by Roxie Noir
Finally, I give up and just smack into the pads. They don’t smell great, but I stay there for a moment anyway, unsure if I can move backward without falling over.
“You need a break?” Lainey says, coming to a perfect stop right next to me.
“I’m not gonna be able to walk tomorrow,” I tell her, and she laughs.
“You can make it to the bleachers,” she says. “Need a hand?”
Gingerly, I push off the pads and skate backward about a foot without falling over. Somehow, I make it to the wooden bleachers, grab onto the bottom one, and land on them in an ungainly heap.
“After my first skating bootcamp session I called in sick to work the next day,” Lainey admits, slowly skating backward across my field of vision. “Had to reschedule a ton of appointments, and I sure hated myself for it the next week, but I wasn’t sure I could get up the stairs to my office.”
I shift slightly and manage to put both feet on the bench in front of me, then sprawl backward onto the bench behind.
“My foot muscles hurt,” I whine. “What the fuck?”
“Skating uses different muscles than walking, or running, or yoga,” she says. “It’s gonna hurt.”
“How many more skills do I have to learn?” I ask, staring up at the caged lights on the ceiling.
The building that’s now Sprucevale Middle was built in the 1940s as Sprucevale High and hasn’t really been touched since, so it’s retained all of its seventy-year-old high school glory.
Such as expanding wooden bleachers that have, according to legend, crushed at least one student to death. It’s probably not true, but it’s probably fun to whisper about when you’re twelve.
“Let’s not focus on that,” Lainey says, gliding by again. “I think it’s best to focus on the skills you’ve already acquired.”
“There’s so many left that you won’t even tell me how many?”
“It’s not like I know a number,” she says, looping back. “Besides, some recent studies have shown that people are more likely to excel at a new task when asked to reflect on their accomplishments, rather than —”
I groan, cutting her off.
“Next is skating backwards,” she says, skating past me, backwards. I finally muster enough energy to unclip my helmet, put it down next to me, and rest my sweaty head on the bleachers again.
“Is that hard?” I ask, still sprawled.
“Only at first,” she says, gliding to a stop. “The first time you do anything is hard. It was hard the first time you did an inverse rainbow dolphin or whatever in yoga class, right?”
I lift my head up enough to just look at Lainey for a moment, trying to imagine what pose she thinks is called an inverse rainbow dolphin.
“Where you go over backwards?” she says.
“A backbend?”
“Delilah, I know it’s named after some animal and a state of mind,” she says, hands on hips, trying not to laugh.
“I’m not saying I’m opposed to practicing hard things,” I say, finally pushing myself up to sitting. “I just want to complain about how hard they are.”
“Fair,” she says, and starts spinning in a circle.
For a long moment, I watch her spin, arms out, locs held away from her face in a spiky ponytail. I’m head-to-toe in protective gear but Lainey’s just got her skates on, probably because she doesn’t fall on her ass every time she turns around in these things.
She spins. I put my skates on the bench in front of me and look at them: bright teal with pink laces and pink wheels. If you’re gonna buy roller skates on a whim, they may as well be visible from space.
“How many butt tattoos do you think there are?” I ask Lainey, who stops spinning to face me. For the first time, she wobbles slightly.
“Do you mean in the world, or with Seth’s name on them?” she asks, rocking from skate to skate. “In the world? Millions, probably. You’ve got one.”
“The other thing,” I say, resignedly.
Unlike my sisters or my family, Lainey knows everything. We’ve been casual friends since high school, where she was a year behind me and also in Art Club, and best friends since I moved back to town two years ago.
She’s an awesome badass weirdo who counsels troubled teens for a living, and I love her.
“Probably just the one, though you’d know better than me at estimating tattoo numbers,” she says. “How many butt tattoos do you see?”
“Some?” I hazard.
They’re actually not particularly common. Tattoos are expensive. Most people want to spend the money on something they can show off to the public.
“And of those, how many are names?”
I shift my feet on the bench, rolling my fun pink wheels back and forth.
“A higher percentage than tattoos in general, but not a lot,” I admit.
“So, statistically speaking, there aren’t likely to be a lot of butt tattoos in the Sprucevale region,” she says. “And when you consider that the population of women who know Seth Loveless —”
I snort at know.
“ — Is, in terms of statistics, very small, the number of butt tattoos with his name on them is likely to be vanishingly small,” she finishes. “As in, I think you’ve probably seen the only one.”
I sigh.
“What if there’s a club?” I say, rolling my feet again. “Maybe there’s a harem, Lainey. Maybe there’s an entire secret society of women who have ‘Property of Seth Loveless’ tattooed on their butts, and he takes turns sleeping with them and admiring their butt tattoos, and how am I supposed to compete with a woman who’ll put his name on her ass?!”
Lainey gives me a long, considering look as she floats backward on her skates, then forward, all without lifting a foot off the ground. I recognize the look as her a lot to unpack here look.
“You should take up figure skating,” I say.
“It’s interesting that you’re framing this issue as a competition with another woman, rather than a constantly-evolving series of choices with a complex history,” she finally says.
