“I AM LOVING THIS MEAT, Mrs. Rhee,” Ham says at dinner. “Will you pass me the potatoes?”
Seung slides a bowl of mashed potatoes to Ham and waves away the plate of roast his mother pushes at him. “I’m vegetarian, Mom. Remember?”
Seung’s mom smiles and says, “Please. Please. Eat all you want, kids.”
Mrs. Rhee is as warm as melted butter and not in a margarine sort of way. Her kindness is genuine. Nothing fake. Not even her blond hair or sunshine-kissed skin. She looks like I imagine a southern belle should look, minus the accent and the fact that she’s from somewhere deep in the south of California. Huntington Beach, I think.
Mr. Rhee stands and excuses himself to the kitchen. On his way he says, “More tea, hon?” Mrs. Rhee smiles and nods and holds her cup in the air. When she twists around in her chair, her hair falls in her face and Mr. Rhee sweeps it back over her shoulder. He grabs the cup from her hand and mouths a kiss. Mr. Rhee has mad doting skills. I soak up so much when I observe their relationship. It’s the kind I want in my own life.
Whenever I talk to Seung about his parents, he groans or rolls his eyes. “Why do you care how my mom and dad met?” he asks. He’s told me a half dozen times and I never tire hearing their story. High school sweethearts who loved at first sight. Is that even possible? But they seem to really know each other, without gaps and holes in history. They have a past that links back to when they were kids. They know each other without doubts.
Mr. Rhee returns from the kitchen and puts the teacup back on the table. He leans in and kisses his wife’s cheek, which almost makes me blush.
“Get a room, you two.” Ham giggles. Nobody else laughs.
Instead, Seung aims a balled-up napkin at Ham’s head. It lands in a puddle of gravy on his plate. Ham flicks the paper from his potatoes and dives in for a scoop.
I’m the only one watching Seung’s parents. The only one who sees Mr. Rhee wink at Mrs. Rhee, then motion with his head toward the kitchen. Now I’m sure I blush.
“Want to watch Donnie Brasco?” Seung says. I fork two bites of potatoes before I realize he’s talking to me.
“Oh, uh, what time is it?”
“I don’t know. You have somewhere else to be?”
“Home by ten if possible. Ten thirty and I risk being beaten.” Again, the partial-truth insert. Seung is thinking beaten by a stick; I am thinking beaten by the clock.
Seung bites his lip and points his fork at my face. “Are you serious, Linden?” His forehead wrinkles with worry.
“As heart disease,” I say, forcing a chuckle. Sometimes I’m all margarine, and I hate the taste.
Seung sets his silverware on the table. “I’ll drop you off at nine fifty-five. You won’t be late. I promise.”
The first half of the summer Seung didn’t drive, but now he drives everywhere. Pre-license and carless, our trio walked all over this four-mile-wide town. One of the reasons I chose to stay here was because of the small size. Ham’s house sits at one end of town, Seung’s at the other. Our high school is planted in the middle, which makes our dwellings equidistant and my map optimally designed. But now that Seung insists on driving those four miles, I have to be quick on my feet.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I love walking at night.” I am on a roll tonight with my half truths. “If I leave at nine thirty, I’ll be home in plenty of time. And after your mom’s meat and potatoes, I could really use the exercise.”
Ham erupts with laughter. “Please, Linden. You’re as thin as paper. If you turn sideways . . .”
I snatch my plate and start for the kitchen. Seung yells, “No!” and I turn around.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Do not go in there,” Ham says, pointing at the kitchen door. “When a late-eighties indie band’s a-playin’, Seung’s parents’ hips start swayin’, and when the hips begin to rock, Mr. Rhee whips out his—”
“Now’s a good time to shut the hell up,” Seung says, cutting off Ham in midrap. Seung’s cheeks are red, but I can’t tell if the annoyance is directed at his parents or Ham’s feeble attempt at spitting rhyme. I push my plate on the table and decide to find out what’s bothering Seung.
“You okay?” I ask, turning toward him. “Is something or someone bugging you?”
Seung pushes his back into the chair, bending his arms behind his head and rolling his eyes.
“That,” I say, air jabbing my finger at Seung. “Right there. The eye roll. You’re doing it more than usual.”
Seung purses his lips together and stuffs his hands into his armpits. Clearly he’s not talking. But Ham will. He always does.
