Damage (7 page)

Used to be you’d hang around practice to give Dobie ride home. You’d wait for him to finish straightening locker room, and then drive along in the truck listening to him talk about whatever was on his mind that day-usually food or girls, and in that order.

Nowadays, Curtis is the one who takes Dobie home. Nowadays you spend more time with Heather than with your friends.

Can’t wait for practice to be over, because most days she waits for you. Sometimes you go to the Dairy Queen, where Heather orders a Diet Coke while you get a jumbo ice water or a Sprite. Sometimes you even order fries because it seems like you’re hungry more often these days.

Whenever you take Heather home, she doesn’t move to get out when you pull up in front of the house.
Sometimes you make out with her, but a lot of times you just sit and listen to her talk. You like the way her voice sounds, like music that doesn’t have anything to do with anything.

It’s as if you’ve been treading water furiously, and now you can stretch your foot out and just barely touch bottom.

One night after a game, you and Curtis and Dobie come out of the field house, and there she is, standing in that same circle of her friends under the streetlight. Your pickup stands alone a few yards off, where the light starts to fade away.

“Hi!” Heather says, coming to meet you. Curtis gives her a stiff nod, which is as friendly as he can ever get to someone he doesn’t like. She doesn’t return it. “Excuse me, my face is up
here,”
she’s saying to Dobie.

Dobie’s eyes flick quickly away from Heather’s breasts, his face turning dark with embarrassment. He pulls his cowboy hat down over his eyes.

“And on that note,” Curtis says, “I guess we’ll be heading on out. See you tomorrow, Austy,” he says, moving toward his own car a few rows over.

“Great game,” you call after him.

Heather follows you around to the passenger side of the pickup. “I’m sorry,” she says as you open the door, “but I couldn’t take being leered at by Hopalong Toothpick. And I hope you don’t mind if I don’t want to
pal around with Curtis. It’s not that I don’t
like
him,” she adds, sliding into her seat. “He’s really cute and all. But this is senior year, and it’s like, do I want to hang out with King Tightass when this is the primo party year of my life? I think
not!”

“He’s my best friend,” you point out, and shut the door a little harder than necessary. When you walk around to the other side, you can feel how you’ve stiffened up—a lot more than when Curtis said he thought Heather was using you. That’s different, somehow, from Heather telling you she doesn’t want to be around a guy who’s been like a brother ever since your mothers put two of you in the same playpen.

“He’s so irritating,” Heather says when you get “He always acts like I’m such a bimbo. You know blames me, don’t you? Just because his little girlfriend told him off at my party last year. Like it was my fault she got puke drunk.”

“I don’t think he even remembers—”

“I’m hot,” Heather interrupts. “Could you turn the air?”

It’s not really that hot; not since the sun went down You think it’d be a good evening to drive with the windows down, to let the warm grass smells wash around. You don’t like the way she makes you feel about your best friend.

But you roll up the window and obey.

As soon as you start the engine, Heather twists rearview mirror around and peers into it, fluffing picking at her bangs. “Curtis needs to stop acting like he’s so virtuous. Everybody knows he and Kat broke because she didn’t want to have sex, and he did.”

“I don’t think that’s what happened.”

“That’s what I heard, and I believe it.”

There is a story about Curtis—the story about him crying in the tack room when his dad ran off with Tiffani-with-an-i—that might make Heather see him in a different light. It’s why Curtis takes sex so seriously, even now, even though he’s about to turn eighteen. It’s why Kat was the only one he ever did it with; he was crazy in love with her.

Problem is, you can’t tell the story. For one thing, it’s not yours to tell.

What “everybody knows” is partly true. It’s true that after a few weeks of “doing it” Kat wanted to back the whole relationship up, while Curtis—having gotten used to enjoying all the benefits—wanted to keep things the way they were. By the time Curtis was ready to agree, Kat was off on a “if-you’d-really-loved-me” jag, and it was too late.

You didn’t see that it was anything to break up over In your opinion, Kat might just as well have asked him give back her lost virginity. Kat was lucky to have Curtis in the first place. She could have gotten any of the hun
dred other guys you know who don’t see sex as the first step on the road to matrimony, three kids, and Suburban.

But you can’t tell Heather any of this. She wouldn’t understand; she’s a girl, and besides, it’s obvious she doesn’t care to see it any way but hers.

Heather stops picking at her bangs and pulls her purse up off the floorboard. You reach for the mirror adjust it so you can back out.

