A & L Do Summer (11 page)

“I was on my way to your house. Manny said his engine is running rough, and he asked me to take a look at it before work.”

So much for my fantasy that Clay came by to see me.

Sammy has his front paws back on the edge of the stroller, and his head is swiveling like a weathervane. “I think your buddy's impatient to get back on the road,” Clay says.

Stupid weasel. “I guess so.” I fold down the ripped cover as well as I can. Miss Simmons will have plenty to say about that.

My one chance to talk to Clay, and I'm chauffeuring a stink bomb. “Well, thanks.”

The cool person always leaves first, so I nudge the stroller a baby step forward. I don't want to intimidate Clay by seeming too cool.

“How's your…uh…back?” he asks.

“It's all right.” I bravely take another pain-wracked step.

“You know what? I can help you finish your walk and still have time to give Manny a hand with his car.” Clay slips his arm around my waist again. “Or if you're in too much pain, I can load the stroller into the truck and drive you.”

I mold myself against his ribs like Play-Doh. “With you helping me, I'm sure I can make it. I did promise Miss Simmons.”

With one arm around each other and steering with our free hands, Clay and I push Sammy along the sidewalk.

For the first time I realize the benefits of working through the pain.

THAT AFTERNOON, LAUREL AND I ARE SITTING IN LOUNGE
chairs on my deck. She's holding a hand mirror and twisting herself into a pretzel to admire the new henna swan tattoo on her left shoulder blade. “Did he kiss you? Grope your ass? Declare his undying love? I need details!”

“None of the above. It was broad daylight, and we were taking a skunk for a walk.” I shift the bag of frozen peas from my numb tailbone to my left butt cheek. Thanks to my dismal social life, no one will see the ugly multicolored bruises.

“About that.” Laurel lays the mirror on the patio table and sinks back into the lounger. “Did Miss Simmons freak when she discovered that Clay knew her deep, dark secret?”

“Not at all.” I smile, remembering how Miss Simmons kept forcing lemonade and cookies on Clay. He had to back out her door to escape. “I thought she was going to have adoption papers drawn up. According to her, Sammy's an excellent judge of character, and it was practically a sign from heaven that he didn't squirt skunk juice all over Clay.”

“I'm sure Clay was thrilled.” Laurel picks up her tube of sunblock and squeezes some onto her legs. “Speaking of thrilling news, we're invited to a kick-ass party Saturday night,” she says as if we're kick-ass party regulars.

Her comment may be carefree, but her eyes are shifty. “Really? Who invited us?”

“It's at an old barn in the country that has…something upstairs with hay in it.”

“A hayloft?”

“That's it,” Laurel agrees, watching lotion sink into her legs. “So, what exactly is hay? And why do farmers keep it upstairs instead of on the ground?”

Laurel's trying to distract me, but I like knowing something she doesn't. “Hay is made of alfalfa or clover. When the alfalfa gets ripe, farmers cut it off, rake it up, and let it dry in the field. When it's dry enough, they use a machine to make it into bales.” I resist the urge to pat myself on the back. “The bales are put into a hayloft to keep them dry. In the winter farmers feed the hay to their cows and horses.”

“Really?” Laurel actually looks impressed. “So how do you know all that?”

“My uncle George and aunt Carol have a farm near Iowa City. When I was twelve, I stayed with them for a week during the summer and helped with the chores. One of the chores was to pick up hay bales.” I check the bag of peas for leaks. So far, so good. “Now let's get back to talking about the party.”

“It's only for seniors—which we are, of course—and grads. So no dorky underclassmen.”

I know her too well to let her throw me off track again. “So who did you say invited us?”

Laurel is rubbing lotion between her toes. “Tessa called me,” she mumbles without looking up.

I throw up a little in my mouth. “Are you serious? Tessa Chandler called you and invited
both of us
to a party?”

“Why not?” Laurel's wandering eye is twitching like a strobe light.

“Why not? I can think of a million reasons, but if you give me a few minutes I'll come up with more.” I sit up, wincing as I crush a clump of frozen peas under my tailbone. “So what prompted Tessa to add
us
to her social circle?”

“She heard some guys talking about the way I take orders at the Sub Stop, and unlike some people”—she pauses—“Tessa thinks using a sexy voice is very cool.”

Now there's a shocker.

“Speaking of the Sub Stop,” I say, choosing to ignore Laurel's attitude, “we have to work until nine o'clock on Saturday. That's pretty late to be riding our bikes in the country.”

“Ride our bikes! That's social suicide!” The look of horror on her face is priceless. “Tessa and Wynter are going to pick us up after work.”

