Falling From the Sky (19 page)

“You clean up better than I thought you could,” he says. The corner of his mouth turns upward although he’s trying to conceal his smirk.

“Thanks.” I should’ve come up with a clever comeback, but my mind is too frazzled trying to balance a normal composure with the grasshoppers that are bouncing from my stomach to my throat.

He laughs. “Ridge, I’m serious.” He leans over to me before putting the truck in reverse. “You look hot,” he whispers.

I push him back with my shoulder.

“Get comfortable,” he says. “It’s a little bit of a drive.”

An hour later, we circle the same block for a third time. Micah swears he’s been here before, and he swears things look familiar. One thing does – the giant magnolia tree we’ve passed all three times we’ve come down this street. I read the street signs, just so something other than a magnolia tree will be familiar when we leave.

We take a left on Main Street, and Micah breathes a sigh of relief. The main strip downtown looks out of date, like it was the main shopping center fifty years ago, but now the little shops blend together like concrete blocks. He parks in front of a store that screams out Samantha’s name. Zebra print stripes cover the entrance, and the hot pink trim matches the letters of
Lexie’s Boutique.

“Let’s go,” Micah says.

He meets me at the tailgate and points across the street. Downtown traffic is slim to none. We cross the street to a more modern restaurant, Little Venice. The black and white marbled walls match the black metal table and chair sets outside of the establishment. It looks more like a coffee shop.

“This is the real deal,” he says. “It’s better than that cheap Italian you’re always getting at the mall.”

Micah tells the waiter we need a table for two when we walk inside, and now it’s officially feeling like a date. I’m usually on the other side of things with Samantha lagging behind. I feel even more awkward when we’re ordering, and the waiter asks if this is on one ticket or two, and Micah assumes the “guy role” and says it’s just one ticket. I should totally be the guy. Micah is such a girl. Of course I can’t tell him that – ever – because he hates stereotypical gay relationships where one of the guys is “the girl of the relationship.”

I feel like the entire staff is peeking through the tiny window of the kitchen door at the Indian kid and his boy toy. At least I look presentable, on top of homosexual. I don’t look as well-dressed as Micah, but I don’t look as queer either. Regardless, I’m glad I don’t look like I just left basketball practice. This place is really nice, and I’m sure Micah’s bill is going to reflect that.

“Will you try something for me?” Micah’s voice interrupts my sightseeing of the black and white paintings lining the wall.

“What?” I ask.

He places the menu back onto the table and points to one of the appetizers. “Calamari,” he says. “It’s really good. It doesn’t even taste like squid.”

“No!” I say the word much more loudly than I meant to, and the couple two tables over look at me with disgusted faces.

“It looks like onion rings, and you can drown it in marinara sauce. You won’t know the difference,” he tries to reason with me.

“Abby and Jade are nearly Jordan’s age, so I know you watch Spongebob. That’s like eating Squidward,” I tell him. I lean into the table so no one else can hear me. “That’s sick, Micah.”

He leans back against the red leather booth. He’s not going down without a fight. “Squidward’s a jackass. Put Spongebob out of his misery,” Micah says.

“He’s not miserable. He loves Squidward,” I protest.

“No, he just thinks he does,” Micah says. “It’s like being in a relationship for so long that you’re just comfortable and refuse to see your misery.”

I don’t think we’re talking about Spongebob anymore. He’s hinting at me and Samantha, but our waiter keeps me from bringing up the topic. He walks back over with our drinks, and Micah orders the appetizer anyway.

“Just try it. One little bite, for me, and if you hate it, you can spit it out, and I’ll eat the rest of it myself,” he says.

“And what do I get out of this?” I ask him.

He rests his elbows on the table. “A new experience?”

Oh how lame. I bury my face into my menu while I await Micah’s squid dish and look for something without a single bite of fish in it. I never understood how seafood fit into Italian menus anyway.

The waiter is back shortly with a plate of squid-filled onion ring look-a-likes. He takes our orders and abandons me with Micah and the squid.

“One bite?” Micah begs me again. “Douse it in marinara, and you’ll never know it’s seafood.”

