Girl Parts Page 6

  “I like your top. Is that a rose?” Rebecca asked.

  “It’s a cherry blossom, actually.”

  “You should tell people it’s a rose. Like your name. It’s cute.”

  Kindness, said Rose’s brain. Return the compliment.

  “I like your hair,” Rose said, which was true. It was inky and dark.

  “My hair? God, why? It’s just boring black. You’re the one with the awesome hair. Mine’s just ordinary.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Well, thanks. I’m thinking of changing it, actually. A little personal renewal.” Rebecca ran a finger along a strand. “Listen, I didn’t mean to be bitchy before. You seem nice, and I’m sure David’s a good guy.”

  “He’s the only one for me,” Rose said, and felt a flicker of warmth, and pictured sunlight glancing off steel cabinets.

  Rebecca’s eyes went wide. “You must be really into him. Where did you meet?”

  “His driveway.”

  “You’re neighbors? I know someone on Horizon Lake. A boy.”

  “Was he your boy?”

  Her laugh was dry, flaccid. “Maybe for a moment. But we weren’t right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought we had a connection, but I was wrong.”

  Rose squinted. “But he was your boy. You must form a connection.”

  Rebecca’s thin, dark eyebrows came together. “It’s not that simple.”

  Rose shook her head. “That is a difference of opinion.”

  Rebecca put a hand on her hip. “Oh, really? Well, my friend Willow tried damn hard to connect with your boy David, and he tossed her to the curb like a —”

  “That is not true,” said Rose.

  “You think you’re his first? Sister, there’ve been plenty others. And that’s not opinion; that’s fact.”

  “That is not true,” she said again.

  The arrow connected Rose and David — it was unbreakable, without forks or intersections. There could never be another spoke. Rebecca was either mistaken or lying.

  Rose stood.

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” Rebecca said. “I’m drunk and . . .”

  Rose made for the stairs. Up high her satellite connection would be clearer, with no conflicting signals.

  David tipped over an empty beer can and looked up.

  “Where’s Rose?”

  Clay was slumped against the steps, asleep. Artie and that Becks girl were gone.

  “Clay.” David tossed a can at his friend. It bounced off Clay’s sneaker and spun into the weeds. “Clay, wake up, man.”

  David got to his feet, steadying himself against the wall. He climbed the stairs with his legs wobbling like Jell-O.

  “Tilt-a-Whirl,” David mumbled “Everybody loves to ride . . . the Tilt-a-Whirl.”

  “David?”

  A pair of new Converse All Stars was a few inches from David’s nose. He recognized the pink flowery socks.

  “Hey, baby.”

  “You’re intoxicated.”

  “You know what I like about you?” David pulled himself into a sitting position. “You don’t even sound mad. You’re just stating the obvious. David, your man, is drunk. Plain and simple.” He looked up. Rose stood with her arms crossed, hair blowing across her face. “What are you doing?”

  “I was waiting for you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can we go back to your house?”

  “Yeah.” David surveyed the landscape — dancing trees in every direction. “We just need to find the car. You have, like, a GPS? Thought not.”

  The pair stumbled through the underbrush, Rose with a hand on David’s back to steady him. “I guess this is an OK touch, right?” David said, laughing at his own joke. “Let’s keep that hand north of the equator, missy. I don’t want you trying anything fresh. A girl could take advantage of a man in a . . . in a state like this.”

  Finally they reached the car. David made for the driver’s side door.

  No, said Rose’s brain. “David, you can’t drive like this.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s . . . forbidden.”

  David tossed his head back and laughed. “Not with me, it isn’t. Come on, I do this every weekend. It’s like three o’clock in the morning. There’re no cars on the roads, and I’ll go really slow, I promise.”

  Rose didn’t move. David climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. He looked at her through the open window.

  “Do you want to walk?”

  “I want to be with you.”

  “Then get in.”

