Radical (16 page)

I smile at her face when she realizes what she said, but instead of going for the joke, I say, “Panel pulls,” and hold up the plastic tool.

Once I have the taillamp assembly loose, I wait for her next instruction.

“ ‘Press the bulb housing release lever and turn the housing a quarter-turn counterclockwise to remove it.’ ”

I look at the inside of the assembly, careful not to pull it too far away and break something. “Press the . . . ?”

“ ‘Bulb housing release lever,’ ” she says, and I can hear her move, and then she’s sitting on the edge of the bumper so she can see what I’m doing. “There?” She points to it, and I press the release. “ ‘Turn the housing a quarter-turn counterclockwise to remove it.’ ”

I turn the housing and it pops out. I use my thigh to hold the assembly near the car and remove the burned-out bulb. Lucy reaches around to find the replacement bulb and starts to open the package.

“Careful,” I say, stopping her and trading her the old bulb for the new package. “You’re not supposed to touch the bulb. Hand me that rag?” I open the package carefully, using the plastic to hold the glass end of the bulb in place. Then I slide it free and into the clean rag so I can install it without touching the glass.

Lucy watches, looking more impressed than she probably should, but I like how it feels: her watching my hands, me being proficient. I pop the assembly back in place and then retrace our steps. Screw in the wing nut. Panel in place, screws in and tightened. Done.

She jumps out, slides into the driver’s seat, and turns the wagon on. I give her the thumbs-up. Light all fixed. She turns it off and walks back around.

“There you go,” I say, tossing the screwdriver into the air. I try to catch it, but I misjudge the distance and it hits my hand and bounces to the ground. “Crap.” I chase it as it rolls under the car in the other bay. Lucy laughs. I can’t reach it with my foot. I have to lie down and reach under to get it, ruining any cool points I just earned.

“Well, it’s done anyway,” I say, placing the screwdriver on the counter, then gathering up the rag, the old bulb, and the cardboard and plastic from the new one. “I’ll toss this stuff in the trash later. Otherwise . . .” She’s sitting in the back again.

“Someone would see it,” she says, leaning back, this time on both elbows, her legs dangling out of the wagon. “You’ve thought of everything.”

My face goes hot at that, so I busy myself with pushing the trash into a neat pile.

“Come here.” When I don’t move right away, she sits up a little more and tilts her head. “Come on.”

I push my hands into my pockets, stupidly nervous. The hard part is over. This is supposed to be the fun part. I lean on the edge of the car, my shoulder against the open back, right above the newly replaced taillight.

I imagined this part, fantasized every night since we made the plan — her flirty
What do I owe you
and my
Don’t mention it
and her
Well, the least I could give you is a kiss
and fade to the obvious conclusion. But now that seems silly and stupid. She’s real. And I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been around a girl before. Ever.

“Thanks for doing that,” she says. She’s picking at something on the floor of the back of the wagon, closer to the serious-faced Lucy who pulled in than the flirty one who’s been helping me while stretched out like a cat in the sun. “And for letting me help. I feel like next time there’s something that needs fixing, maybe I could even do it. I never would have tried, but now . . .”

I like knowing I taught her something, that somehow she will remember this, me, whatever happens. “I should wash my hands.”

“Come
over
here,” she says again, and scoots closer to the edge of the wagon.

My heart’s pounding. I’m so glad I put on extra deodorant. She reaches for my hand, pulling me a little closer and then tugging me down until I’m leaning in and she kisses me. Just a touch of her lips on the side of my mouth. She pulls away a little, looks at me, then does it again, more directly over my mouth. On the third kiss, I kiss her back. Then her hands are on my arms and my arms are reaching for her, making us almost topple, and I pull back, both of us laughing.

Climbing in there feels like too much, too fast. I tug her hand and she stands up and I close the rear door and window. She swallows and snaps her mouth closed and starts to dig her keys out. She thinks I’m rejecting her. I stop her hand in her pocket and walk her back until she is leaning against the wagon. Then
I
kiss
her
.

I’ve kissed other girls, but none who weren’t nervous about kissing a girl. Weren’t testing it out one kiss at a time. Lucy is all in. Egging me on.

But our teeth keep hitting until I pull back and take a breath, and then try again.

We bump noses, both trying to lead, until I push my hands into her hair and hold her still so I can kiss her for real. A beat, two, and then I’m in. Tasting the inside of her mouth, feeling the soft wet tease of her tongue.

Then we’re taking turns. Small kisses. Then deeper kisses. Not all of them perfect, but all good.

She rubs my arms, encouraging me, humming into my mouth, a happy sound that I can feel.

I push a little closer, and her hands slide down my sides. Her mouth opens and I kiss her deep, feel her give under the kiss, her hands holding me close.

Her fingers knead my hips and sides, but I keep mine in her hair and just focus on kissing her, on all the ways it feels to kiss her and let her kiss me.

There’s nothing hesitant in how Lucy kisses.

When the kisses slow, she kisses my neck, and then her mouth is open and hot, sucking. I pull away. I can’t risk a mark. Not when she’s a secret I plan to keep. She seems to get it and kisses my neck again, soft and teasing, and I let her.

We kiss for a long time, until my lips feel puffy and a little chapped. After the kissing we just stand there, feeling good, until we’re leaning there hugging and not really moving.

“I should go,” she says.

“Do you have to?” I kiss her jaw.

“Yeah,” she says, but not like she’s sure.

She looks at the scratches on my cheek, but then she’s kissing me again. One long kiss and I pull back, disentangling us. My legs feel like I’ve hiked five miles. Uphill.

I push my hair back and then look around for the stuff I need to clean up for something to do while she straightens out her dress.

“Free tomorrow?” she asks, untangling her hair where my hands made a mess.