“Wow, and which of those things do you think it is?” I deadpan.
She spins once, grinning.
“I’m neutral,” she laughs.
“Liar.”
“Fine. I think the butt tattoo is an unfortunately-timed and particularly visceral reminder of your issues with Seth,” she says. “I mean, you came over last week you had two glasses of wine and stood on my couch gesturing wildly and shouting ‘This is why, this is exactly why!’”
Past me is right, because this is exactly why Seth and I aren’t together.
“It is,” I say. “I fucking hate seeing someone at Walmart or the grocery store or downtown and knowing that we’ve done the exact same thing with the exact same person.”
“Virtually everyone has former sexual partners,” she points out.
“Okay, I hate seeing everyone at those places and thinking, hey, all the women in the produce section right now have something in common!”
I’m exaggerating, but Lainey knows it and does some more spinning instead of correcting me.
“And maybe one of them has a secret butt tattoo,” I finish.
She swirls around one more time, then stops herself on the bottom bench of the bleachers, then carefully climbs in, stretching her legs in front of her and leaning back against the railing.
“All right,” she says. “In my wildly unprofessional opinion, that’s a fucked up tattoo to get, but I also think it says considerably more about Mindy than it does about anyone else, and it’s particularly interesting —”
“There’s that word,” I say.
Lainey flips me off and keeps talking.
“ — That she claims to only be getting it covered at the behest of another man, because God knows if I got that tattoo and then we broke up? I’d be scrubbing the shit out of it —"
“That won’t work,” I point out.
“ — Okay, using one of those pore vacuum things for blackhead
s?”
“Do you know what a tattoo is?”
“Applying a belt sander to my ass —”
“Major infection, horrific scarring.”
“Would you please engage with the spirit and not the letter of my statement?” she says, and I laugh.
“You’d figure out it,” I say.
“Exactly. Though I also wouldn’t get that tattoo in the first place. With anyone’s name.”
For a moment, she stares across the gym, suddenly distant.
“You okay?” I ask, after a beat.
She sighs.
“I always wonder what leads women to do shit like that,” she admits. “Property of. She has no idea.”
Awkwardly, I pull my skates off the bench in front of me, and they land with a loud, echoing thump on the bleachers. Without standing — much, much too risky — I scoot over to where Lainey’s sitting, get into the footwell next to her, and put my arms around her waist, my head somewhere around her boob.
“Thanks,” she says.
“You’re a lovely, magnificent jaguar,” I say.
“You’re a beautiful, stupendous manatee,” she says back, putting her arm around my shoulders. “You still want to learn to skate backwards, or should we call it a day?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Seth
Then, one day, I see her.
I knew it would happen. It’s happened plenty before. It’s why we have the rules I hate.
It’s a Thursday night, just after seven. I volunteered to take Rusty to her tap dance class to give Daniel and Charlie a break, and afterward she talked me into walking to the Mountain Grind for hot chocolate.
It didn’t take much convincing. I’m a softie.
“She’s kind of a know-it-all, but she’s usually right,” Rusty’s saying. “And even though her parents were muggles, she’s way better at magic than the boys. And she’s way cooler.”
Rusty sighs.
“You think Dad and Charlie would let me go to boarding school?” she asks, looking up at me.
“Not a chance,” I say, grinning. “Wouldn’t you miss them? And Thomas?”
“I’d be home for holidays and stuff,” she says.
“I don’t think boarding school is like the books,” I say, gently.
Rusty gives me the most patronizing look I’ve ever seen on a child, and I have to fight not to laugh.
“I know Hogwarts isn’t real, Seth,” she says. “I mean a regular one.”
I don’t think Rusty actually wants to leave home and only see her family on holidays and weekends at the tender age of nine. The kid would be homesick like crazy.
I do think she’s read a whole lot of novels about kids at boarding schools, both magical and ordinary, who get to have fun adventures, solve mysteries, and save the day, all without parental interference.
“Rusty,” I say, and put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s a ways away, but you’re gonna love college.”
She sighs again. Do most nine-year-olds sigh this much?
Fifty feet in front of us, a door opens.
Delilah walks out. The world tilts.
“Maybe sleep-away camp this summer,” Rusty’s saying.
Delilah waves to someone inside. Lets the door go.
Looks straight at us.
It’s like a heat lamp. Always.
“Don’t you think that would be educational?”
She stares at me for a moment, face unreadable. There’s a yoga mat in a bag slung over one shoulder, her hair in a high bun, and she’s got leggings and winter boots on. When she sees Rusty, she smiles.
“Hi,” she says, shoving both hands in her coat pockets when we walk up to her. Her face is still slightly flushed, the edges of her hair damp. “Really nice night out, huh?”
No personal questions or comments. No inside jokes.
Just polite small talk.
“It’s very nice,” I say, my voice perfectly neutral. “Have you met my niece Rusty, by the way?”
“It’s been a while, I believe,” Delilah says as Rusty holds out her right hand, very seriously.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Rusty says with a perfectly straight face.