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” Ham says. “But everything’s wrong with Seung. The whole world is crashing upon his shoulders. Boo-hoo. Life’s so unfair.”
“Shut up!” Seung snaps.
“Careful,” Ham whispers. “Your stress is oozing all over me.”
Seung stands and points at Ham. “I am not stressed.”
Ham stands and points back at Seung. “Buddy, I’m afraid you are. For those reasons you told me.”
Seung scoffs and snatches his plate. He hits the kitchen door so hard, it swings back and bangs against the wall. Mr. Rhee stumbles on his words, “Oh, hey, kid, uh, we can clean that up,” and Seung shouts, “Get a freaking room!”
I turn to Ham, now back at his plate about to tackle Mount Mashed Potatoes. “Stressed, huh?”
Ham reaches for another dinner roll, and I’m reminded to sneak two into my pocket before I leave. I hate stealing food from friends, but I also hate when my stomach growls attract attention. I figure if I ask Seung, or his parents, for two dinner rolls, fresh carrots, or extra cookies for the road, they will say yes. They always do. So I don’t ask, but I don’t steal, either. I borrow from friends and always pay back my debt. I keep track of what I take in a notebook stashed inside my backpack. Tonight I will log two dinner rolls and tomorrow I will help Seung with two trigonometry questions, or maybe yell at Toby twice. Once for pushing Seung in the hall, once for calling him a racial slur. Maybe I’ll yell once at Toby and help Seung with one math problem. Either way, debt paid. I believe in owing no one anything. It’s one of the reasons I live on my own. I owe the state zilch, and as a result, they have no control over where I live. It’s all about freedom. And what my mother wanted for me.
“Seung’s wigged out over the SAT,” Ham says. “Too much pressure on getting into his dad’s alma mater.”
“Duke?” I drop into the chair and rub my forehead with my knuckle. My head shakes madly, “No. No way. Seung’s going to Willamette with me. With us.”
“Linden, you’re high,” Ham says. “You might be going to Willamette, but I’ll be shit-kicking it with cowboys at some state school. Duke’s Mr. Rhee’s alma mater, so it’s technically Seung’s destiny.”
I grab handfuls of my hair and tug. “This is the first time I’m hearing about Duke. Why am I hearing this now? Why didn’t someone mention this last month, last year?” I hit my hand on the table and the dishes clank. “What will become of our triangle, Ham? We stay together or the Triangle—me, you, Seung—falls apart.”
Ham stares; his brow lifts.
I continue to rant. “So I’ll help you study, Ham. You will get into Willamette. I will talk to Seung or Mr. Rhee or the goddamn president if I have to. We stay together. You don’t just eliminate one side from our triangle because a parent says you’re going to college a million miles away. You don’t do that, Ham. You don’t take away sides. Our triangle stays intact. There are no two-sided shapes!”
Ham tilts his head, eyes wide and mouth gaping, but only to breathe. He finally shakes off my words and says, “How am I going to get into Willamette without smart-kid classes, Linden? I’m not like you or Seung or Kristen or Jarrell.”
“No. You’re better!” I shout. “You’re Ham, dammit. You do things. Tons of things. We just need to get creative and fluff up your application, like I’m doing with mine. Besides, your parents are rich. That’s got to account for something.”
“Mob-movie buffs and overstuffed C students don’t exactly hook colleges, Linden. Your expectations are out of whack.”
“What about the school newspaper? Who got you and Seung jobs at the paper? Thank you very much.” I curtsy and push a smile.
“It’s the school blog, Linden. And job is a bit of a stretch. It’s not a job unless you’re paid.”
I pat Ham’s back. “When I’m through with your college application, Ham, you will look like the lead photographer for the the Times of London. Seriously, the school blog is our ticket to a better life. It’s the fast train to success. And it’s all I fucking have.”
Ham rubs his eye with his knuckle and half smiles. I can tell he’s trying, hard, to believe me. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and teeters in his chair. “Well, I was thinking of joining drama.”
I snap my fingers. “Now you’re thinking. It’s all about extracurriculars.”
Ham drops his head to the side and moans. “There’s just so much more to Ham than we can put on paper. So much about Ham nobody knows.”
“The royal we, Ham. Really?”
Ham winks and reaches for my hand. “While you’re working all kinds of magic, Linden, how about finding me my one true love?”
My eyes widen and Ham grins, all teeth.