Aha!
“So you accepted for both of us without asking me first?”

“So sorry not to have consulted you.” Laurel peers at me. “What event on your busy social schedule will you have to cancel?”

I bite my tongue and adjust the bag of peas.

Score one for Laurel.

Saturday night Tessa and Wynter pull up to the Sub Stop at five minutes after nine in Wynter's bright red slut-mobile. Since I fully expected them to leave us waiting like naïve fools, I'm forced to give them a point for following through.

They're all smiles at Laurel, complementing her lowrise denim shorts, yellow halter top, and the brown henna swan above her shoulder blade. The cloak of invisibility hides my navy tee, khaki shorts, and me. Tessa and Wynter manage to act as if I'm not in the car—or on the planet.

As soon as we take off, Tessa turns around in the passenger seat. “Now remember what I told you about working the party, Laurel. It's okay to touch base with each other once in a while, but guys don't like to approach clumps of girls—especially if one of them is a loser. No guy wants to get stuck with the dead weight.”

Tessa should give herself a little more credit. Just because I think she's dead weight doesn't mean everyone does.

“If you hook up, let one of us know before you head out,” she continues. “We don't want to waste time trying to find you when we're ready to go.” For the first time she looks at me. “I'll nod at you or something. Wait for us by the car.”

Enough is enough.

I lean against the back of Wynter's seat and gush, “Ooh, let's work out a super-secret ‘time to go' signal. One finger up your nose means we leave in five minutes, and two fingers means ten.”

Tess curls her upper lip at me. Too bad there isn't spinach stuck between her teeth. “Don't get too wasted, either,” she says to Laurel. “Being super-drunk is tacky.”

Tessa's lecture on coolness continues, but now I'm fearing for my life. Wynter is blasting down the unmarked, pitch-black gravel roads, taking corners like a NASCAR driver. My death-grip on the armrest is all that keeps me from crashing into Laurel. I can't believe how relaxed and smiling she is, with her hands resting in her lap.

When Tessa finally turns back around, I scoot across the seat and whisper into Laurel's ear. “You're not going along with this ‘work the party' crap are you? I only agreed to come because you said we'd stay together.”

“Of course we'll stay together,” she whispers back. “Maybe not ‘together, together' but definitely ‘together.'”

“What does that—”

Wynter screeches around a corner, hurling me into the driver's-side door and Laurel into me. The car's rear end fishtails, slamming us against each other again. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for a collision.

“Wynter, slow the hell down!” Tessa shrieks. “Farmer Boy isn't worth dying over!”

Farmer Boy
? No, it can't be. There are thousands of farmers in Iowa. Then I flash back to Manny's graduation party and Wynter's tongue groping for Clay's ear.

My eyes fly open, but the night is blacker than ever and I see nothing but trees. Wynter backs off the gas as we bounce down a rutted path that's nearly overgrown with weeds. It's a good thing she's driving us home, because I have no idea where we are.

After a few minutes of us bumping through the dark, the trees open into a clearing packed with cars. Wynter parks between a muddy pickup and a muddier SUV, both of which look as if they drove up a creek to get here. I guess it has rained a lot this week.

As soon as we're out of the car, Tessa links arms with Wynter and Laurel, leaving me to walk behind them. The worst part is that they look perfectly natural together, like three exotic parrots on the same perch. And I'm the sparrow on the floor of the cage, getting crapped on.

The barn door is only a quarter of the way open, which means they have to break apart to go inside. Laurel falls back with me. “Don't let them get to you, Aspen. You and I are going to have an awesome time tonight.”

It's almost as dark inside the barn as outside. A few gas lanterns hanging along the far wall backlight the people standing in clusters and sitting on hay bales. I hear the rumble of bass in the background music, but the volume is turned down.

Laurel stops by the door and scans the huge, open area. “What's going on? Why's everybody so quiet?”

“Cops.” Wynter squints into the semi-darkness. “They've got nothing better to do on the weekend than cruise around, looking for parties to bust.” She shifts her boobs to a higher elevation. “So we have to find quiet ways to keep busy.”

“I think you mean ‘get busy,'” Tessa says. She and Wynter exchange a leer that would make even Ferret flinch. With their hips swaying like pigs in a gunnysack, they sashay off in search of unsuspecting males.

As I watch them disappear into the dark, my skin crawls. “You seriously want to be friends with those two?”

Laurel's quiet for a moment. Then she shakes her head. “For two seconds I thought I did. But that's not the kind of popularity I want.” She links arms with me. “Come on. Let's see what this party has to offer.”