  They pulled out onto the empty road and inched back toward Route 20. There were no other cars, and David did drive slowly, occasionally listing to the shoulder. The sound of the engine filled the silent space between them.

  “Did you have fun?” David asked when they reached the main road.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Me too.”

  “Do you think Rebecca is better eye candy than me?”

  “Who?”

  “Becks.”

  “Where did that come from?”

  “Do you think she is?”

  “I don’t think she’s hotter than you, if that’s what you mean. Why? Feeling jealous?”

  Rose analyzed her feelings and found them ambiguous. “How do you know when you feel jealous?”

  “Jealous is when you see the person you want to bang flirting with someone else. And it makes you feel angry and tough. Like you could tear a car in half.”

  “I don’t feel like that.”

  “You don’t need to be jealous, anyway. You’re the only one for me, baby.”

  Rose put her hand on his knee, not clutching it this time, but squeezing it. No shock, thank God. She must feel better, David thought. Of course she feels better. She’s never been fed a line before.

  This is what Rose saw:

  The sweep of trees, the snaking road, the pulse of reflectors on the guardrail. Flash. Flash. Flash. And then a blip, something shining in the darkness between two reflectors. It was a front-mounted bike light, trembling on the shoulder as the rider made his slow progress uphill. But the perspective was wrong. Their twin trajectories, plotted in her mind like glowing dotted lines, should not have intersected. The road slipped away, and for the second time, Rose imagined she could die.

  There would be no more Rose, no first kiss, not even a third day.

  The tires squealed. David cursed. The wheel spun free of his hand, and Rose threw herself over him, protecting his body with her own. A screech, a clatter, and the world spun.

  And then it was over, and David was in her arms.

  He was breathing hard. His chest heaved against hers in jagged breaths. Rose squeezed, buried her face in his neck, and felt the soft, hot skin of his cheek press against her own. His smell was a mix of tangy sweat and sweet earth. Then, the crisis over, Rose’s body charged for a shock. She slid back, still feeling him in her arms as the world snapped into focus.

  “Jesus Christ,” David said.

  The car now faced the opposite direction, the road bathed in light. Something blue lay on the dividing line. A few yards off, a metallic spider was wrapped around the guardrail. The blue thing wasn’t moving.

  “Oh, God,” said David. “That was close.”

  The engine had died in the frenzy. He turned the ignition, the engine hummed, and he put the car into drive. They began to turn away from the blue thing in the road.

  “David.”

  “What?”

  “David!”

  He braked, jerking them in their seats. The car was lengthwise across the road.

  “There’s a person out there,” Rose said.

  “Yeah, that’s awful,” David said. “Come on, we better go.”

  “We can’t leave him here,” Rose said. “Can we?”

  She faced him. His face was still flush, his breathing hard, but his hands were steady at the wheel. The haze of drunkenness had lifted from hi
s eyes. “Why not?”

  Rose had no answer. She asked herself again and again, but the queries bounced back. There was no rule about this in the data banks.

  “That’s why you don’t ride your bike at night on a dark road,” David said. “Jesus, Rose. Just be thankful that isn’t us, and let’s get out of here.”

  He began to turn the car again. Rose twisted in her seat, keeping her eye on the thing, the person, lying out there. Wearing a blue jacket. His (or her) bike twisted around the guardrail like a tangle of shiny confetti.

  How horrible to die out here alone. Better to be here, in the car. Better to be you than him.

  As they turned, the headlights caught the bicycle tangled in the guardrail, the light glancing off its twisted aluminum piping.

  But what if it were David out there?

  The person in the road moved. As David accelerated, Rose opened the door and jumped. She landed hard on her wrists. A thousand minifractures cracked like lightning through her limbs, and instantly a million microbots set to work repairing them.

  She heard David yell and the tires squeal. The brake lights flashed. In the crimson light she knelt beside the fallen boy with woolly hair and big glasses, who was slowly turning over, moaning.