“You’re my best friend, Linden,” he says. “Well, one of. But Seung’s stressed, and stress turns him into an asshole.”
On cue Seung swings the kitchen door open and announces that we will reconvene in the underbuilding. He means basement. Ham declared we rename the basement like we did Seung’s car, but his muse failed to create anything beyond man cave. I, of course, vetoed Ham’s suggestion. I am not a man, and as far as chest hair goes, neither are Seung and Ham.
Seung stomps toward the stairs, and Ham and I follow like the obedient children we are on occasion.
“Donnie Brasco?” Ham asks, and hits the button on the television. No sense in arguing we watch something else. All films must pass a three-theme litmus test before they’re shown on the screen in Seung’s underbuilding: friendship, devotion, and heavy-cream tomato sauces. The television remote has been missing for weeks, so we take turns getting up and manually operating the channels and volume.
I nod, Seung grunts. “I have a hard time watching Johnny Depp in any role now that he’s been openly accused of hitting a girl.”
“Agreed,” I say. “He repulses me.”
Ham opens the movie cupboard and runs his fingers up and down the shelves, humming an unrecognizable tune. “Got it,” he says and slides another mob movie into the archaic DVD player.
I kick my shoes off and nestle into my usual corner of the sectional couch. We have reserved seating and never cross each other’s boundaries. I snuggle in one corner while Seung sprawls across the center section. Once in a while our heads meet on the same pillow, but tonight is different. Nobody’s talking. College and SAT pressures must be tormenting Seung, because two cushions divide us.
Ham relaxes in his usual manner. On his back, legs draped up and over the couch. Most nights he watches the entire movie upside down with his hair stick straight and his shirt riding up his chest. “Perspective” is what Ham says his movie-watching position offers.
Normally Seung sets his phone alarm. And normally Seung remembers without my asking. But tonight I’m distracted by the thought of leaving this town without my friends-slash-family. Seung, going off to college across country. Ham, not sticking to our plan. I’m also preoccupied by Seung’s breathing. Within thirty minutes he’s asleep and I watch more of Seung than the movie.
The last thing I remember is Bugsy saying, “You thought you could steal from me?” Then I’m asleep, too. So asleep that I don’t hear Ham stomp upstairs when the movie ends or realize Seung’s head has joined mine on the pillow. What wakes me is his hand on my forearm and fingertips grazing my side.
I jump to my feet, rubbing one eye into focus. I know it’s late because the basement assumes a familiar gray hue from the streetlight. It’s the lighting that tells me, Linden, you are so screwed.
Here’s me, losing my shit. Quite literally.
I pat the floor for my jacket. If I don’t get back to school by the ten-thirty security check, I am cold Linden, aching Linden, royally fucked Linden.
Seung rolls over and sighs. His partially open lips puff when he exhales and make me stop and stare for two seconds longer than I should. Every moment counts. In a perfect world, I wouldn’t have to react and rush and run. I could give in to wants once in a while, rather than needs. Maybe even respond to Seung and his arm grazing.
I find my jacket behind the couch, sling it over my shoulder, slip into my shoes, and run upstairs. I think about the rolls I planned to not-steal when I pass the dining room, but I can’t risk waking Mr. and Mrs. Rhee. I’ll have to risk the stomach growls during class. I tiptoe to the front door, twist the lock to make sure it’s secure, and squeeze it shut without a sound. Of course I remember my phone as soon as the screen closes, which means I have no idea what time it actually is. All I know for sure is it’s late and I better move ass, quick.
I sprint down Seung’s street, looking for time cues. If Mr. O’Leary’s car is parked in his driveway, I will know it’s after 11:30. Mr. O’Leary closes the drugstore he manages at 11:15, drives straight home, flips the TV on, and kicks back in a cat-hair-covered recliner with a can of beer and a bag of pork rinds promptly at 11:35. He never misses The Tonight Show. He never skips his beer. And I never overlook the details behind that large open window.
When I near the third block north of Seung’s house, I notice that Mr. O’Leary’s Buick isn’t there. Victory Number One.
I keep running, ignoring the side ache pinching my ribs. A car slows at the stop sign, so I dodge into a clump of tumbleweeds piled against a retaining wall—and immediately regret my decision. Thorns poke my pants, but I force myself to freeze. The car creeps slower than it should, and I hope to the gods my jacket blends in with the cinder blocks. If I’m caught after curfew, I will be forced to call my parents . . . which is fine if you have parents.
