A Little Wanting Song (24 page)

“Boys are easy,” I say after my first kiss. “They’re kind of like guitars, without the strings.”

“If I compared you to a car right now, Rose’d say I was insensitive.”

“I think it’s time we said whatever it is we want.”

He leans in and the bird on his wrist flaps against my neck and his mouth is warm and the inside of me goes harmonic this time and the whole thing is a million times better than what I imagined. And I imagined it pretty good.

“Sing something,” he says.

I sing him a little version of the song I’ve been working on. “Love’s a funny song. The words don’t make much sense, and the beat comes out all wrong. But it goes a little like this. Sweet, fever, mandolin. Our laughter caving in. Tongues and wanting. Bliss.”

“Nice,” he says.

Slowly

So slowly, really slowly
I’m all the chords there are

So slowly, really slowly
I’m keys I never heard

So slowly, really slowly
I’m spinning song and dancing
Rising voice beneath my skin

Charlie’s left by the time they announce she’s won. I go onstage and hold up that crappy little football trophy like it’s a national music award while everyone claps.

And then five minutes after the whole thing’s done, everyone’s gone. Mum and Dad drove home. Dave went to wait for Charlie. Antony doesn’t have the concentration span to hold a grudge, so Luke probably left with him and his brothers.

I sit outside for a while, staring over the grass, thinking about Dave’s face when he was watching Charlie. Wondering if he’ll forgive me.

Luke walks around the side and sits next to me. “I thought you left,” I say.

“You thought wrong.” He swings his legs. “She was good. I never knew she could sing.”

“Me neither.”

He leans back and looks at the sky. “So your parents found out, huh? Dave says you’re grounded for life.”

“I’m grounded in the afterlife.”

“I can’t believe you cut class and went to the city. It would have been more fun with Dave and me along.”

“I’ve never been there, but I don’t think prison’s fun.”

“You always do that,” he says. “Make out like I’m headed for jail. Like I’m not smart enough to end up anywhere else.”

“You do so many stupid things,” I say.

“You do them, too; I just never make a big deal about it.”

It’s hard to argue with him about that after this summer. “I don’t think you’re stupid,” I say. “I don’t. I think you’re careless. I think—”

He covers my mouth. “For once, Rosie, just say, ‘You are right, Luke.’ Say it.”

He moves his hand a little. “I think maybe.”

He puts it back. “They’re not the three magic words.”

He takes his hand away again and I say, “Let’s have sex.”

“You just can’t say I’m right. You know one day I’ll find a girl who is willing to do it with me, and I’ll forget all about you.”

“You’re right,” I tell him, but I don’t feel so good admitting it.

He holds my hand and pulls me back so we can both see the sky. “Nah, Rosie,” he says. “I’m not right about that.”

*   *   *

“Dave?” I knock on his window. It’s barely light, but I couldn’t sleep. He sticks his head through. “What do you want?” he asks. I hold up a car magazine. “Come inside,” he says, and I crawl through the window.

I lie next to him. “I should have told you about the scholarship.”

“You should have told Charlie.”

“It’s hard to explain why I kept it from you. I think maybe telling you would have made it real. I think—”

“You thought telling me would have stuffed up your plan with Charlie. And you thought I would have told Luke, and he would have stuffed it up even more.”

“I guess it’s not so hard to explain.”

“You’re not the only one with plans, Rose.”

“You want to be a mechanic,” I say. “I listen.”

“I want to
design
cars, and don’t look so surprised. You’re not the only one who wants to get out of here.”

I sit up close to the window so I can feel the breeze. “Do you forgive me?”

“You and Luke are my best mates. We’ve been fighting all our lives.”

“I know.”

“You’re just pissed because you’re in the wrong this time.”

“I know that, too.” I lean back. We drift into sleep and dream separate things.

“Hey,” Luke says from the window, waking us up. “I’m gone for a bit and you start getting on with my girlfriend. In bed.”

“I heard she’s not your girlfriend anymore,” Dave says.

“I was talking to Rose,” he answers, crawling in the window and diving between us. He and Dave wrestle. “Davey’s got a girlfriend of his own now,” Luke says, and we laugh, and I tell them they’re idiots till Mr. Robbie yells for us to shut up. “Just ignore him,” Dave says, and smacks Luke in the face with a pillow.

“I thought I’d find you here,” I say, and sit next to Rose at the edge of the freeway. “So this is what the view looks like from this place.”

“Best spot to dream about leaving,” she says, ripping at the corner of her nail. “Which is all I’ll be doing this year. Mum and Dad are too pissed now to even talk about the scholarship. Mum barely talks at all.”

“You’ll be eighteen in a couple of years. Is it so bad to stay here till then?”

“You know the feeling you get when you’re homesick? Things are going great, and then all of a sudden your stomach’s saying, This isn’t the place you’re meant to be. That’s how I feel all the time.”

“Did you tell your mum and dad that?”

“They won’t listen.”

