Payton Hidden Away (15 page)

The crowd has spilled onto the
field, and it’s still so loud that I have to shout. I yell my lungs hoarse, but
Ritchie just shakes his head, hands out like he can’t hear me. “What?”

“I gotta go!” I
shout again.

Suddenly, the
smile slips from his face. “What do you mean you gotta go? There’s nowhere
to
go. This is our night!”

“It’s your
night, buddy!”

“You gotta
stay!”

“Go with your
team,” I say with a reassuring smile, the crowd pushing me back. “I need to be
somewhere.”

“But…you’re my
best friend.”

“Brothers in
arms, amigo.”

I keep getting
pushed further and further back, like a boat pulled from the shore. People are
crowding him, spraying him with celebratory soda. His uniform is ruined, but
he’s not thinking about his uniform. He’s staring directly at me.

“Fine,” he mouths,
looking suddenly lost and ignoring the girls grabbing at his shirt. “Fuck you.”

I frown.

He waves me off
before turning away and allowing the crowd to carry him away.

“If I don’t see
you tomorrow, I’ll see you on Saturday!” I shout over the crowd. “At Greg’s
party!”

He’s not looking
anymore. The fans are mobbing him, the mob pushing me back—squeezing me out.
I’m suddenly on the outside looking in. Ritchie is drifting away. It’s quieter
now, but maybe it’s because I’m watching instead of participating.

I turn away.

Nobody’s trying
to leave the ballpark yet except for the few visitors’ fans who made the trip in
from Muskegon, so it’s not hard to get out of the stadium. I walk through the
quiet town. Most of the houses are dark, and I imagine almost everyone is still
at Pirate Field with the exception of the older folks who have drawn their
shades to block out the world.

Eventually the
houses thin. Then the paved road gives way to dirt. Then the dirt road gives
way to weeds, and I’m all alone in a vast field. I reach Beaver Crossing,
tightrope my way across, and finagle my way through the tall grass leading into
Lawton. I knock on the Kristie’s front door, shifting uneasily as I wait. Mrs.
Lambert opens the door and steps back, her nose wrinkling. “You stink.”

“It’s not me,” I
say nervously.

“Oh?”

“I mean it is
me, but it wasn’t me. There was a game tonight. Ritchie pitched. I was there,
and it was…they were…the fans got rowdy.”

“You smell like
beer.”

I smell my
shirt. “I thought it was Pepsi…”

“Hmmm,” she
answers. “It’s also late.”

I frown and look
at my watch. I have to lean forward into the light in order to see. “It’s
only…”

“She’s messing
with you,” Kristie calls, approaching from the stairs, grinning.

Mrs. Lambert
frowns. “What happened to your face, Anthony?”

“Oh, my god,”
Kristie says, the smile vanishing. “What happened to your face?”

Apparently,
they’ve noticed my face.

“It doesn’t look
as bad as it feels,” I say before frowning. “Or, the other way around, I mean.”

“I got it, Mom,”
Kristie says.

Mrs. Lambert
smiles at her daughter before scowling at me, and suddenly it’s a long lost
episode of
Leave it to Beaver.
Small town principles combine forces with
protective parental boundaries to form Super Mom and her scowl of death.

“What happened?”
Kristie asks, pulling the door shut as she steps out onto the porch, her soft
fingers exploring the bumps on my face. “Did you get in a fight?”

“Yeah, but it
was for a good cause. There were these three guys picking on a girl.”

“A girl?”

“Yeah, but we
weren’t—”

“Which girl? Is
she pretty?”

“Huh?”

“Is she pretty?”

“No, I mean…me
and Ritchie were—”

“You and
Ritchie?” She sighs and backs up. “Well, that figures.”

“What’s that
supposed to mean?”

“It means you
don’t get into fights,” she storms. “Only when your good buddy Ritchie tells
you to.”

“Ritchie’s my
friend,” I answer.

“I know he’s
your friend.”

I turn my back.
“It was Mandy Ferguson. They were—”

“Mandy Ferguson? Jesus, Tony, she’s nuts.”

 “It wasn’t like
that.”

“Then how was it
like?”

“It was Ritchie
who stepped in. I had to take his back. I had to. It’s not like I wanted to
fight, but sometimes you do things you don’t want to do if it’s for a friend.
You just do it.”

She stares at
me. She doesn’t shout or yell or bawl, kind of like I half-expect her to. We’ve
apparently reached that point in our relationship where we can accurately judge
tone and inflection. Either that or we can’t yet we pretend that we can.

“So, what
happened to Mandy?” she asks, yet her voice has changed. Her tone is softer.

“She ran off,” I
answer. “Somewhere in the middle of it.”

“It?”

“It was a fight.
Guys fight.”

“Over girls.”

“I told you, it
wasn’t like that.”

“I really wish
you’d stop hanging out with him.”

“He’s my best
friend.”

“
I’m
your
best friend!” she shouts. “Have you fucked him?”

“That’s a
ridiculous question. You know what I mean.”  

“Do I? Then are you
just fucking me for sport?”

