Period 8 (8 page)

 

“I thought you guys were friends,” Hannah says, sitting in Arney's Audi in the Taco Time parking lot, her back against the passenger-side door.

“We are friends,” Arney says. “But I don't have a lot of respect for what he did. I hate that stuff. Besides, Paulie's okay with it. He said you guys are history.”

“
That
was easy,” Hannah says.

“I thought the same thing. But he said you were clear it was over, too.”

Hannah says, “I will
not
be treated like that.”

“Well, you won't have to worry about it with me.”

Hannah glares. “Arney, we're talking about hanging out, not getting together.”

Arney backs up. “I know, I know. I just meant—”

“It will be a long time before I do that again. I sure as
hell
don't need a boyfriend to make me whole.”

“I was just saying . . . I'm just not like that, is all.”

“Well, it might give Paulie a chance to think about what he messed up.”

“Yeah, there's that.” Arney smiles.

“I need to think about it.” She looks across the parking lot at a minivan full of teenagers pulling in. “You can buy me a burrito. Prove your intentions.”

Justin Chenier gets out of the backseat of the minivan and squints, watching Arney and Hannah disappear into Taco Time. While the rest of his friends head for the entrance, he crosses the street to Arby's.

.8

A
rney Stack walks toward the exit at Comstock Savings and Loan with Woody Hansen, a well-dressed man in his late twenties.

“You're doing a great job,” Woody says. “You have unusual instincts for a person your age.”

“Thanks, Woody,” Arney says dismissively. “'Preciate it.” He slings his backpack over his shoulder and hurries toward the door.

Woody steps out onto the sidewalk with him. “You know the risks here, right?”

“Yeah,” Arney says. “I know the risks.”

“It's been smooth sailing so far, thanks mostly to you, but if things go south, there's no backing out.”

“Do you know my dad?” Arney asks.

“Mostly by reputation,” Woody says.

“Well, if you know him, you know what my resolve is like. I won't be backing out,” Arney says. “I was born for this. Man, I can hardly wait to get out of high school and into the real world full time. The old man wants me to be a businessman. I'll give it to him in spades.”

Woody slaps him on the back. “You're an unusual man, Master Stack,” he says, smiling.

 

“Rubbing shoulders with the mucky-mucks, huh?” Hannah says as Arney gets in the car.

“Not really,” he says. “Guy's kind of a dick. My dad gave me some money to invest; he wants me to know how to handle finances. Like,
real
finances. This guy—he's like third in command at this place—got me in with a couple of lawyers, plus the guy who runs Mountain Sports and the Quality Comfort Motel. We've thrown in on some investments.”

“Wow. You're like an
adult
.” Hannah laughs.

“Kinda,” Arney says. “Dad gave me a big enough grubstake that they at least have to
treat
me like one.”

“Never hurts to have a little leverage, I guess.”

Arney nods. “So,” he says. “Wanna see a movie tonight?”

Hannah hesitates, then, “Sure, why not?”

“You cool with it? Paulie and all?”

“I said yes. That means I'm cool with it. Don't keep asking me that, Arney. If we want to see a movie, we see a movie.”

“How 'bout I pick you up about seven thirty?”

“Great.” It doesn't really feel great, but every time she thinks about Paulie, of what he did, a fire smolders deep inside.

 

Two hours later Arney sits across the table from Mary Wells at Marv's, a small pizza joint on the outskirts of town. “You sure everything's okay? I was worried about you.”

“I'm sure,” she says. “Things just got crazy.”

“I was worried you were going to blow it all,” Arney says, reaching across the table and grabbing her wrist. “You know what would have happened if you hadn't shown back up, like with your future and all?”

“It's all I hear, Arney.”

“It put your parents in a real spot.” He runs his hand lightly across the top of hers, still holding her wrist with the other.

“Look, I'm sorry,” Mary says. “I am. I'm getting it back together. Things are fine with Dad.” She tries to pull her hand away. Arney holds it gently but firmly, runs the back of his finger down the side of her cheek. “Okay,” he says. “I was worried, that's all. You have so much to lose.”

 

Logs and Paulie hoist themselves onto the dock at the end of a three-mile swim, both gasping for air.

“Man,” Paulie says, “you gotta quit trying to shame me in those last five hundred yards. You
know
I'm not going to let you win.”

“I win every time I pull myself out of the water,” Logs says. “Before long I won't even be able to challenge you. I gotta feel dangerous as long as I can.”

“You'll die dangerous,” Paulie says. He looks past the other end of the dock at a luxury car parked next to his Beetle. He elbows Logs. “Who's that?”

Logs squints to focus, shakes his head. “Sucks getting old,” he says. “I gotta get closer.”

Mary Wells leans out the driver's side window as they approach her father's Lexus. “Hey.”

Logs stops. “Mary Wells.”

“Mary Wells,” Paulie says right behind him.

She looks down sheepishly, recovers. “I thought I'd find you here, Mr. Logsdon. I just wanted to apologize for missing Period 8 the last few days.”

“No apology necessary. It's completely voluntary.”

“I know, but I've been there every day since the middle of my freshman year; I thought I owed you an explanation.”

“You don't owe it, but I'd love to hear one. You've kind of singlehandedly turned the school on its head this past week.”

