Boy Shopping (18 page)

“Hey!” he said, waving, but not getting out of the car. “Nice place!”

“This isn't my house. I just practice here. Didn't I say that in my e-mail?”

“Oh yeah. You did.” He slapped himself on the forehead. “I've killed a lot of brain cells recently.”

Kiki opened the passenger-side door cautiously. She had thought that Mark's car was in bad shape, but it was just old. His parents had babied it for the last thirty years. This car looked like someone had attacked it with a baseball bat. And, as it turned out, someone had.

“Sorry about the car. I was driving home from a friend's cabin one weekend, out near Lieper's Fork, when we noticed that this pickup truck was following us. No big deal, we thought—he was probably just headed back to Nashville. But when we turned off on Old Hickory, to get to my friend's house, he was still behind us. Then we turn onto Steeplechase, and there he was. It was weird. So I pulled over, and he pulled over, and I went over to his car and asked if there was a problem. He said, ‘You skipped me at a four-way stop.' And I was like, ‘Dude, no I didn't. And so what if I did?' And that's when the bat came out.”

“Oh my God!” Kiki said, though the hand over her mouth muffled her exclamation. “What did you do?”

“Well, there wasn't a whole lot I could do. I mean, he had a bat! Leslie and I just stood there and watched for a minute, then we started cheering. Really whooping it up—'Go, dude! You're the man! Show that car who's boss!' She was doing high kicks and everything. It kind of freaked him out, I think. He took off pretty soon after that.”

“You didn't call the police?”

“Well, that was a few months before I got my license.”

“Are you kidding?”

“‘Fraid not. But it was all right in the end. My friend Marco lifted the dude's license plate while Leslie and I were acting a fool—bet he didn't get back to Lieper's Fork without a ticket.”

Kiki's laughter was half-horrified, half-amazed. That kind of thing never happened to anyone she knew.

“And that's not even the craziest thing that's happened to me in this car.”

By the time they pulled onto the interstate, Kiki could barely breathe, she was laughing so hard. Michael's life was an endless stream of crazy parties, attempts to evade angry parents and dumb cops, and surprising adventures in the woods, occasionally interrupted by school. It couldn't be more different from her life, but it did sound like fun.

“So where are we going? To a party?” she shouted over the wind.

His answer was muffled, but she thought she caught the word “arcade.”

“The Arcade? Downtown? I've been to some of the art galleries there with my mom.” She had even run into one of her managers there, at an opening at Twist. It was the only time she had ever seen Frederick in jeans.

Kiki could hear Michael's laugh, despite the rushing air. “Not The Arcade. An arcade. You know: video games, bad pizza?”

“I'm familiar with the concept,” she yelled. “But I haven't been to one in years.”

“Really?” He seemed genuinely shocked. “That's terrible!” He gunned the engine, as if they had no time to waste.

 

The arcade was half empty when they arrived. The cheesiest pop music ever recorded blared through speakers, competing with the theme music from driving games, shooting games, and every other kind of video game. Popcorn was ground into the hideous turquoise carpet, and the whole place reeked of burned pizza. But, icky as it was, it wasn't half as nasty as some of the clubs where Kiki had played.

“Come on,” Michael said, taking Kiki by the hand. “I'm going to teach you how to drive.”

So you do remember something about the e-mail I sent,
Kiki thought.
You've got to have a brain cell or two in there somewhere.

He also had really, really good reflexes. Kiki totaled her virtual Lamborghini halfway into her her first trip through the winding roads of
Ultimate Drag Racing—Level One: California, Route 1,
while Michael easily conquered the first level.

“Aren't you going to keep going?” Kiki asked when he clambered out of his seat.

“No, you slide over. Hurry, or I'll have to put in another quarter.”

She did, and destroyed his Ferrari in about three minutes.

“Maybe it's a good thing you don't have a license,” he said with a wink and that bone-melting smile of his.

“If you drove like that in the real world, you wouldn't have a license either, for long.”