  Charlie opened his eyes and thought it was dawn. It looked like the sun was rising. Then suddenly the weird light was gone, the night rushed in, and he felt like he’d been creamed by a car.

  “Are you OK?”

  The girl had tumbling red hair. So, an angel, Charlie thought.

  “I think so.”

  “You’re not dead.” Her hot whisper was close by his ear. Through the pain and the chill and shock, her breath on his neck was soothing. Charlie checked himself for broken bones. He wiggled his toes.

  “I’m Rose.”

  “Charlie.”

  “Hey, buddy, you OK?”

  A figure stood a few paces off. His features were hidden in the dark, but the voice was familiar.

  “I think so.” He raised his head slightly. “Where’s my bike?”

  The old Huffy was under the guardrail, the front tire a mesh of spokes. Charlie rose slowly. He put his hand out to steady himself, but the girl, Rose, backed away, as if afraid to touch him.

  “Can we take you to the local medical center?” she asked.

  “No,” Charlie said. “I don’t like hospitals.”

  “Do you want a ride home?” the boy asked.

  Charlie stretched, cracking his back. What he wanted was an apology, but that didn’t seem likely from Mr. Manners. The girl, though, his guardian angel, was contrite enough. She folded her hands as if praying, her cheeks frosty pink like strawberry icing on soft serve. She was beautiful. But the world was full of beautiful girls — girls who went home with guys in fast cars, not guys with busted bikes.

  Charlie tried to unlock the front tire from its death grip on the guardrail. The front wheel was destroyed, but apart from a few scratches, the bike was otherwise undamaged.

  “That is an old-school bike, dude,” the driver said.

  Charlie grunted. He wanted to get away, be home in bed, not talking to a pair of drunk rich kids.

  “Well, you sure you don’t need anything?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “OK, then. Have a good night.”

  The girl, Rose, lingered a moment.

  “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “It’s OK. I shouldn’t have been riding so late. It was stupid.”

  He began to carry his crippled bike toward the road, but a sudden pinch in his hip made him drop to one knee. Rose’s hand clasped his, to keep him from falling. Charlie felt something — like tonguing an old battery or chewing tinfoil, a minivibration that rushed up his arm and into his heart. His vision cleared. She pulled her hand away fast, as if she startled herself. They stared at each other, Charlie’s hand throbbing warmly, pleasantly.

  “I . . .” Charlie started, but before he could finish, she was gone, running back to the car and climbing inside. It was then he recognized David Sun’s Cadillac.

  They sped off, washing Charlie in red light, which no longer seemed like dawn, but only some asshole’s brake lights.

  The next morning, Mr. and Mrs. Sun took breakfast on the enclosed veranda. Mr. Sun read the newspaper, fuming over the cryptic crossword. Mrs. Sun read a book called Messages from Beyond by Roan Oran.

  “How do you think it’s going?” Mr. Sun said. After twenty-five years of marriage, the Suns spoke in code.

  “Well, he was out till all hours last night.” Mrs. Sun took a dainty bite of toast. “I heard the garage door at four.”

  “I thought she was going to keep him in line. Why didn’t we get one that shocked him for breaking curfew?”

  “I believe it’s a more”— Mrs. Sun searched for the right word —“holistic process.”

  “You’re too permissive with him. If I’d come home that late when I was a kid, my dad would have smacked the hell out of me.”

  “Wonderful. Then he’d wind up like you. Ooh! Look!” Mrs. Sun gestured wildly to a pattern of sunlight refracted by Mr. Sun’s drinking glass. Sun spots fell across the discarded business section (which Mr. Sun had thrown down in a huff). She snatched up her pencil and scribbled down the words they touched.

  “Evelyn, what . . . ?” Mr. Sun started.

  The book Mrs. Sun was reading, Messages from Beyond, said that ghosts often use natural elements to communicate messages to the living. “Only once their messages are revealed can the dead pass on!” Mrs. Sun said, writing furiously. “Is that you, Claire?” But the result was apparently gibberish. “‘She-is-Age-in-cod-less-oh-5,’” Mrs. Sun read. “Oh, well, I guess not. Never mind.”