“Wait a minute.” She digs in the purse, pulls out small brush, and starts fluffing again.

So you shut the engine off and roll down your window again.

Then you sigh.

“It’s just so humid,” Heather says, as if that explains something.

You lean back against the headrest and try to get interested in watching Heather and her hair. She must feel you looking at her, because she glances at you. You don’t bother to give her a smile, and she examines a moment before returning her gaze to the mirror.

She starts fishing in her purse again. Her hands make a scrabbling, shuffling noise as they search and dig some mysterious girl thing.

This—waiting for hair to be brushed—is the price dating Heather. This, and avoiding your best friend.

“Now, don’t be mad.” Heather snaps her purse shut,
drops it onto the floorboard. She slides over, tucks her arm into yours. “It just kills me when you get all frowny and quiet. It’s like, God, I’m going to be the first person in the history of the world that Austin Reid doesn’t like. I’d die.” She lays her head on your shoulder. She’s light against your arm, and she’s not wearing any perfume tonight; there’s only the faint scent of her shampoo or lotion—something clean and sweet.

“I know I’m a snob,” you hear her say. “That’s why I’m counting on you to be a good influence.”

Well, it’s not like you aren’t used to being around people with strong opinions. One thing Heather and Curtis have in common is that they’re both opinionated. Honest, too.

The only real difference between them, you think, is that Heather’s thoughts seem to fall out of her mouth without much presorting. That’s all Curtis does, is sort.

It feels awkward, just sitting there. So your arm goes around her—you try not to be stiff about it. She nestles into you; her class ring flashes in the dim light as she rests her hand on your thigh. You figure you ought to say something but don’t know what.

Both of you sit there without a word; people walk by in the parking lot; their voices come and go while the warmth of Heather’s hand seeps through your jeans.

“Don’t be mad,” she says again, softly—she’s very still, her head on your chest so that you can’t see her face.
You don’t say anything. You’re not mad, really—not anymore. Just deflated.

It’s a slow infusion of electricity when her hand begins to move. “I don’t like you to be angry with me,” she says, and her hand’s sliding deliberately up your thigh.

It disappears under your shirttail.

“What are you doing?” you ask, though her knuckles are warm against your belly, tugging your pants The air in the truck is so still all of a sudden that you hardly breathe.

Her voice is muffled against your chest. “If you me to stop, just say so.”

You’re no fool; you don’t say so. Her hand gets busy; your breath gets ragged. It doesn’t take long before your body breaks into one of those tiny uncontrolled shudders, and you hear a low, pleased laugh from Heather. That’s when you try to get her to look up so you can kiss her quick and drive to someplace private—but she pulls away.

And lowers her head to your lap.

There are two worlds: One, outside the open window, people walking by, laughing, talking, coming perilously close to the pickup—which, thankfully, is high off the ground—while you struggle to look straight ahead and keep your face empty of expression. Like a guy who’s just sitting there, bored.
The other world is inside the cab of the pickup; sounds and the feel of Heather’s hair moving back and forth like silk under your hand, and the strained quiver you finally give, trying not to move or cry out.

You’re still dazed when she sits up and peers into your face. “Did you like that?”

“Yes.” Your voice is thick. You pull your jeans back together, a little embarrassed because she seems so matter-of-fact, while for you this was quite an amazing thing.

“Did you know your eyes go out of focus when touch you down there?” she asks, smoothing her hair as she settles back into her seat. “You forget to be all mad and serious. I like that. I like making Mr. Good Influence lose control.”

Okay, so she’s not a tease. She just likes things to be her idea.

Which is okay with you; turns out she’s got some pretty good ideas. It’s only a few weeks after that the two of you end up parked out behind the old Methodist church, at the end of a dirt road under a tree. And before that evening’s done you’ve gotten down to business with Heather Mackenzie unbuttoned, unhooked, unzipped, and underneath you on the seat your own pickup.

Yep, Heather’s ideas scatter bad feelings the way puff of air scatters dust.

Sixth game. Final score: Panthers, 21; Bulldogs, 10.

On the way home, everybody is hollering, hanging out the bus windows, messing around like this is some crazed field trip. You’re right there with them, waving and yelling at every car that passes.

Well, almost everybody. In the seat ahead of you, Curtis sits stiff and silent. He won’t turn around, won’t talk to anybody, even though the game is over and he doesn’t need to concentrate anymore.