After my third city-curfew infraction, the deputy grew wise to my lame excuses. The first time, I told the police my stepdad was at a casino one state over. The second time, I informed them he was passed out drunk and wouldn’t answer the phone. The third time, I insisted he was away on a long-haul truck drive, somewhere in remote Nevada where cell phone service was nonexistent. A fourth time will push the limit. Deputy Boggs is really not as gullible as he looks.
The car passes by, turns, and drives out of sight. I draw a deep breath and dig my foot into the dirt for takeoff. It hits something hard, sharp. A broken railroad tie. Perfect for wedging into doorways, stronger than wood. I slip it into my pocket and sprint across the street. Another mile and a half and I’m home. I turn the corner at the last intersection and face the highway. Only eight hundred feet of pavement and heavy traffic (three to four cars) and then I’m on back roads. It sounds safe, the whole three to four cars, but if one is a patrol car, which is usually the case, I’m screwed.
I look across the street and my stomach drops. The Dairy Queen is dark. It closes at 10:00 and the assistant manager turns the lights off by 10:25. So much for Victory Number Two.
But I have to take a chance. As Ham always says, with reference to his mob movie obsession, Joseph Pistone (a.k.a. Donnie Brasco) lived to take chances. I can’t run a five-minute mile, but if I sprint the highway at full speed, I’ll at least avoid police attention. On the positive side, it’s not Saturday night. That’s when high school seniors cruise the main drag in search of directions to keg parties bunkered in the hills. I breathe through my nose and wait for the start-pistol to fire in my head.
And I’m off.
My rhythm is fast. My stride loosens with each step. It’s amazing how adrenaline transforms you into a bona fide runner. But within fifty feet of my finish line, a loud horn wails, and I hear, “Hey, Linden! Linden!” Shit. It’s Seung and Ham and failed Victory Number Three.
Seung’s hand-me-down, decade-old gold Volvo, which goes by the name of Gold Nugget, inches beside me. Ham rolls the window down and says, “What the hell, Linden? A little early for school.”
I stare at the track, then the baseball field. I’ll be sleeping in the dugout tonight.
What do I say? Why am I at the back of the school at this hour of night? My friends think I live on the other side of the building, over a mile away.
“I can’t find my phone,” I snap, ready to insert the partial truth. “Thought I left it in the newsroom. Hoping security hasn’t locked the doors yet.”
The guys, eager to hear my explanations, make the partial truths sting what’s most tender. My heart.
“At this hour?” Seung says and extends his arm out the window. “Your phone, milady.” He leans across Ham. “Get in. We’ll take you home.”
But Seung, I’m already here.
I climb into Gold Nugget’s backseat and rub my hand against the worn leather. I could use a little luck right now. The heater blasts and stirs smells from the bacon-infused air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. According to Seung’s dad, boys love bacon, but Seung quit eating meat months ago.
As we circle the high school parking lot and pull toward the second exit, Deputy Boggs arrives for the first watch of the night. There are always two. One at ten thirty, the other at three in the morning.
Finally I exhale and whisper, “I don’t want to go home.” If I’m sleeping outside tonight, then at least I want to stretch out the time and have fun with my two favorite people.
Seung taps the brake before reaching the highway. He switches off the turn signal and whips around in his seat, eyes smiling. “Where do you want to go, Linden Rose?”
Cue the stomach cartwheels. “I don’t know,” I say, locking eyes with Seung. “Drive around, maybe. I’ll give you gas money.” I reach into my bag, but Seung swats my hand.
“No way. My car. My gas money.”
“You two do what you want,” Ham blurts, “but I need to get home before eleven.”
Seung laughs. “And if you aren’t home by eleven? What happens? Hammy goes to bed without a story time?”
I smile and my shoulders start to relax. These guys make me feel good on every side. Like I’m part of something. They’re the reason I get up in the morning. Well, them, and the fact that if I don’t get up I will go to jail for breaking and entering.
“I could get in trouble,” Ham says. “I just don’t like to risk it. My parents believe I’m a certain way, you know. And I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Ham, I’ve known you since second grade,” Seung says. “You have never been in trouble. And it’s not that you don’t do anything trouble-worthy. I mean, your mouth never stops.”
I sigh. “Please don’t argue. Let’s make this a fun night. A night to remember.”