Delilah grins so big I think her face might crack in half.
“Absolutely,” she says, clearly trying not to laugh. “What a pleasure.”
“Likewise,” says Rusty, and lets Delilah go. She adjusts the strap on her shoulder again, looks me full in the face. The smile fades.
“Yoga?” I ask, nodding at the door she exited.
“Yep,” she says. “And you?”
“Just finished dance class and going for hot chocolate at the Mountain Grind,” I say.
I want to say care to join us? but I shut my mouth before I can.
“Well, I’ll let you get to it,” she says, turning on a bright smile again. The one that doesn’t fully reach her eyes. “Nice seeing you. Rusty, I remain charmed.”
“Later,” I say, and try to catch her eye as she walks away, but I can’t.
“Bye!” Rusty hollers, and that’s it. That’s all. Just nice night and yoga class and hot chocolate.
Not even don’t you think it smells like snow? Or they finally took the Christmas lights off the trees or how have you been?
Rusty and I keep walking, and it’s not until we reach the next crosswalk that I realize she’s giving me a really funny look.
“What’s up, kiddo?” I ask, already dreading the answer.
Rusty doesn’t say anything. She just frowns up at me, like she’s trying to add two and two on a calculator and the answer keeps coming up five.
“Nothing,” she says, uncertainly.
I stand in the middle of the room, cross my arms, and look for the yellow dot.
I don’t see it. The room is filled with kegs — on the floor, stacked two or three high, all jammed into this space — but I don’t see the yellow marker I’m looking for.
I cross my arms a little harder and keep looking. Our inventory clearly states that we’ve got one more remaining keg of Deepwood Loch Scottish Ale, and the sports bar over in Grotonsville just asked if we had any left.
It’s here somewhere. My inventory system doesn’t lie. I just don’t know where.
Footsteps enter, and I turn. Arms still crossed.
“You want to talk about it?” Daniel asks, standing just inside the doorway.
“About the fact that we have a clear, concise keg organizational system that our employees regularly flaunt by putting kegs wherever they’re standing when they get bored of carrying them?” I ask. “Sure. They’re all fired.”
“I meant about the fact that you’ve been a miserable bastard for two weeks and especially for the last two days,” he says, unruffled.
“I’d rather find the last Deepwood Loch and get back to work.”
Daniel pushes the door closed, runs a hand over his face, and turns back to me.
“All right,” he says. “Which color is it?”
“Yellow,” I say. “Probably says DLSA on the side if you see that first.”
For a few minutes, we look in silence, and I’ve got no choice but to either find the keg or wait for whatever Daniel’s got to say.
He speaks up first.
“I don’t hate her, you know,” he says.
It’s not the conversation starter I was expecting. I spent several extra moments examining a keg of Irish Red Ale, just to make triple sure it’s not what I’m looking for.
“Who?” I ask.
“In fact, I strongly suspect that you’ve been just as much of an asshole to her as she’s been to you,” he says, ignoring my question.
“So you didn’t come in here to try and cheer me up.”
“I came in here to see if I could do anything before our entire staff quits because one of their bosses is on the warpath for no apparent reason,” he says, bending over a keg.
After a moment, he looks up and right at me.
And then he waits. And waits.
I�
��m the one who breaks eye contact.
“After Ava’s wedding I went back to her room,” I admit. “Where I agreed to leave before we got into a fight, and I did.”
Daniel grabs a keg by the top, pulls it away from the others, and sits on it. Leans his elbows on his knees.
“And?” he says.
I pull a keg against the wall, sit on it, lean back.
Then I give Daniel the rest of the truth. He knows most of it, but I tell him about the rules of interaction. About seeing her at the brewery. About saying no to Vera and then later, saying yes.
About proposing friendship only to kiss her in the dark a few hours later, though I keep it G-rated.
I tell him that she told me to leave, that she wanted to go back to those stupid fucking rules, that I agreed to both things because I know she’s right.
“So I left,” I say, lacing my hands together on top of my head. “And I saw her two nights ago, and we talked about the weather, and I hate it. This is what we do, over and over again, and I wish I could stop it and I can’t. Every single time I think it’s the last one and then I see her again and it’s the right time and the right place, and I can’t say no to her.”
I tilt my head back and push the heels of my hands into my eyes.
“I’ve never turned her down,” I confess. “God, not once. This is why I apply for jobs on Alaskan fishing boats and at breweries in Montana.”
“What?” Daniel asks.
I take my hands from my eyes. He’s blurry, but alarmed.
“I didn’t seriously pursue it,” I say.
“A brewery in Montana is miles more serious than a fishing boat,” he says.
He’s right. They called for an interview and I never called back, but I picked the phone up and thought about it a dozen times.
“Yeah,” I admit, head still back against the wall.
“You’re thinking of moving across the country instead of working it out?”
“It sounds ridiculous when you put it that way.”
“Just a thought.”
I take a deep breath, cross one ankle over the other knee.
“I thought the wedding might be different,” I tell my brother.