  Downstairs, David and Rose watched a war movie — or maybe a documentary, they weren’t sure. David wasn’t paying attention. He was doing some personal assessment of his own.

  “You don’t actually believe that stuff about me being crazy or whatever, do you?”

  Their eyes met. Rose’s eyelashes were dark and heavy. Her perfume was like soap and fresh flowers. It might have been a romantic moment.

  “I mean, that’s why I’m here, David. . . .” Her voice was soft, comforting, which only aggravated him more.

  Last night was a blur. David barely remembered stumbling upstairs, collapsing on the bed, and waking up again at five feeling as if someone had sandblasted his larynx. He’d knocked on Rose’s door around ten to find her already up and dressed, a family of paper birds littering her bedspread.

  “But you don’t think that’s true, do you? I mean, Jesus, I’m perfectly normal. I’m like every other kid.”

  David went to the minibar. There was no booze, only soft drinks. He popped one open.

  “Don’t be angry.” He heard regret in her voice, and fear. The guilt-trip protocol, David thought. He stood with his back to her, watching the cola foam. It looked like boiling black tar.

  Rose stood behind him. “Maybe you’re right. Either way, we get to be friends.”

  She put a hand on his shoulder, making him flinch. But her touch, when it didn’t burn, was so soothing. He turned to face her and remembered that they were alone in the basement, with his parents upstairs. He leaned forward, eyes closed. Her breath was wet and warm. He kept diving, down and down, wondering when they’d make contact and thinking, Houston, we have a problem. When he opened his eyes, he saw Rose leaning back. Her lips were parted and her eyes had that sleepy-hungry look, but she was tipped so far back it looked like she would topple over.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not yet? When?”

  “Soon.”

  “But not now.”

  She shook her head.

  “So, what? Like a few days?”

  Rose made a motion with her thumb — not a thumbs-up. She meant more.

  “A week? Two weeks?”

  She tipped her hand back and forth like so-so.

  “A month?”

  “Maybe.
Probably. It depends.”

  “Jesus, Rose! What are we, in the 1950s?”

  “It’s what’s healthy. . . .”

  “By whose definition? I don’t even think my parents would care if we were kissing right now.”

  “Just be patient, please!” It was the first time he’d heard her raise her voice, and he was surprised by how shrill it was.

  “How’s this supposed to be a healthy relationship if neither of us gets what we want?”

  “Perhaps it’s about not getting what you want all the time.”

  “That’s stupid. I never heard such a ridiculous thing.”

  He dropped onto the couch. On-screen some heads were blown off, and David thought, Good.

  Rose sat beside him. “Only one month. We can wait until then, right?”

  “We don’t have much choice.”

  She put her hand on his thigh, and David thought of last night in the car, going so fast it was hard to breathe. She shifted, her hand moving just a quarter inch north. She brought her lips to his ear. “Soon, I promise.”

  Her warm curviness settled next to him. She took his arm and positioned it around her shoulder.

  One month, David thought. OK.

  One month he could handle. He could do one month.

  And so began the countdown.

  Every day David came home around three. Rose heard his bike pull in, heard him bound up the back steps, heard him coming down the hall. And when he exploded through the door and flung his arms wide, she jumped and ran for him, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face in his neck.

  “Another day down.”

  “Do you want to mark it on the calendar?”

  They’d pinned a calendar to her wall and crossed off a box for every day they spent together. There was no set date when Rose’s body would let her kiss him. The more time passed, the better they knew each other, the sooner it would happen. But it was exciting to see the rows of crossed boxes and feel the moment drawing closer.

  In the evenings they watched TV or went for a ride. This was one of their differences of opinion: David loved car rides; Rose did not. She didn’t like the flashing reflectors, which made her think of a crumpled blue jacket in the road. But she smiled anyway and kept her hand on his knee.