“Turn right,” Ham snaps. “I’m going home. Expecting a phone call and need to be alone when I get it.”
“With pleasure.” Seung cranks the wheel and the tires squeal.
“Who’s calling?” I ask Ham, a little hurt by his lackluster acknowledgment of making it a memorable night.
He shrugs and mumbles something I can’t make out, so I ask again. “Hammy? Who’s calling?”
“A friend,” he snaps.
Seung chuckles. “All your friends are in this car.”
Ham scoffs. “This might surprise you, Seung, but I’m making new friends.”
We pull into Ham’s picture-perfect Tudor. Amber lights circle the drive. Seung stops in front of the stone steps that lead to the arched entryway.
Ham climbs out of the car. Before shutting the door, he says, “I’ll see you assholes in the morning. No offense, Linden.”
“None taken.” I climb out of the backseat and move to the front. “See you tomorrow, Ham Hock?”
He smiles. “Definitely.”
“Hey, Hammy!” I call after him. “I think it’s great you’re making new friends. Just promise you won’t forget about the old.”
Ham skips up the steps. “Never!” he shouts, and fumbles in his pockets for his house key.
Even though Seung’s irritated with Ham, he waits in the driveway until Ham is safely inside the well-lit foyer. Ham turns and bids us adieu with both middle fingers lifted high above his head.
I laugh while Seung eases out of the circular driveway, navigating the fountain that sits in the middle of a spread of weather-wilted pink petunias and stubby green shrubs.
“You tired?” Seung asks, eyes fixed on the road.
“Not even close.” And although I push my head against the seat and exhale, my exhaustion is mental, not physical.
“Slushies and Triangle Park?” Seung asks.
“You are always inside my head.”
“I am?” Seung’s face performs a contortionist act and I smile to myself.
We drive to the only twenty-four-hour convenience store within a two-hundred-mile radius. It’s smack-dab in the middle of town, a mile from the high school. We mix every flavor of slush into twenty-two-ounce cups, sneak a few bonus gulps before filling up again, and make small talk with Mr. Q, the owner.
“Staying out of trouble tonight?” Mr. Q asks, ringing up our slushies and Seung’s oversized bag of M&M’s, which I’m expecting him to share.
“Us?” Seung answers. “Always.” He pulls out his wallet and swats my hand away. I make a mental note of what I owe him. Gas money. Slushies. I don’t care what Seung says—I repay my debts.
“Say hello to your mother and father for me, Seung.”
Seung nods at Mr. Q and holds the door open for me when we leave. I crinkle my nose at him, but he either doesn’t see me or pretends not to.
I punch the numbers on the car stereo but can’t find a station powerful enough to seep into the walls of a town filled with fifteen hundred villagers. So we sit in silence, the occasional melody of unified slurps filling the air.
Triangle Park is at the end of Main Street, at the bottom of a hill, before the road splits into highway. It’s a plot of land in the shape of a triangle. Nothing fancy like most places in this town, but it’s our park, our place. It was called a park before parklike structures were built, such as picnic tables and grills perched on top of pipes. We pull into the entrance, and Seung’s headlights reveal a truck and motorcycle in the gravel lot lined with railroad ties. I recognize the jet-blue bike right away. Reed Clemmings’s new ride. He won’t be alone like he was at school, blocking my exit, flashing his too-perfect teeth and watery puppy-dog eyes. Where Reed is, Toby typically lurks. And where T.P. is, Bea is bound to be. My stomach flip-flops. A tiny part excited to see Reed, a giant part dreading to see Bea. What if another fight breaks out?
Seung squints to see who is sitting on the picnic tables. “You sure you want to stay?”
Well, I guess so. I mean, didn’t you see Reed Clemmings? Sexiest man alive. Sitting right there.
I wish I could think this way about Seung. But we’re close. Not strangers like Reed and me. I want to tell Seung it’s time to take our friendship in a new direction, drive straight through the fence, break all the limits. But I’ve built a protective barrier to hide who I truly am.
“I don’t care,” I mumble, and climb out of the car, marching toward the playground. “We could swing until Deputy Boggs, or his posse member, stops by to enforce curfew.”
Seung jogs up behind me and beep-beeps his car alarm. We pass a picnic table, and Reed says, “Hello, Linden Rose,” but his voice is surreal and the words don’t resonate. Reed Clemmings saying my name? Out loud. In front of people. Maybe we’re on a first-name basis since I saw the tear in his eye. I nod, trying to push down the smile spreading all stupid-like across my face.
