the pinecone art.
“My mom’s into her stuff, too. She just has less of it,” Gretchen spat.
Gretchen and her mom weren’t exactly trailer trash but neither did they live on a hilltop and keep horses, the way Keith’s family did. Gretch and her mom lived in a two-bedroom rambler across the street from the Armstrongs. Gretchen kept it immaculate. There were always notes from her mother on their kitchen counter that began with “Gretchen—I want you to…” followed by lists that usually included vacuuming and making shortbread.
“Look,” Keith said. “That little kid would want you to have fun.”
“Her name was Karen,” I said. And, rock star or no, Keith was beginning to bug me. Could you hate someone and want to wrap yourself around him at the same time?
“How do you know what she’d want?” Gretchen added. “You didn’t know her.”
It was my turn to shrink on my stool, content to let Gretchen navigate for me. I didn’t even want to stick my toes in this one. It was treacherous, full of something submerged and slippery. On the one side, there was Gretchen staring at me, silently ordering me to back her up in the name of righteousness and friendship. And on the other side, there was Keith, confident, abrasive, equally sure I would back him up because he knew I was crazy about him. But I knew this wasn’t about me. Or Karen. Or beer. There was something else going on between them, something that made Gretchen scratch even more furiously and Keith strut with conceit.
Then Keith laid a hand over mine. “If you’re there, I’ll be, too,” he said. And the expression in his eyes was so soft that I didn’t care if Gretchen and I were being played or not.
“It isn’t right,” Gretchen hissed, mindful that she’d lost before I even said anything. “You know it isn’t, Keith. I don’t care what Ronnie says.”
“Come on, don’t be a sore loser. Look at you two. I’ve never seen a pair more in need of a break than the Patchworks Twins.”
I’d never heard us called that before, but it seemed right. It made me feel jagged and wobbly, like a scarecrow, all straw coming out of burlap, but bound by coarse thread to someone else who was equally jagged and wobbly. Between the two of us, maybe we could stand straight.
But not now. Gretchen put her head on her desk and even banged it once for effect. “All right,” she said, her words muffled because she spoke them into the Formica worktop.
Keith withdrew his hand from mine. “Yesssss. Thank you very much.” He pumped his arms in the air and glared triumphantly at Gretchen as though he’d just treated her to a giant slam dunk in the face.
“You’d better help me clean up afterwards, Ronnie,” she said, her anger still carrying her.
“Of course,” I said. I had no problem with cleaning. I cleaned up plenty. Only not at Gretchen’s house, which I tended to look on as a Ronnie sanctuary, where I could drape myself like wildlife over the living room furniture and listen to her CDs and watch her TV while she vacuumed around me.
But right then I would have mucked out her toilets because of the way Keith put his hand over mine. Saturday was definitely it. He as much as promised it with his eyes. This would be the weekend things changed between us.
I must have gone back to gazing at him dreamily because Gretchen caught me and shook her head sadly. Let it go . But there was no way. Because being next to Keith made me feel substantial in a way that nothing else did—not even running. I was tired of ghosting around. I wanted back in my own flesh, and nothing did that to me like the promise of running my fingers over his stubbly Adam’s apple and kissing his spicy-sweet mouth. I could practically feel him pressing against me in an embrace or a slow dance, and I wanted it. At that moment I would’ve snuggled up to the devil himself as long as he made me feel alive.
14
After the last bell, Gretchen and I retreated to our locker. She bused
“My mom’s into her stuff, too. She just has less of it,” Gretchen spat.
Gretchen and her mom weren’t exactly trailer trash but neither did they live on a hilltop and keep horses, the way Keith’s family did. Gretch and her mom lived in a two-bedroom rambler across the street from the Armstrongs. Gretchen kept it immaculate. There were always notes from her mother on their kitchen counter that began with “Gretchen—I want you to…” followed by lists that usually included vacuuming and making shortbread.
“Look,” Keith said. “That little kid would want you to have fun.”
“Her name was Karen,” I said. And, rock star or no, Keith was beginning to bug me. Could you hate someone and want to wrap yourself around him at the same time?
“How do you know what she’d want?” Gretchen added. “You didn’t know her.”
It was my turn to shrink on my stool, content to let Gretchen navigate for me. I didn’t even want to stick my toes in this one. It was treacherous, full of something submerged and slippery. On the one side, there was Gretchen staring at me, silently ordering me to back her up in the name of righteousness and friendship. And on the other side, there was Keith, confident, abrasive, equally sure I would back him up because he knew I was crazy about him. But I knew this wasn’t about me. Or Karen. Or beer. There was something else going on between them, something that made Gretchen scratch even more furiously and Keith strut with conceit.
Then Keith laid a hand over mine. “If you’re there, I’ll be, too,” he said. And the expression in his eyes was so soft that I didn’t care if Gretchen and I were being played or not.
“It isn’t right,” Gretchen hissed, mindful that she’d lost before I even said anything. “You know it isn’t, Keith. I don’t care what Ronnie says.”
“Come on, don’t be a sore loser. Look at you two. I’ve never seen a pair more in need of a break than the Patchworks Twins.”
I’d never heard us called that before, but it seemed right. It made me feel jagged and wobbly, like a scarecrow, all straw coming out of burlap, but bound by coarse thread to someone else who was equally jagged and wobbly. Between the two of us, maybe we could stand straight.
But not now. Gretchen put her head on her desk and even banged it once for effect. “All right,” she said, her words muffled because she spoke them into the Formica worktop.
Keith withdrew his hand from mine. “Yesssss. Thank you very much.” He pumped his arms in the air and glared triumphantly at Gretchen as though he’d just treated her to a giant slam dunk in the face.
“You’d better help me clean up afterwards, Ronnie,” she said, her anger still carrying her.
“Of course,” I said. I had no problem with cleaning. I cleaned up plenty. Only not at Gretchen’s house, which I tended to look on as a Ronnie sanctuary, where I could drape myself like wildlife over the living room furniture and listen to her CDs and watch her TV while she vacuumed around me.
But right then I would have mucked out her toilets because of the way Keith put his hand over mine. Saturday was definitely it. He as much as promised it with his eyes. This would be the weekend things changed between us.
I must have gone back to gazing at him dreamily because Gretchen caught me and shook her head sadly. Let it go . But there was no way. Because being next to Keith made me feel substantial in a way that nothing else did—not even running. I was tired of ghosting around. I wanted back in my own flesh, and nothing did that to me like the promise of running my fingers over his stubbly Adam’s apple and kissing his spicy-sweet mouth. I could practically feel him pressing against me in an embrace or a slow dance, and I wanted it. At that moment I would’ve snuggled up to the devil himself as long as he made me feel alive.
14
After the last bell, Gretchen and I retreated to our locker. She bused
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