I’d take her with me if I could. I asked Dad, and he said it was up to Mrs. Butler. It’s awful being trapped somewhere you don’t want to be. “Rose, close your eyes and listen.”

“Why?”

“Listen to the cars.” We’re quiet as the trucks crash past us and fade, one after the other. “Hear that sound?”

“I’ve been listening to cars and trucks forever.”

“Listen beneath it, sort of. Hear it rising and falling? That’s the sound of the ocean. That’s the sound of waves.”

“It’s the sound of people leaving, Charlie.”

“Listen more closely, really listen.”

She closes her eyes again and leans her whole body toward the road. Sometimes sounds can have more than one meaning. Before this summer, the sound of trucks reminded me of Mum dying.

“I know what you mean,” she says. “But it’s not enough.”

I guess life’s never perfect, not for me and Dad, not even for the Rose Butlers of the world.

“So when do you leave?” she asks.

“Tomorrow. Dad and I decided we need a new start. He’s going back early to look for a job with fewer hours, one where he only works during the day.”

“I’m happy, but I’ll miss you, Charlie. The start of the summer seems years ago.”

“We’ll visit each other. You can come and stay with me in the holidays. I asked Dad. He said he’d talk to your mum.”

“Really? Dave might want to come, too.”

“Did he tell you we kissed?”

“Some things a guy doesn’t have to say.”

“It was a thousand times better than how I imagined it, and I’ve got a great imagination. Is that how it was with you and Luke?”

“Yep,” she says, and we think about that for a while.

“So it’s not all bad in this town, then,” I say.

“Not all bad. That’s what scares me.”

“I don’t think we have to end up like anyone except us,” I say, and she nods.

I leave before she does. “Look for me at the side of the road tomorrow morning, Charlie. I’ll be waving.”

“Look for me in the car. I’ll be waving back.”

“Hi, Mrs. Butler. Can I come in?”

I don’t even get to say the whole speech I planned about Rose and why she wants to go to the city and how I’ll look after her. I say the first bit, about how I miss Mum and I wish that she was here so that I could tell her stuff, and Mrs. Butler’s hands start checking in her sleeves for tissues.

“She’ll be at the side of the freeway at about seven o’clock,” I tell her. “I can show you the spot on a map—”

“I don’t need a map,” she says. “I know how to get there.”

Dad’s closing the shop for the day when I leave the Butlers’ house. “You’re finishing early.”

“It’s our last night in town,” he says. “I thought I’d make some Grandpa Gnocchi for dinner and Charlotte Chocolate Mousse for dessert.”

Dad looks sad still. But he’s trying, and he gets loads of
points for that. I’ve put my iPod away for a little while so I don’t miss him talking when he gets the urge. “They’re good names,” I tell him. “What about some Dave Robbie Antipasto?”

He frowns. “I invited Dave. But I’m not naming a dish after him.”

“Fair enough.” Dad’s as friendly as he can be with the guy who’s kissing his daughter, and it feels good to be over-protected again.

After dinner, Dad and Grandpa leave Dave and me alone. I give him his CD. “I’ll listen to it tomorrow at the scoreboard,” he says.

We do some half dancing, and we talk a little about Fozzie toothbrushes and designing cars, and we come up with fifty things to do when you’re missing someone that don’t involve kissing someone else.

“‘Kissing’ is a funny word,” he says.

“It is. But I like it,” I tell him, and he looks at me like I’ve been waiting to be looked at, and it’s nothing like how Luke looks at Rose. It’s a cello look. A song played late at night by wishful fingers. Wishful fingers covered in car oil. More important: it’s a look that’s all about me.

“There’s a song about you on that CD,” I say.

“How will I know which one?”

“Trust me. You’ll know.” Maybe it’s desperate, Louise. But I just don’t care. And neither does he.

This Is a Song About Dave

I like the little shadows
You got sitting in your smile
I could watch them for a while
Quite a long while, actually

I like how I never had the call before
To use the word “adore” before
But now I do

I got a little piece of what I want with you

I like how you don’t score
At football, or with girls
Except for me
I think we should keep it that way

I like how you say
I’m fucking gorgeous and shake
Off years of ordinary
Cover me with extraordinary
Ways of seeing I never saw before
But now I do

I got a little piece of what I want with you

The air is warm this morning. It’s going to be a beautiful day. It’s funny how the weather takes no notice of how you feel. Things just are how they are, I guess, and you can’t change them.

I keep a lookout for the old blue Ford, even though I know they won’t be leaving for a while yet. Luke and Dave and I are planning to hang out this afternoon, and I’m glad. The day would be empty without them.

There’s rustling behind me, but instead of Luke, it’s Mum. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I came to find you,” she says.

“Well, here I am.”

“And where’s that?” She eases herself down next to me.

“I don’t know.” I keep watching the cars.

“Most people’s lives look better than your own,” she says. “Most other parents look better than your own.”

“I only said those things because I was mad. I don’t want you dead.”