“Who says I do?”

Kiki's eyes widened in shock.

“I'm kidding, Kiki,” Michael said, laughing. “Kidding! Stop looking at me like that!”

She poked him in the side. “Let's play something where I can't get killed.”

“How about ‘Deer Hunter'? It's pretty straightforward.”

“I'm a vegetarian. I can't shoot deer, even virtual ones.”

He patted the side of her face. “Honey, I'm pretty sure you aren't going to kill any deer.”

It took $2.75 and lots and lots of coaching, but Kiki did eventually shoot a deer.

“Good for you! High five!”

She slapped his hand, but she couldn't match his excitement.

“But that was a doe. Instant ‘game over.'”

“Well, yeah, but still—you hit it! You rock!”

“You're crazy,” she said, shaking her head.

“Crazy in love.” He swooped down and kissed her before she could call him a liar. It was just a peck on the lips, but it left her wanting more.

“Hey, everybody!” he shouted to handful of thirteen-year-olds and the bored arcade attendants. “I'm on a date with a rock star! Isn't she amazing!”

He clapped and whooped until everyone in the room joined in, cheering, even though they probably had no idea who she was. Michael's cheer was infectious, almost impossible to resist. Kiki could feel her cheeks burning, but what could she do? Besides, she was having huge fun.

“Ah. Um. Thanks, everybody.” She took a quick bow, then dashed over to the Ball Crawl to hide from the now curious video game junkies.

Michael followed her, and plunged into the pool of smooth plastic balls like a kid belly-flopping into a lake.

“Good call,” he said, wading over to Kiki. “Private, comfortable, a bit old-fashioned, but still entertaining.”

“You really are insane, aren't you?” she asked, grinning. She stood in the middle with her arms folded across her chest. “The walls are made of nets. You can see right through them.”

“Yeah. So lie down. Come on. It's fun! The six-year-olds do it all the time!”

He demonstrated, half-burying himself. She went ahead and joined him when she felt his fingers winding around her ankle. Better to just lie down than be yanked down. Faster than Kiki could crash a racecar, Michael had crawled close enough for a kiss. This was the real thing, tongues slipping playfully past lips and teeth. Kiki didn't know how long it would take for things to progress a little further—not long, she was sure—but one of the arcade attendants without much to do kept clearing his throat just outside the Ball Crawl. Michael seemed all set to ignore him, and Kiki was enjoying the whole go-with-the-flow thing herself, until the attendant finally said, “Excuse me, but there's no making out in the Ball Crawl.”

He sounded so completely uncomfortable, Kiki couldn't help laughing.

“Actually, there is,” Michael pointed out without moving an inch away from Kiki. “So if you could go find something else to do—”

“It's in the rules, sir.”

“Oh really?” Michael finally sat up, while Kiki rolled around, giggling madly. “Where does it say no making out? I've seen the rules—they're posted right outside the door. And it definitely doesn't say ‘No making out.'”

“It says ‘No inappropriate behavior.'”

“And if your date looked like her, what do you think would be appropriate?”

“Okay, Michael, stop baiting him,” Kiki said, getting shakily to her knees. She was still breathless from laughter. “Let's go somewhere more appropriate.”

“As you wish.” He attempted to bow and managed to keel over, back into the balls.

“Come on, you,” she said, hauling him to his feet. As soon as it was clear that they really weren't going to have sex in the arcade, the attendant went back to his station at the game counter. On the way out the door, Kiki noticed that he was blushing from the neck up.

“Time to hit a few parties anyway, I guess,” Michael said as they got to his car. “I know about three big ones and a couple of intimate gatherings. Unimpressive, I know, but it's Wednesday. Not a great night for parties.”

“You know I have to be home at ten-thirty right?” Kiki said, checking the clock on her cell phone. It was already 9:25.

“That wasn't a joke?”

“I wish. My parents don't mess around, either. One second late and I'm grounded.”

