable source. I’ll become a zombie. The lights will be on but nobody will be home.”
“And you have no say in this? You have to take them?” She nodded gravely. “So you want to experience some things before they turn off your lights?” Another grave nod. “May I be blunt? Harsh even?” She granted permission by way of a raised brow. “That’s fucked up. Who the hell are your parents to turn off your lights?”
“They’re… they’re my parents.”
“Bad parents. What if I had a talk with them?”
“What would you say?”
“I’d say that they got some screws loose themselves if they think some crazy pills are what’s best for you.”
She smiled. “Yes! I agree!” After imagining it she said, “You have no idea how bad they’d flip out if they saw you with me. Their little princess with an eighteen-year-old boyfriend?—four years older than their little angel?—they’d so flip out, you don’t even know, Trent. Especially if they knew what I was about to do to you.”