Becca (5 page)

The band started and she
grabbed Greg’s hand. “Let’s dance.”

I

They sat in the Chrysler
parked in front of her house.

“Greg,” she said

“Yes?”

“Do you like me?”

“Of course I do.”

“Are you sure?”

“What’s with you? You’re
my girlfriend.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So why did you ask?”

“Do you think we’re like
salt and pepper or apple pie and ice cream?”

“What the hell are you
talking about?”

“Do we go together?”

“Yes.”

“I mean as a couple. Do
we make a nice couple?”

“Yes. What the hell is
this about?”

“We’ve… Things
just…aren’t… Oh, Christ.” She rubbed her thigh through her skirt.

“What
is
it with
you?”

After a brief silence,
she countered with, “When’s the last time we kissed?”

“Huh? Well, last week.”

“All last week we saw
each other what, five times? And we kissed only once.”

“So?”

“Once… See, Greg, that’s
where I’m worried.”

“You’re worried we don’t
kiss?”

“I’m worried that we
don’t seem to
want
to kiss.”

Greg’s arm snaked across
her shoulders and he pulled her against him. She slid easily on the vinyl of
the big front seat of the Chrysler. “Becky.”

“My father,” she said
flatly.

“My father and mother
call me that.”

“That’s your name.”

“I prefer Becca. I’ve
told you that a million times.”

“You have?”

“Never mind, Greg.” She
looked into his eyes. His mouth formed that wonderful smile she loved. Her head
rested against his muscular arm and she waited; her lips slightly agape, for
him to do what she wanted, but did not expect.

His mouth came crashing
down on hers. Awkward and forceful, his kiss lacked emotion and sincerity. She
crushed her lips against his with equal force; her tongue went out, exploring
his mouth. She turned slightly so that her breast brushed against his
fingertips, inviting his touch. Her one hand fell to his thigh, her fingertips
brushing the front of his pants. He did not respond to either her invitation or
her aggression.

He pulled out of the kiss
and smiled, as he brushed some hair from her eyes. “There. Now we’ve kissed.”

“Wow, thanks,” she said,
hoping she sounded sincere. She wanted nothing more than to get out of that car.

Josh was right. She and
Greg did not make a good couple. She was not his type. He was definitely not
hers. Their relationship was a sham. She was not happy, and Greg probably was
not because he seemed to be merely going along with this arrangement because
his father expected him to. Keeping up this façade would be difficult at best.

“So, are we straight
now?” Greg asked.

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Something tells me we’re
not.”

“We are.” She began
rubbing the sore spot on her leg.

She looked at her house. No
lights shined on the first floor, but her father sat in his chair in the dark,
his pipe filling the room with the pleasant aroma of Sir Walter Raleigh
Aromatic.

“What’s wrong?” Greg’s
fingers turned her face to him.

“Nothing. My leg hurts.”

“What did you do to your
leg?”

“Nothing. It just hurts.”

Greg’s hand found her
thigh. “Where?”

“Here,” she said and
guided his fingers to a spot on the outside of her thigh that had been annoying
her for the last month, but which flared up tonight—probably because all the
dancing she’d done.

Greg’s firm fingers
kneaded her thigh. He touched the spot and she winced. “Sorry.”

“No, that’s okay. It
feels better when you do that.”

His fingers continued
their ministrations. He took no opportunity to move away from the spot. “So,”
he said after a couple of minutes, “feel better?”

“Yes, thanks.” She didn’t
feel better; the dull ache persisted. She had had muscle strains from
cheerleading, but this was different. The pain radiated from her thigh to her
ankle and into her hip and pelvis.

Greg kissed her gently. She
accepted his lips and parted hers again but he was finished.

“What’s wrong?” Greg
asked.

“I’d better get inside,”
she said.

“Sure,” Greg said and got
out and opened her door. He walked her up to the porch. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yes,” she said.

Greg stepped away from
her, “We’re okay, aren’t we?”

“Sure, Greg.” That was a
lie. They had never really been okay.

He reached out to her and
she went into his arms mechanically and allowed him to kiss her with his mock
passion before bidding her good night and getting into his car.

She went inside.

II

“Hello, Becky,” her
father’s voice floated to her on the aroma of Sir Walter Raleigh.

“Hi,” she said cautiously
and stopped at the foot of the stairs.

“Enjoy your date?” Bill
left his chair and walked into the hall.

“Yes.”

“Greg really likes you,
you know.” His breath smelled of alcohol.

“I know.”

“Arthur tells me Greg
can’t stop talking about you.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” Becca
knew her father was leading up to something.

“Do you like him a lot,
Becky?”

“Yes. Dad, I’m to my
room.” She started up the stairs.

“Do you use protection?”

The question stunned her.
“What?” She turned to face him.

Bill tapped the stem of
his pipe gently against his teeth. “I asked if you used protection.”

She felt a flush come
over her face. She was angry and humiliated. “We…we don’t do anything.”

“You don’t do anything?”

“No.”

“I want to believe you.”

“Why
wouldn’t
you
believe me?”

“I just want to make sure
that there won’t be any…accidents.”

“Accidents? Dad, we’re
not
doing
anything.”

“Okay, Becky, I know you
don’t want to talk about what you and Greg do, but apparently he doesn’t mind.”