That bug-eyed puffer fish flashes in my mind, but it only takes fraction of a second of seeing Micah’s puppy dog eyes to make me change my mind. To hell with the puffer fish. I can’t tell him no. I grab my knife and cut off half an inch of calamari, drown it in the marinara sauce, and stick it in my mouth. It’s not quite onion rings, but it’s not bad, and as long as I don’t remind myself that it’s squid, I’m good.

“I knew you could do it,” Micah teases me from across the table. “Is it terrible?”

I shake my head, but I hold back on telling him that there’s no one else in the world I’d have done that for. Instead, I say, “I’m braver than you think.”

And I only say that because I’m too scared to tell him the truth.

“Have a nice night.” The girl at the door reminds me of a Barbie with her plastic smile and high-pitched, always-happy voice. I guess they come with fancy restaurants, like an accessory to decorate the foyer.

The sky is a milky haze with few visible stars, and there’s a slight breeze. It feels even better than last night, and it’s hard to think of anything feeling better than being on top of the world with Micah. He locks his arm around mine. We take our time strolling down the sidewalk before crossing the street to his truck. The orange streetlights light up the entire block, and I see that souped-up white Ford truck already. What in the hell is Zach Perry doing here?

I jerk my arm loose and tell Micah to walk faster. Zach’s probably stumbling over his own feet by now. I’ve yet to see him drunk, but I’ve heard stories from Aaron of things he’s said to girls while drunk, and that’s the last thing I need. I can’t risk any comments about Micah and me. I can’t afford having him go back to camp, completely plastered, saying that McCoy is messing around with the carousel guy and not the sister.

But it’s too late. He’s seen me. My last name echoes throughout the night air and bounces off the old downtown buildings. Zach calls it out like a broken record. He grows louder, which means he’s drawing closer.

“Get in,” I tell Micah. “Now!”

Micah opens his door but stops when he sees I’m not doing the same. “Who is that?”

“No one,” I say. “Just get in.”

I don’t look at Micah. I can’t even blink. I just watch, waiting for that drunken holler to show the face that goes with it.

This isn’t the time for Micah to be stubborn, and damn it all to hell, he is!

“Who is he?” Micah demands again.

“Zach Perry,” I say through my teeth. “Just get in the truck already.”

I pull the passenger side door open, hoping it’ll give Micah some incentive to do the same. Zach probably already knows. He’s seen me, and I don’t know when he saw me. Coming out of Little Venice with Micah locking his arm around mine? Us strolling as slow as fucking turtles just to take in the night air and each other? Jerking my arm loose from Micah’s and rushing over to his truck? Damn this. It doesn’t matter. He saw something. There’s no way around it. Even if he hadn’t, he would see us now, dressed to impress…and alone.

Zach staggers along the sidewalk with two other guys. I recognize one of them as a guy from baseball camp. His name is Jason or Jayden or something like that. He walks a straight line better than Zach, but his body sways more when he stands still. He’s equally as drunk.

“What brings you this far out of camp territory?” Zach asks me.

I lean into the corner between the truck’s door and the cab, hoping to hide most of what I’m wearing. Micah stands outside of the driver’s side, not attempting to hide himself as much as I wish he would. The sting of guilt burns me from the inside out. After all Micah’s done for me, I shouldn’t feel ashamed to be seen with him. And it’s not really Micah. It’s just the circumstances. We look like we’re on a date – because we are.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I reply.

“Just hanging with my boys,” Zach says. “And I guess you’re doing the same?”

He looks at Micah and then back at his drunken friends. I can’t hear the mumbled reply from Jason-Jayden, but Zach’s laughter confirms my gut feeling that they know.

Zach stumbles a few steps forward and braces himself against the hood of Micah’s truck. He stares at Micah instead of me, and my blood boils. I don’t want to lose control. I can deal with him calling me a queer or a fag or whatever other name he has running through his idiotic thoughts. I brought it on myself. Micah, on the other hand, hasn’t done anything.

“Nice shirt,” Zach says, pointing at Micah’s black button up. “Let me guess. You got it at Fags-R-Us, right?”

Zach leans down on the hood to balance himself. An intoxicated, evil grin spills across his face. His eyes never leave Micah’s shirt.

“Hey!” I shout out. I push myself away from the bend of the truck and slam the door shut behind me. “Shut your mouth, Perry.”

