look and smell like I took a swim in pig shit. But I manage to convince her that Jack’s car got stuck on a dirt road, and we had to push it free. I think I might have even managed to make it sound romantic -- a sort of flirtatious, mud-fight type scenario. While she’s lecturing me on the hazards of getting so wet and cold, I think of an excuse to disappear for a few days. Mom let me go camping with Leah once before. I think if I beg hard and long enough she’ll let me go again.
Chapter Ten
“ARE YOU ON GLUE?” Leah questions in an ultrasonic squeak. The half-empty corridor is like an amphitheater; it projects her voice and sends her question bouncing off lockers and various plucky, school-spirit wall displays. My shoulders sink, and I tuck my chin into my chest. At least ten pairs of curious eyes are fixed on me.
“Dude,” I hiss through gritted teeth.
“Don’t Dude me,” she replies with wide, disapproving eyes. I snatch her hand and drag her into the bathroom.
“You’ve got to be in some sort of drug-induced delusion to even be considering this.”
“Hold that thought,” I say, dumping my weekender on the floor and checking the stalls. They’re empty. Leah is pacing, her heels click-clacking against the floor tiles and her skull-and-crossbones-splattered tutu swishing about from side to side.
“I know I was pushing the whole ‘moving on, moving up’ thing, but this…this is straight up bonkers.” She’s on a roll. Her hands are flapping about all over the place. She’s a crazed ballerina, a black swan with new, candy-floss-colored hair. “I’m not going to cover for you. Forget it. No way,” she sounds off, shaking her head with absolute certainty.
“It wouldn’t be covering for me exactly. You won’t have to say anything...”
“Unless someone asks?” she snaps, squaring her shoulders and folding her arms across her chest. This is the most hostile I’ve ever seen her. Anybody would think I was asking her to kill someone. I’m not. I’m asking her to pretend I’ve changed my mind and decided to go camping this weekend.
“Leah, you know I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t totally necessary.”
“How exactly is sneaking off around creepy regions of Europe with a guy you hardly know ‘totally necessary’?” She breaks out the air quotes and questions pointedly.
“It just…is,” I reply in a huff, flapping my arms and pacing, too. I spot my reflection in the mirror and realize that my tantrum doesn’t have the intimidation of hers. I just look sulky, in need of a good slap.
“That’s weak.”
She makes a very good point, but that’s all I’ve got. I didn’t prepare anything else because I wasn’t expecting to meet with resistance. Leah does a lot of crazy things; drinking, sneaking off to the city to watch rock concerts, jumping off of Pinnacle Bridge that year she had a plaster cast on her ankle. She sank like a stone to the bottom of the creek. If I hadn’t been there to pull her out she would have drowned. All these things, and much, much more, would ensure that Leah was grounded well into her sixties, but I cover for her every time.
“You owe me,” I remind her, though it lacks conviction. Angry Leah scares me.
“Totally. And whenever you wanna head into the city and watch Buckets of Blood beat the shit out of their instruments, I’ll pay up. But you’re talking about taking off halfway around the world with a potential sex offender. One in six Beau, one in six.” One in six is some serial-killing statistic she’s heard off a crime drama, I presume. She watches a lot of that sort of stuff.
“Jack is not a sex offender.”
“Why? Because he says he’s not a sex offender?”
I huff more frustration and start making laps. Arguing a case without being able to relay all the facts is more irritating than trying to find the value of ‘X’ in algebra.
“Look, B,” she says after we’ve both worked out some of our annoyance in exercise.
Chapter Ten
“ARE YOU ON GLUE?” Leah questions in an ultrasonic squeak. The half-empty corridor is like an amphitheater; it projects her voice and sends her question bouncing off lockers and various plucky, school-spirit wall displays. My shoulders sink, and I tuck my chin into my chest. At least ten pairs of curious eyes are fixed on me.
“Dude,” I hiss through gritted teeth.
“Don’t Dude me,” she replies with wide, disapproving eyes. I snatch her hand and drag her into the bathroom.
“You’ve got to be in some sort of drug-induced delusion to even be considering this.”
“Hold that thought,” I say, dumping my weekender on the floor and checking the stalls. They’re empty. Leah is pacing, her heels click-clacking against the floor tiles and her skull-and-crossbones-splattered tutu swishing about from side to side.
“I know I was pushing the whole ‘moving on, moving up’ thing, but this…this is straight up bonkers.” She’s on a roll. Her hands are flapping about all over the place. She’s a crazed ballerina, a black swan with new, candy-floss-colored hair. “I’m not going to cover for you. Forget it. No way,” she sounds off, shaking her head with absolute certainty.
“It wouldn’t be covering for me exactly. You won’t have to say anything...”
“Unless someone asks?” she snaps, squaring her shoulders and folding her arms across her chest. This is the most hostile I’ve ever seen her. Anybody would think I was asking her to kill someone. I’m not. I’m asking her to pretend I’ve changed my mind and decided to go camping this weekend.
“Leah, you know I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t totally necessary.”
“How exactly is sneaking off around creepy regions of Europe with a guy you hardly know ‘totally necessary’?” She breaks out the air quotes and questions pointedly.
“It just…is,” I reply in a huff, flapping my arms and pacing, too. I spot my reflection in the mirror and realize that my tantrum doesn’t have the intimidation of hers. I just look sulky, in need of a good slap.
“That’s weak.”
She makes a very good point, but that’s all I’ve got. I didn’t prepare anything else because I wasn’t expecting to meet with resistance. Leah does a lot of crazy things; drinking, sneaking off to the city to watch rock concerts, jumping off of Pinnacle Bridge that year she had a plaster cast on her ankle. She sank like a stone to the bottom of the creek. If I hadn’t been there to pull her out she would have drowned. All these things, and much, much more, would ensure that Leah was grounded well into her sixties, but I cover for her every time.
“You owe me,” I remind her, though it lacks conviction. Angry Leah scares me.
“Totally. And whenever you wanna head into the city and watch Buckets of Blood beat the shit out of their instruments, I’ll pay up. But you’re talking about taking off halfway around the world with a potential sex offender. One in six Beau, one in six.” One in six is some serial-killing statistic she’s heard off a crime drama, I presume. She watches a lot of that sort of stuff.
“Jack is not a sex offender.”
“Why? Because he says he’s not a sex offender?”
I huff more frustration and start making laps. Arguing a case without being able to relay all the facts is more irritating than trying to find the value of ‘X’ in algebra.
“Look, B,” she says after we’ve both worked out some of our annoyance in exercise.
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