“What has he been
saying?”

“Greg has told Arthur
that you and he are really serious and that—well that you two have been
together. Do you know what I mean by that? By being together?”

She nodded. Her anger
stole her words.

“He’s lying?” Bill asked.

“Yes.”

“Why would he lie about
something like that?”

“I don’t know. Ask him.”

“Becky, really…I
understand.” He paused. “Greg’s not doing as well in college as he should be,
and when Arthur learned of what’s been going on he asked me to…well, Becky, he
asked me to tell you to…cool it.”

“Greg’s lying.” Her voice
sounded heavy and tired.

“So you’re telling me you
and Greg have done nothing? Well, okay, even if that’s true, Arthur feels that Greg
is losing his focus.”

“Losing his focus? Because
of me?”

“I’m only passing on what
Arthur said.” He paused. “Frankly, he’s concerned…considering what’s happened
before.”

Becca fought tears. “Why
does it matter now?”

“He doesn’t want the same
thing to happen.”

“What ‘thing’ is that,
Dad? Oh, I know…but trust me, he has nothing to worry about. His son hasn’t
touched
me. Now you go ask Arthur to ask his
son
why he hasn’t touched me.
Tell
him to ask Greg why he lied to him.”

Bill adjusted his
glasses, “I’m not sure who to believe, but if you and Greg
are
having
sex, then you need to restrain yourself.”

“Restrain myself? If we
were
doing it, why don’t you tell
Greg
to restrain himself? Why are you
telling
me
this?”

“I’m sure Arthur’s had a
similar talk with Greg. Arthur’s wanted Greg to date someone else, but he’s let
Greg make his own decisions and…well we’re friends and he’s been reluctant to
suggest Greg not see you because of that friendship. But now he’s concerned.”

“So why wasn’t this a
concern before? He knew about…” She nodded slowly. “I know he and Sheila didn’t
like me because of my past, but they went along with this arrangement because
you wanted Greg to date me to keep me straight—right? And Greg was happy so
they kept quiet. Then when Greg tells them this story they realize the mistake
they made in allowing their son to date a slut.”

“
Becky!”

“What’s wrong, Dad?
You’ve used that word before when I was with—” her sob stopped the rest of her
words.

“Somebody’s not telling
the truth here.”

“You think it’s me.”

“Quite frankly, yes. Why
would he lie, Becky?
Tell
me why would he
lie?”

“I’m not his type!”
She spun away from her father and ran out the door. He
shouted at her as she ran down the walk and jumped into her car.

III

She pulled into the gas
station, didn’t stop at the pumps, and parked next to the building. Bert took
his feet off the desk and went outside. The girl got out, slammed the door, and
flicked her hair out of her eyes.

“Hello,” Bert said.

“Hello.” She was not
smiling, and Bert thought she looked angry or sad. “I want to use your phone if
that’s okay.”

“It’s okay, but, alas, I
don’t have a phone.”

“You don’t have a phone? Why
don’t you have a phone?”

“It’s getting replaced. It
broke.”

“How do you break a
phone?”

“Don’t have a clue. It
just stopped working. No dial tone.”

“Ever think of paying the
bill?”

“Hardy har har. We’ll
have a phone tomorrow.”

“So what good are you to
me?”

“Obviously I’m no good at
all.”

“Totally useless.”

“Yes. I should be ashamed
of myself.”

“Oh, shut up, will you?”

“As you wish.”

“Seriously.”

Bert remained silent as
the girl looked around. “There’s a phone booth there,” she said, nodding at the
restaurant next door. “And now I’m going to ask you if you have a dime and you’re
probably going to tell me that you don’t have any change.”

Bert said nothing.

“Hey, you,” the girl
poked him with her finger, “Answer my question. I asked you if you had a dime.”

“No you didn’t.”

She sighed in frustration.
“
Stop
this, okay. Just
stop
this.”

Her irritation was
genuine and Bert reached into his pocket and pulled out a dime. “Here.”

“Thanks,” she took the
coin and walked over to the phone booth.

Bert checked the time. Eleven
o’clock, time for him to close. He took the clipboard and went out to the pumps
to record the meters. While there, he could not help but overhear the girl in a
heated exchange with someone on the telephone. He finished reading the pumps,
turned them off, and started carrying the oilcans into the storage room. He
came out to see her standing beside her car. She was rubbing her leg.

“You’re closing?” the
girl asked.

“You’re very observant.”

She smirked. “You know,
I’m not in the mood for this tonight.”

“Not in the mood for
what?”

“This. What we do.”

“What do we do?”

“This…I don’t know why we
talk this way.

“We always talk this
way.” When she didn’t respond, Bert asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Ah, it’s nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Oh, so
you’re
calling
me a liar
too?
I’m sorry, Josh. I’m having a bad night.”

Bert turned off the
station’s lights.

“So, what now?” the girl
asked, standing in the doorway.

“Well, this is where I
walk out of the office, lock the door, and go home.”

She looked around. “Where’s
your car?”

“I don’t have one.”

“How do you go home?”

“I walk.”

“Why?”

“Well, because it’s
easier than running since there’s a rather long hill—”

“Here we go again.” She
sighed. “I meant why don’t you have a car?”

“I don’t need one.”