Zach rolls over, bracing his back against Micah’s hood. I wish I had telepathy so I could channel Micah’s brain and tell him to crank up and slam the truck in reverse. Seeing Zach’s head splatter on the pavement would make my night right now.

I breathe heavy as I walk around the truck to Zach. His friends don’t move, and I hope their inebriated stupors work to my advantage. They’re drunk enough to jump me, but they’re too drunk to accomplish anything.

“Get out of here.” I surprise myself with the calmness in my voice. My body trembles, partially with fear and partially with anger, and my heart throbs in my ears.

“Awww, McCoy, did I make you mad?” Zach taunts.

My eyes burn, and the pulses in my wrists jump as I tighten my fists. If it’d do any good, I’d remind myself that he’s drunk and it’s not a fair fight. But he’s an asshole even when he’s sober.

“Zach, you need to leave. Now.”

If he doesn’t get off the hood after this, I’m throwing him off of it. I hope Micah will take that as a cue to get the hell out of here, with or without me.

Zach leans forward, and I’m relieved. He’s going to leave. By morning, after his hangover wears off, he may not even remember this near-altercation. He won’t remember Micah or the black shirt or even the name of the town he was in.

“Look at Second String McCoy, standing up for his little boyfriend.” The words ooze out of Zach’s mouth as he stumbles closer to me. Everything in me says to black his eye.

He looks back at his friends and laughs. It echoes again. “McCoy here told everyone he was fucking Indian boy’s sister so we wouldn’t know he was a cocksucker!”

The chest of Zach’s shirt crumples in my hands. I slam him against the zebra print wall outside of the boutique. The world goes silent as my fist beats into Zach’s stomach. His mouth moves in the blur of everything, but I hear nothing. I don’t know where Micah is or where Zach’s friends are or how long I’m beating him into the wall.

My shoulders pull back, and the streetlight pours orange into my eyes. I blink a few times before I see Micah pushing me back. He screams my name.

“What the hell are you doing?” he shouts in my face.

I look over his shoulder. Zach slumps over on the sidewalk. Jason-Jayden tries to hoist him up. The third guy just stands there, staring, like he doesn’t know what to make of anything.

“Ridge, get in the truck,” Micah orders me. “Now.”

“You didn’t get in when I told you to,” I counter him.

He exhales a frustrated sigh. “Get in the truck,” he says through his teeth.

I look back at the guys. Zach is on his feet. He leans against the wall. The color has left his face. Between the booze and the fight, he’ll probably puke up an organ any second now. He doesn’t even try to start something with me.

Micah pushes me toward the truck, and I hear a few smart remarks from Jason-Jayden. The passenger door slams shut behind me, and I grab the door handle in case I have to get back out if they try to jump Micah before he makes it to the driver’s side. They never move, but they call Micah a faggot before he closes his door.

He never bats an eye. He cranks up the truck and we leave.

Micah doesn’t say anything for the first sixteen minutes of the drive home. I know this because I stare at the clock the entire time.

He inhales deeply before he speaks. “You really lost it back there,” he says.

His voice is calm. I hope he’s not mad. His eyes never leave the highway.

“I’m sorry. I just couldn’t take it anymore, and I didn’t know what he was going to do,” I say, trying not to let my emotions get the better of me.

I was scared earlier, and I’m still scared now. This isn’t over, even though Micah pulled me away and forced me to leave. This is just the beginning, and it’s going to blow up in my face as soon as I’m back at camp. I honestly never want Monday to come. Maybe I can dismiss myself from camp before then.

“I just don’t know why you had to snap like that. I mean, I know he called you a cocksucker, but he was drunk, and–”

“It wasn’t that,” I interrupt him. “I know he was drunk, and I knew he was going to say something about me. That was a given. But he wasn’t going to talk about you like that. He doesn’t know you, and he had no right to say any of that.”

Micah’s smile is barely visible in the glow of the dashboard. But he smiles, and that means something. “Well, thanks for sticking up for me, even if you did tell everyone you were doing my sister.”

He just shakes his head, but he doesn’t seem mad. This is my cue to change the subject. I undo my seatbelt and slide over next to him. I feel my way around for the seatbelt in the middle of his truck, even though I know it won’t do shit for me if we have a wreck.