But my smile retreats as fast as it arrived when I look toward Reed and see Bea’s friend Beth piggyback him. Where Beth is, Bea is. I glance over, and as expected, Bea is sprawled across a table on her stomach. Toby sits on her butt like he’s just conquered prey.
“There’s your girlfriend,” I whisper to Seung, nudging his rib cage with my elbow. “One of Two, remember?” I wink.
On cue, Bea shouts, “Hi, Seung!” And Seung actually lifts his hand and waves back, then jogs toward the swing, his shoulders bigger and broader. I roll my eyes and trot along behind Seung and his newfound confidence. I blame vegetarianism. Weight lifting. The universe.
We swing until our butt cheeks are numb from squeezing them into child-sized seats. We won’t admit it, but our eyes are still focused on the picnic tables—well, at least the corners of our eyes.
Sometimes I think my friends are all I need. The two I have now, anyway. It wasn’t like I was a friend magnet at my old school. Sure, there were girls I sat with at lunch and talked television with, but they didn’t know me like Ham and Seung do, or at least who I’m pretending hard to be. Of course, I’ve never attended a single school for longer than a year. My mother always moved us when the knocks on the door grew too loud to ignore.
The guys came along when I needed friends the most. Ham and Seung took me in when I knocked. Never asked questions, never judged. Fifteen hundred people in this town and I had the privilege of meeting the perfect two. Now I’m falling hard for the perfect one.
Seung shifts in his swing and I smile, my heart woolly and warm.
Toby stands and reaches for Bea’s hand to help her to her feet. He growls something at Reed and pushes Bea behind his back. She stands poised with a hand on her hip, while the boys raise their fists at each other. It’s hard to tell who wants to jab first. Everyone in their group is punch-drunk. All four look confused.
I force my eyes on Seung, refusing to see Bea’s abuse or abuser, right there in my face.
I know Bea is someone else’s problem. Not mine. Besides, it’s not like I can help her, even if she’d let me. I’m not exactly good at saving other people, even the ones I love.
“Get out of my face!” Bea shouts, and I drop my eyes and kick at the dirt. I can’t look at her. I refuse to feel what she makes me feel.
Principal Falsetto should do more than make a few phone calls, shout a couple of warnings. When Bea showed up in her office at the end of last year with bruises on her wrists, arms, face, the principal didn’t do shit. At least not that I could see from my trajectory. Now it’s a new school year and Bea’s already paid Falsetto a visit. I wonder how bad it’s going to get before someone does something.
“Quit acting like a little bitch!” Toby shouts.
Seung digs his heel in the dirt, cranes his neck, and says, “That guy’s a real little bitch.”
A screwed-up batch of friends, if that’s what you want to call them. Bea and her shadow, Beth. Toby Patters and his football-shaped head. I wonder why Reed insists on hanging around after Bea dumped him. Hasn’t he stomached enough?
Sometimes Bea and Toby look like the perfect couple. Bea seems happy, part of the time. But she’s also great with masks. Probably why Principal Falsetto doesn’t make more of a move. Bea’s mask fits her face snug with no gaps, like a tight, white glove on a hand, preventing her skin from showing through. Maybe Bea keeps Reed around for protection. Maybe she’s afraid of being alone with her own boyfriend. Maybe I should just make an anonymous phone call and get her help.
Reed shouts something about sloppy seconds, and I cringe.
“Shut the hell up!” Toby shouts, his shadow monstrous.
Bea cackles and my brain buzzes with images I frantically shove into dark corners covered with year-old dust. Eyes swollen shut. Neck wrapped in thumbprints. On the floor, an earring post that looks like it’s been dipped in blood.
Bea laughs again. Beth parrots Bea.
Finally Reed tells them to hush as he spews lines from Mr. George’s assigned reading. “It all ends in tears anyway,” Reed wails with his face toward the sky. Somebody’s just discovered Jack Kerouac.
A beer bottle clanks against a metal can, then another, and another. One misses and rolls in front of our swings.
The night is basically a comedy of errors designed to ping-pong my mind from the pain of my past to the fact that tonight I’ll be sleeping outdoors. But my stomach is full of food, thanks to Seung’s mom, and I’m in the company of the guy I adore, so shit could always be worse.