You don’t have to talk to him to know why he’s so quiet. Curtis screwed up tonight. Blew man-to-man coverage on third and ten. He didn’t slip or trip or get outrun. He simply had his head up his ass for a change and was nowhere near the guy he was supposed to be covering.

The bus must be close to halfway home and he still hasn’t said a word.

You lean forward over the seat. “We won,” you remind Curtis, right in his ear.

Curtis doesn’t even turn his head. He’s probably doing his own visualizing now, watching himself over and over, seeing himself realize that the guy streaking toward the end zone is his guy.

He’s always like this. There are two things that really bother Curtis; one is not having Kat. The other one is screwing up in football.

Tonight, his screwup kept a Bulldog drive alive. In Curtis’s book, that means he hand delivered them a touchdown.

“Listen,” you tell the back of his head. “Forget it. Coach’ll remind you quick enough.”

A car honks outside. This one has purple-and-white crepe paper streaming from the antenna; Go Panthers is written on the windows in shoe polish. Everybody else on the left side of the bus is cheering out the windows.

“Go get drunk with Dobie,” you try, feeling bad for not offering to dump Heather for the evening—even though you know Curtis always goes straight home after a bad game. Specifically, after
he
has a bad game.

When he still doesn’t say anything, you give up. Let him act like that, if he wants. He doesn’t need any help from you, anyway.

You know what’ll happen. He’ll mope around all evening. It’ll take him the rest of the night to get things
back in perspective. In the end, he’ll remind himself to be more alert next time. And in the morning, he’ll be calm and cool and ready to face those game films. The game films won’t be able to tell Curtis anything he doesn’t already know.

You lean out the window again, feeling the wind lift the still-sweaty hair from your scalp. With the kind of mood Curtis is in right now, it’s actually a mercy that he’s going straight home. Being around Curtis would be even worse than sitting home alone.

You didn’t screw up tonight. Well, you did drop a couple of catches, but still it was you personally who put two-thirds of the points on the board. You’ve got no reason to feel bad, not next to Curtis.

And shoot, even if you did have a reason for feeling bad—which you don’t—you’d never act like it. You’d take that reason for feeling bad, and stick it in the back of your mind. You’d shove it down inside and keep your mouth shut and lie low until everybody else forgot what happened.

You keep your head and one arm out the window, letting the wind plug your ears. You shut your eyes and feel the air rushing by, feel the bus wheels whine under you. The great thing about handling mistakes
your
way is that after awhile your screwups and hurts don’t matter anymore.

Down deep inside you there’s a big old pile of things that everybody but you has forgotten.

At the field house, whoops and yells and laughter are billowing around you.

“Way to
be,”
somebody says; a hand pounds your shoulder, so you figure whoever it is must be talking to you.

“Thanks,” you say, not bothering to look around. Curtis came in, grabbed his clothes, and left; he’ll change at home.

“Great game, Reid,” somebody says.

You don’t bother to say thanks this time. You just nod and bend to tie your shoe.

“Hey, Austin. You going out?”

It’s Dobie, coming around the corner of the lockers with a wet mop braced on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” you answer.

Dobie slops the mop onto the floor where Stargill was squirting Gatorade all over the place. He swirls the mop around, painting huge wet circles. “Want to come with me and Jason and Brett? We’re going to get some beer.”

“Sorry, can’t make it,” you say.

“C’mon, Austin. It’ll be fun. We might rent some videos. You know,” he says, leaning forward to whisper.
“Videos.”

“No, thanks.”

Dobie shakes his head. “I always thought Curtis was bad when he was going out with Kat,” he says, giving the mop an extra flourish, “but Heather has flat out busted your balls.”

“Shut up,” you snap at him.

The mop stops. A moment later it starts moving again, but not leisurely like before. Now it’s a quick back-and-forth. When you glance over, you see one spot of red flaming Dobie’s cheek like somebody slapped him.

Of course—he was kidding, the way the two of you always kidded Curtis. You were supposed to kid back.

If Curtis was here—and not sitting around like a gargoyle—he’d say,
“What’s got into you?”

“Sorry, Dobe,” you tell him, ashamed.

Dobie nods once, quickly, his eyes on his work. When he’s done he picks up the mop, shoulders it, and scurries off without looking back.

You turn back to your locker. You said you’re sorry—what else can you do?

Nothing, tonight. Because Heather’s waiting.