“Wow.” He made a face. “Well, we've got time for one, at least.”

They belted themselves in, and after a few tries the engine turned over. They were flying north on the interstate a few minutes later, in the opposite direction from Kiki's house.

“I really do need to get home by ten-thirty!” she shouted.

“Don't worry about it! I just need to drop by and say hello to a couple of people!”

Kiki didn't answer—she was already tired of yelling. She was worried, and she worried more with every mile-marker they passed. There were a lot of them. They didn't get off the interstate until they were well past the city, getting close to Percy Priest Lake.

“That's where we're going,” Michael responded to her nervous question. “One of my friends has a houseboat.”

“Why would someone who lived out here go to your high school?” she asked. She didn't know much about public schools, but she knew there had to be several between Percy Priest Lake and Hillsboro High School, where Michael went.

“Oh, he's not in high school. He's got to be twenty-something.”

“What does he do?” Kiki asked. When she was sixteen, the only twenty-somethings she knew were in the music industry.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I have no idea. Remind me to ask when we get there.”

But when they arrived at the party, Kiki didn't have a chance to remind Michael of anything. A bouncy blond person threw herself into his arms, spilling half her beer on one of Kiki's shoes.

“Michael! I haven't seen you in ages! Where have you been?”

“Here and there, Kara. Here and there. Hey, I want you to meet—”

“I haven't seen you since Leslie's birthday party. She's going to kill you for disappearing like that.” She pulled out of his hug just far enough to punch him in the shoulder. “Leslie! Hey, Leslie! Look who's here!”

“MICHAEL!” Another blonde launched herself at Michael. Somehow Kiki found herself standing on a deck, completely surrounded by drunken strangers, at 9:52
PM
. Lots of drunken strangers. There had to be at least fifty people packed onto the deck of a boat meant to hold twenty on a good day.

“Hey there, cutie. Want a beer?” asked a guy who looked about her age, though she wasn't sure. The only light came from the full moon in the clear night sky. It was a typical October night—not cold, exactly, but not warm either. She was wearing a sweater, and she was beginning to wish for a real jacket.

“No thanks. I'm going to have a hard enough time explaining to my father why my left foot smells like beer. Did you see where Michael went?”

“He went with the ladies,” the stranger said, wandering off.

Kiki sighed, pushed her hair behind her ears, then started shoving her way through the crowd. He couldn't have gone that far; after all, they were on a boat. When the rumble of talk and laughter on the other side of the boat rose to a new level, Kiki sensed something bad was about to happen. Then she heard splashes, and the sound of people cheering.

“Yeah,” she muttered to herself. “That was it.”

By the time she made it to where the crowd was thickest, she could see what was happening: several guys had stripped down to their boxers for a quick swim to the other side of the lake. She didn't need to track the swimmers with a flashlight, like some of the girls were doing, to know that Michael was out there somewhere.

“What happened to their clothes?” Kiki asked a pretty redhead who had just finished throwing up over the side of the boat.

“They put them over there, so they wouldn't get stepped on.” The girl pointed a shaky finger at a pile of coiled rope. Sure enough, tucked inside, Kiki found several pairs of jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers. She found Michael's without too much trouble, tucked them under her arm, and headed back toward the dock.

“Where are you going?” asked the same guy who had spoken to her earlier.

“Tell Michael I'm going home.” She stomped across the wooden gangplank to Michael's car, and very nearly got into the driver's seat. She knew, though, that however angry her parents would be if she missed curfew, it would be gumdrops and candy canes compared to how they would react to a phone call from the cops informing them that their unlicensed daughter, reeking of beer, had been pulled over in a car registered to someone else. “Bad scene” didn't begin to cover it. So she pulled up the ragtop, got in, locked the doors, and waited.

Fortunately, just a few minutes later Michael came jogging over to the car, trailed by the sound of laughter from the boat.

“Where are my clothes? Hey, why is the door locked?” he asked, hopping from foot to foot.