“I don’t know why everyone worships that guy,” Seung says after our swings slow. We rock back and forth with our feet grounded.
“Because he’s perfection personified,” I joke. But I don’t think Reed is perfect. He’s just being what everyone believes he should be. A football-throwing, motorcycle-riding cliché in a small town obsessed with football and motorcycles. And this year he thought he’d expand on Mr. George’s reading list, suck down some Jack Kerouac, and grow his hair out.
“I know you have a thing for Reed Clemmings,” Seung says.
“Excuse me?”
“You’d be weird if you didn’t.”
“Well, then consider me weird.” I blow a kiss at Seung.
He smiles and kicks the gravel with his heel. “I already do.”
Reed announces their departure by spreading his arms and shouting, “The park is yours, beautiful people!” He then bellows, “The only people for me are the mad ones,” and his voice trails off because he’s too drunk to remember more lines from On the Road.
The foursome walk toward the steroidal truck, and the girls hop into the cab. Reed zigzags behind. When he reaches the truck, he leans against the grill until Toby arrives for a tête-à-tête in front of the headlights. Toby jabs his finger eye-level with Reed. There’s a long pause before their shadows pat each other’s backs, making room for their drunkenness to fix what needs mending. When they split apart, Reed slides onto his bike and Toby swings into his truck. They synchronize the revving of engines. Low bass meets high rocket whirl.
“Good-bye, Seung!” Bea shouts, leaning the shitty half of her body, the half with no heart, outside the truck window.
There’s that wave again. Damnitall, Seung.
“A complete bunch of asswads who should not be driving drunk,” Seung says, but I know he’s not referring to Bea. He hates Toby, and Reed by default. If I had a dollar bill for every time Toby told Seung he should move back to his motherland, I wouldn’t be homeless, or worried about scholarship money to pay for school. I could also afford to hire someone to kick T.P.’s ass and rescue Bea anonymously.
Reed backs his bike out of the parking space and turns parallel with the road. He waits for Toby, who sits in his truck fumbling for the right song, revving the engine. Reed must get tired of the wait, because he spins his back tire and heads toward the hill.
“What’s Toby doing?” I ask, squinting at the headlights.
“What asswads do best.”
And before I can clarify what it is exactly that asswads do, Toby pounds the accelerator and drives straight for us.
I fall out of my swing, landing on all fours in the dirt. Headlights blind my vision.
“Run!” I scream, as much at myself as at Seung. I scramble to my feet and lunge in the direction of the picnic tables.
The engine revs. Guitar riffs roar. Tires squeal.
I reach for a bench, grab on, and flip around. Seung rocks back and forth on the swing, calm and composed. His body shines like chiseled onyx in the headlights. What the hell is he doing?
“Seung! Move ass! RUN! RUN! RUN!”
But Seung’s like a mountain. He digs his heels into the dirt and grips the chains of his swing. He refuses to budge.
The truck plows toward the swings, bouncing up and down as it hits lawn divots. The bumper shoots a plastic garbage can through the air that lands inches from a picnic table.
“Seung!” I shout, climbing on top of the table and waving my arms. “Move!”
The girls scream, “Stop!” and Toby yells what sounds like a Yee-haw. Drums on the stereo beat their chorus, and I slap my hands against my face, peeking through my fingers. “Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Ohmygod!”
Do I charge at Seung? Grab him by the shirt? Drag him to safety?
Before I have time to react, Seung stands, lifts his arm in the air, and flattens his palm like he’s trying to do what? Signal a stop? Holy shit. He’s signaling a stop.
And it works. Toby twists the wheel and sends up a cloud of dirt over Seung. The truck hits a railroad tie but doesn’t stop. Toby leans out of the window and shouts, “Go back to China and stay away from my girl!” and then cranks the wheel and drives toward the road.
When the dust storm clears, I see Seung back on the swing, coughing and sweeping off his face.
I race toward him and grab the chains on his swing. “Are you okay?” His hair is gray under the yellow of the streetlight. I reach toward his head to brush off the dirt, and he grabs my wrist.
“Of course I’m okay, Linden.”
I wiggle my arm out of his grip. “Then why the hell didn’t you run?”
Seung stands and pats dirt off his jeans, then his shirt. “I’m done running,” he says. “Time to stand up and fight for the shit I want.”
And before I can clarify if the shit he wants includes Bea or me or something totally unrelated, he stomps off toward Gold Nugget.