The barn smells of spilled beer, cigarettes, and weed layered over the dusty smell of pigeon droppings. The combination of odors in the heat makes my mouth pucker and my tongue curl. As my eyes grow used to the dark, I recognize several girls from my class. Laurel and I exchange hellos with them but keep shuffling forward to see who we can see.

Tessa's “farmer boy” remark still has me frazzled, and I pull up short at every tall guy who looms out of the darkness. There's no sign of Clay, which is disappointing. But at least he hasn't hooked up with Wynter. Not yet, anyway.

Laurel stops us by the keg where Sam and Tyler, who I've known since kindergarten, are manning the tap. “Would miladies care to partake of some brewskis?” With a goofy smile, Sam holds out a foaming paper cup like a kid flying a paper airplane. His eyelids can't seem to make it more than halfway up.

Sam asked me to the Winter Wonderland Ball in February, but I turned him down for two reasons. First, I knew he'd asked five girls before he got to me. And second, he called me the morning of. I do have some standards.

“Thanks.” Laurel snags the beer from Sam's wobbly hand and takes a drink. I pass. To me, beer looks and smells like something you bring to the doctor's office in a jar.

“Come on, then. We have to work the party,” Laurel says in a spot-on Tessa imitation that cracks me up.

It doesn't seem like much of a party. The music is barely audible, and everyone's talking in hushed voices. I get more excitement reading in bed with Carmine's head resting on my thigh. At least he snores once in a while.

“This is what everyone raves about?” I whisper so as not to wake the dearly departed.

“I don't get it,” Laurel whispers back. “There was better entertainment last winter at Great-aunt Evelyn's seventieth birthday party. Cuter guys, too.”

“Does anyone in here have a pulse?” a guy shouts from the open barn door. “Charge up the paddles, because this party's coming to life!” His voice sounds disturbingly familiar.

Laurel and I look at each other and gasp, “Buster,” just before he, Ferret, and Kong stomp by. They're loaded down with bulging plastic bags and an oversize cooler like the ones Mom borrowed for Manny's graduation party. Luckily they don't notice us in the dark.

“Do you think Buster's still pissed about getting drenched with pop?” Laurel asks.

“Nah.” I pull her in the opposite direction from where they went. “Buster's not one to hold a grudge. Tear off a limb, gouge out an eye, but not hold a grudge.”

“That's a fun fact.” Laurel drains the last of her beer. “If I'm going to be blinded and dismembered, I'll need more than one beer to dull the pain.” She makes a beeline for the keg, and—not wanting to be left behind—I follow her.

As we're walking, Tessa reaches out of the dark and grabs Laurel's arm. “Hey! How's it going?” She's leaning against a stocky, brown-haired guy I don't recognize. Her lipstick is smeared and her eyes are out of focus. “Are you having fun? I am.”

Before Laurel can answer, Tessa lifts her head and kisses the guy behind her. Then she turns around, shoves her tongue down his throat, and grinds her hips against him. I pull Laurel away before Tessa's flying bra hits one of us.

“Back for seconds, I see.” Sam, who's obviously been drinking as much as he's been serving, needs several tries to position the tap over Laurel's cup. Beer overflows onto their hands. When Sam tries to lick beer off her hand, she backs out of reach.

My mouth is parched, but not enough that I'll stoop to beer.

“Hey, Aspen.” Sam tilts his head as if he's trying to remember what he was saying. “Hey, Aspen, since you don't like beer…you might…maybe you'd…like this punch.” He reaches for a plastic milk jug on the floor and almost falls on his face. Finally, he squats, picks it up with both hands, and sets it on the keg.

“I hear it's fruity-licious,” Tyler chimes in. His face is shiny with sweat, and there are huge damp rings around his neck and under the arms of his T-shirt. “Fruity-licious,” he says again. He and Sam snicker.

Fruity
sounds better than
urine sample
, so I take the jug from Sam, pour some of the red stuff into a cup, and sniff it. It smells like Hawaiian Punch. Tastes like it too—a little too sweet with kind of an aftertaste. But it's nice and cold.

I drain the cup and pour myself a refill. “What's in here?”

Sam shakes his head and only stays upright by holding on to the keg.

Tyler shrugs. “Probly Kool-Aid, ginger ale, fruit juice …”

Laurel tips the jug to her lips and drinks. “More like rocket fuel. Take it easy with that stuff.”

“Hey, that's nasty!” I snatch the jug away from her, wipe off the top with my shirttail, and replace the cap. Just for that, I'm not going to mention the pink ring it left around her mouth.