“No, not tomorrow. Sorry.” I’m not bailing on Karen and them, not even for this.

“After that I’m in Chicago until Friday,” she says. “But I should be back by dinnertime.”

“I have to check. If my mom’s around, I might not be able to go out.” Mom goes overboard on “family dinners” when she’s home on weekends. And I don’t need her asking
where
and
with who
and everything.

“We can figure it out later. I’ll text you.”

I don’t think she means just about where to meet up next weekend. She steps closer and wraps her arms around my neck, one hand scratching at my short hair. One more kiss and then she’s getting into the car, backing out, and leaving.

I think about the kisses all the way home, and then carefully shut Lucy away in the back of my brain during the walk from the barn to the house. Dad’s home, and Uncle Skip. No way I can be thinking about Lucy around them.

Lucy texted to say
Thanks again
, and
See you Friday, maybe, hopefully
, and I texted back
No problem
, and
Yeah
, and
I’ll try
. I wish I had something better to say, anything to say, so I had an excuse to text her again. But I can’t think of anything that doesn’t sound stupid or make too big a deal out of this afternoon. Make any deal out of this afternoon. She acted like it happens all the time. Maybe for her it does. Maybe she goes around kissing whatever girls she wants. I’m still caught between disbelief and waiting for her to pretend it was an accident, like the fumes in the service area made her woozy.

I put the casserole in to heat midway through the baseball game, knowing Dad and Uncle Skip will come wandering in looking for dinner as soon as the game is over. Then I scroll around, checking my boards and forums. There was a dustup in the women’s area of the prepper forum. The mods locked the threads. I subscribe to the thread so I can weigh in when it reopens.

Just as I’m putting on a load of laundry, I hear a truck on the drive. Then Mark’s voice. Great. There goes half the food that’s supposed to last us this week.

He dumps a duffel near the laundry room and goes straight to the fridge.

“Casserole’s in the oven.”

He wrinkles his nose and continues looking.

“I have three more loads to do. Mom’s orders. You can do yours later.”

“Whatever.” He bends over, digging through the containers and bottles until he comes out with the potato salad. He grabs a pop and a fork on the way to the table, not bothering to get a plate, then straddles a chair and starts right in, eating the potato salad from the container. Shoveling it in — two, then three forkfuls.

“That’s disgusting.” I grab a plate from the cabinet and a serving spoon from the drawer and shove them across the table to him. “We don’t need your spit all over the potato salad.”

He looks up at me, licks both sides of his fork, and then shoves it into the potato salad, stirring it all around.

“Gross.”

He grins around another mouthful of potato salad, letting it squish through his teeth.

I go back to the laundry room, staking my claim before he can sneak in and start a load. I hop up on the counter so I can see the timer for dinner.

Once I’m out of the kitchen, he slumps forward, losing some of his swagger. He pulls his fancy new phone out of his pocket, looking at the screen. I checked out our bill. I don’t think it’s on our plan. He puts his phone down and shovels in more food, touching the new bruise blooming around his eye with his non-fork hand. The latest in a series, coming from somewhere other than open training sessions. He wears it like a badge.

His phone makes sounds now and then, texts or messages or something, and then it rings.

“What? No, not yet.” He takes another gulp of pop and then burps. “Yeah, well, that’s my only option, so . . . No. Okay, I’ll call as soon as I know. ’Kay. Later.” He hangs up and chugs the rest of his pop.

When he gets up from the table, he sees me watching. He puts down the container of potato salad and makes a big deal of licking all over the clean, unused plate. Then he puts the container back in the refrigerator and drops his fork and plate in the sink with a clatter.

“I’m not washing them!”

He flips me off over his shoulder.

I’m not washing them. They can sit there all week and Mom can be as pissed as she wants, but I’m not cleaning up after him.

I move the clothes from the washer to the dryer and then put in a load of my dark clothes. My training clothes really stink. I add a little extra detergent. Next week I’ll do a midweek load. Maybe I should add even more detergent and do an extra rinse? But then it will take longer.

“How’s it going?” Dad asks from the doorway, making me jump.

“Dinner’s ready whenever you are. Might want to avoid the potato salad — Mark might as well have spit in it.” Dad makes a face. “And he left his dishes in the sink. I’m not doing them.”

“You don’t have to,” Dad says, sounding tired, maybe tired of us. “What time do you have to be out to Clearview tomorrow?”

“After work.” He rubs his forehead. I can almost hear the gears grinding, him thinking hard. The wrinkles on his forehead double. “Karen’s picking me up,” I say, in case that’s his worry, how to get me out there.

“Oh,” he says. “Good.” Bingo. “That’s great.” He’s so proud. “I’m glad you’re making friends. Your mother is, too.”

I snort and close the washer a little too hard. She wouldn’t be if she met them, especially Karen. And JoJo. Trinny, Delia, and Cammie look girly enough, but maybe even they aren’t girly enough for Mom.

“She is,” Dad says. “She just worries.” He watches me set the washer. “I assured her you would be supervised tomorrow.”

“Mr. Severnsen wouldn’t let us use the crossbows unless he was comfortable.”

“That’s what I told your mother,” Dad says with a smile, like he should get points for sticking up for me. He always backs Mark up without expecting demonstrations of gratitude.

I hit start, and the washing machine’s noise fills the small laundry room.

I push past Dad and back into the kitchen so I can pull plates from the cabinet for me, Dad, and Uncle Skip. Dad watches me set the table. He’s working up to something. I wish he would just spit it out.

“What?” I finally ask when I have to move around him for the second time.

“Maybe we should have some of the girls over for dinner.” He pauses, and then says, “On a weekend.”

I stop and stare at him.

“You could even invite them to stay over. There’s plenty of room.” Big smile.

“Is this Mom’s idea? She want to vet my friends? Make sure they’re actually girls?”