“Do you have to
use that word? It’s not like that. Mandy was—”

“I’m not talking
about Mandy. We’re past Mandy. We’re on to Ritchie, and Ritchie scares me. I
don’t like the way he looks at me, and I don’t like the way he looks at my
sister. Come to think of it, I don’t even like the way he looks at you.”

I shake my head.
“Ritchie’s a big teddy bear. You’ve said it yourself. And he adores you and
Joanne. He’d lie down in traffic for the both of you.”

Kristie lowers
her head, clenches her fists. When she looks up, her face is set. “That’s what
everyone says, but there’s a difference between the way he looks at me and the
way you look at me, and I’m telling you, it’s creepy.”

“It’s not what
everyone says. It’s what you said.”

“Not recently.”

“But still.”

“He’s like a
little boy. He’s totally innocent.”

Kristie smiles.
“Innocent? How many fights did he get into today?”

There’s no
arguing with her. She doesn’t know Ritchie like I do. I’ve known him my whole
life. Well, at least half of it anyway, and he adores Joanne. Even if his crush
is a bit adolescent in nature, it’s certainly not just some whimsical Saturday
morning cartoon fetish.

“Can you just
tell him that my sister’s not interested?” she asks, her eyes pleading.

“He knows.” I
shrug. “It just makes him try harder.”

Kristie chuckles
before burying her face. “So, what do we do?”

“Nothing. It’s
fine. He’s fine. He’s one of the good guys. Trust me, you
want
him on
your side. He’ll never hurt her, and he’ll kill anyone that would. He’s like a
bodyguard without a W2.”

Kristie steps
forward and wraps her arms around me, leaning her head against my chest. “He’s
just so weird.”

“He’s a
goofball.”

We stand in the
middle of the porch swaying to music that isn’t even playing. Her arms are
wrapped so tight around me that I swear that I can’t tell where I end and she
begins.

“What are you
thinking?” she asks.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?
Of course you know. What are you thinking?”

Everything has
to be more than just an answer with her. Everything has to have multiple layers
that need to be carefully peeled back so as not to damage the fragile ego that
shouldn’t be so fragile. And it’s not just her. It’s women in general. I swear they
think differently than we do—reveling in the ‘moment’ rather than taking time
to understand the larger implications. I can’t tell her what I’m thinking,
because she’ll freak out, and then she’ll counter with about a billion more
nit-picky questions, leaving me to conjure up about a billion bullshit answers.
Why can’t she just accept the fact that I’m happy when I’m with her? In fact, I
am so miserably happy that I just stand there smelling her hair.

Which smells great.

“I’m mad at
you,” she says.

“What for?”

“I haven’t
decided yet.”

“Well, can we
postpone the part where you’re trying to figure out why you’re mad at me and instead
jump to the part where I left the game so I could be with you?”

“Is that
supposed to make all this okay?”

“Yes.”

She continues to
rock with me, her body still pressed up against mine. This would be one of
those really sweet moments, except she’s decided to make it sexy. Apparently,
the time to be angry is over, and the time to be experimental has begun. Her
hand has become frisky with a mind of its own.

“Your mother’s
inside,” I murmur nervously.

“But it’s too
dark to see us out here.”

She leads me off
the porch into the dewy grass, the moon showing its cheesy face. We are hidden
in darkness as she unbuttons my shirt and stands on her toes to reach my lips.
She’s got my buckle undone, and she’s pushing my pants and boxers down. This
wasn’t exactly what I was expecting. I thought there’d be a bit of me stripping
and then a bit of her stripping, but I’m suddenly naked and vulnerable, and
she’s not. She kisses my lips, my neck, my chest, slowly creeping down my torso
to my belly and then…

“I…” I say,
shivering. “But what about…”

Being a teenager
is the worst.

And the best.

I wake up in the Lambert hammock,
Kristie at my side. She’s still asleep, curled up against me for warmth, her
breathing regular and soft. The trees overhead are waving slowly in the morning
breeze. Things are a bit on the chilly side, but the air smells clean—like a
spring rain. It’s the first time I’ve woken up without a ceiling over my head,
and it’s one of those moments I know I’ll carry with me to the grave. I don’t
want to forget it. Any of it. Not the smell of the air, not the sound of her
breathing, not the feel of the hammock wrapping us together.

Kristie jerks,
caught in a dream, and I pull her closer just as the sun breaks over the treetops.
As wonderful as everything should seem, I can’t help but fear something’s
wrong. Maybe it’s the quiet. The town seems quiet—and not just this morning.
There hasn’t been any real crime around here for months. Not so much as a
convenience store robbery or a teenage arson. With the rest of the world twisting
with murder and racism and terrorism all around us, nothing seems to happen in
little ol’ Payton County. We’re overdue. It’s as though we’ve been shielded
from the rest of the world. Or maybe we’ve just been waiting. Or maybe
something’s been waiting for us.

She jerks again
and this time opens her eyes. Yawning, her body shivers as she snuggles up to
me. Kissing my neck, she smiles. “Hey,” she says.

“Hey.”

She yawns, her
breath stale, but that’s okay. “Did you sleep?”

“For awhile.”

“That’s it?”’

“For awhile.”

She smiles and
breathes against my neck, warm breath slinking under my collar.

“Let’s just lay
here for the rest of our lives,” she murmurs.

“We have school
today.”

“I’m sure we’re
already late,” she answers with another sleepy yawn.

“My algebra
final is today. I need at least a B.”

“Or what? The University of Georgia changes its mind?”

“No, but still.”

“But what?”

“I can’t miss
it.”

She rubs my
chest. “Trying to get rid of me?”

“Just sayin’…”

Kristie rolls to
the side and tips us out of the hammock. I land awkwardly, and she laughs.
Rolling onto her back, she looks up at me with a small smile as I hover over
her. Gingerly reaching up, the tips of her fingers brush the bruises on my
face. I flinch slightly, pulling back.

“Sorry,” she
whispers.

I lean in and
kiss her quickly. Her breath is stale but still so good that I go back for
seconds. I have every intention of stopping at two, but her tongue is warm, and
she’s giggly and how many more times can I expect to make out with a seventeen
year old girl on the front lawn of her parent’s house on a Friday morning?

“Stay home,” she
begs.

“It’s one of my
finals, Kris. I can’t just skip it.”

She smiles, but
it’s a sad smile. “Call in sick.”

“Or call in
sick.”

“Fine. Then go.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing
anything.”

“Now I feel
guilty.”

She licks her
lips, nods and rolls out from under me. She stands, pushing her hair behind her
ears. I stand too, and look around. Judging by where the sun is sitting pretty
in the sky, I’m already running late.

“You’re still
planning on the party tomorrow, right?” she asks.

“Of course.”

“Good. ‘Cause it
wouldn’t be a party without Triple A.”

She only calls
me Triple A when she’s upset.

“What’s going
on?” I ask softly, carefully checking my tone.

“Nothing. What
time?”

“What time
what?”

“What time do
you plan on showing up?”

I shrug. “I
don’t know. Ritchie works until close, so probably not until after eight.”

“Ritchie?”

I sigh. “Are we
going to start this again?”

She stares at me
for a long moment, ugly daggers in her eyes, before shaking her head, turning
away and heading up to the house. I consider calling after her, but I’ve seen
that look before, and she’s taking those broad, determined steps that indicate
she’d rather run face-first into a brick wall than argue with what she calls my
‘lunacy.” Besides, sometimes a man needs to stand firm in order let her know
that she’s not always the center of the universe.

I prance my
unhappy ass down the driveway and turn toward home. The edge of Lawton
stretches out like a runway with Payton all the way on the other side of the
field. The sun is rising, and it’s going to be a beautiful morning. I walk
through the sleepy town that’s only beginning to stir and cross into the dewy grass
leading back toward the Old Beaver. The morning air smells humid—sticky.
Summertime in Michigan has arrived.

Stripping nude
beside the Beaver, I toss my clothes into the weeds and stand there free as a
bird, swinging in the wind. Then I dip my toe into the stream. And then my
foot. And then I step in, shivering as I sink into the cold water that wraps
itself around my body and grips me like a glove. I splash around for a few
minutes, careful to wash the dried stink from my skin. It’s not like it’ll be a
big secret when I show up for class. All of my books are at home, and I’ll be
wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday. My hair is a mess and my face looks
like ground chuck. The swelling has gone down somewhat, and the bruises never
got as bad as I thought they would. It’s more of a rugged look. Studying my
reflection in the rippling water, I look something like a gangster.

I shake the
water from my body the best I can and get dressed before turning toward town.
But that good feeling I’d had out in the tall grass disappears as I make my way
into Payton. I’m late for school, which isn’t unusual, so it’s not the end of
the world. My algebra final doesn’t start for another hour and some change. But
as I pull open the doors, my sneakers squeaking, watermarks left with each
step, I realize how out of place I feel. Carelessly running my hand through my
unkempt hair for the umpteenth time, I stop outside my classroom. Through the
window, the students inside look back. Mrs. Lipinski is unimpressed with my
disheveled appearance and late arrival. I pull open the door, don a smile, bid
the old crow a good morning and make my way through the rows of desks to the
back of the room.

But something’s
different.

Normally I’m
just Average-Joe. I’m neither popular nor unpopular. I’m that guy that blends
in with the more modest of them, but today they’re noticing. Every girl is
turning her head and smiling—even blushing. And the guys are frowning. Was it
the fight? Did people hear about it? Or is it how I look? Can they tell I’m in
love?

“Mr. Abbott,”
Mrs. Lipinski asks with a sour tone. “Where are your books?”

I smile. “Dog
ate ‘em.”

“A dog?”

“A big
Doberman.”

There are
giggles.

“I had to run
for my life,” I finish.

More giggles.

“I’m sure you
did,” Mrs. Lipinski smirks.

I take my seat and
smile. The old battleaxe glares. It’s a good old fashioned Mexican standoff
with twenty other students stuck in between.

“Well,” Lipinski
remarks, her tone softer. “Look on with Joni then.”

Joni is seated
right beside me, and she smiles lightly as I scooch my desk toward hers. She
points at the page number and taps the textbook, but she’s not looking at the
book. She’s looking at me. Big pretty eyes.

I smile. Damn it
feels good to be a gangster.