“I know. I have a lot of apologizing to do. And a bunch of work to make up. I just wanted you to know I'm okay.”

He looks at the car. “I take it you've seen your dad.”

Mary nods.

“Good,” Logs says. “I was starting to worry about your scholarship.”

“Me, too.” She raises her eyebrows. “Could I talk with you for a minute, Paulie?”

Paulie studies her.

“That's my clue,” Logs says. “Got to get home to my cat. He gets all surly when I'm late.”

Paulie turns for his car.

“Please,” Mary says.

Paulie stops. What the hell. “I gotta get my sweats.”

“I'll wait.”

Paulie sits in the passenger seat of the Beetle after removing the wetsuit, a towel covering his legs and butt while he struggles out of his swimsuit and pulls on a pair of sweat pants.
I should drive the fuck out of here.
But seconds later he's standing next to the Lexus.

“I'm sorry,” she says.

Paulie gazes at her without expression. He didn't realize how angry he was until he saw her sitting there. When she was maybe dead and then missing he felt the same compassion and confusion everyone else felt, but she's here and all put together again, and he aches for what he lost.

“I know you and Hannah split,” she says. “It was my fault.”

Paulie looks over the glossy black roof at the reservoir. He can't trust himself to talk.

“I'll make it up to you, Paulie. I will.”

“How are you going to do that? How are you going to do that, Mary? Jesus, what were you doing? I couldn't get away from you.”

“I know,” she says. “I was . . .” Tears stream down her cheeks. “I just don't want you to hate me. I couldn't stand that.”

If anything will douse a fire raging inside Paulie Bomb, it's that. “Look,” he says, pushing his wet hair off his forehead. “I don't get it, but I can't blame
you
. I'm the guy in charge of my zipper.”

“If I went to Hannah . . .”

“Jesus.”

“I could tell her . . .”

“She'd kick your ass. And nothing would change between her and me, unless it got worse.”

“
Worse?”

“Worse. You're the Virgin Mary for chrissake. She'd think I . . .”

“She's not
stupid.”

Paulie takes a long breath. “Mary, there can't be another guy who's ever seen you like that. I'll bet half the guys at the Armory thought it was you but knew it couldn't be. Hell, I could walk into any boys' locker room at Heller and tell them what happened and they'd laugh me out. C'mon, you know . . .”

“Do you have any idea what it's like—”

Paulie slaps his open hand hard against the roof of the car, and Mary flinches. He breathes deep, pushing back equal parts of rage and pity, and curiosity. “Sorry. Tell me what it's like.”

“You don't want to know.”

“Tell me.
”

“God, you hate me.”

He closes his eyes. “Look, Mary, you said you wanted to talk to me. I'm listening. I don't hate you. I'm pissed but I'm as pissed at myself as I am at you. More pissed. If telling me what it's like to be you helps me get it, then tell me what it's fucking like.”

She touches her forehead to the steering wheel. “It's like I can't just be me,
ever
, like there's this
thing
I'm supposed to be and I have to be it. No matter how bad I feel or how much I hate how everyone sees me, there's nothing I can do to change it. It's like a black hole, it sucks you in and there's not even a trace of you.” She closes her eyes. “When your life is like that, you do things . . . things you don't understand. This is stupid,” she says. “You don't want to know this.” She stares out the windshield, quiet. Then, almost as if to someone else, “There are spies everywhere.”

“What?”

Mary doesn't seem to hear.

“Spies?” Paulie says. “What are you talking about?”

Mary's head jerks. She hesitates, as if Paulie snapped her out of a daydream. “My dad,” she says finally. “He knows things about me there's no
way
he could guess.”

“Like . . .”

“One of his friends saw me at Taco Time, what was I doing there? Or somebody saw me driving up by the lake, wasn't I supposed to be home? There are forty thousand people in this town; there
can't
be that many coincidences. Half the time he knows what route I take from school for my Running Start classes and I take a different one every time, just to mess him up.”

“So how did you get away being at the Armory that night? Or with disappearing? What about your mom?”

Mary looks out the side window. “My mother barely
exists
,” she says. “She just does what my dad says.”

Paulie knows a thing or two about irrational parent behavior. He watches Mary and shakes his head.

“All I ever hear from my mother is that my dad loves me and I should ‘do his bidding.' I got to the Armory by telling him I had extra cheerleading practice. When I disappeared he was so freaked out he didn't know what to do.”

“So getting with me was one of those things you barely understand?” His voice is tinged with skepticism.

“That's part of it.”

“Why
me
?”

“You're safe. You don't hurt people.”

Paulie sits back.
Great. I don't hurt people, so I get screwed.

“I messed up. There's more to tell, but . . .”

“Jesus, don't stop now.”

Mary leans back, grips the wheel until her knuckles are white. “Some awful things, Paulie.
Awful
things.”

“Tell me.”

“It wouldn't do you any good to know.”

In a low, measured voice, he says, “Mary, it might do
you
some good for me to know, or at least for somebody to know.” Paulie is being the Paulie who drives himself nuts.
Why can't I just say, “Tell it to your shrink”? I'm not supposed to
be
the fucking shrink. Why can't I still be that guy Justin thinks can have any girl he wants?

She shakes her head. “Trust me.”

If you want to talk, say it all or go fuck yourself.
He's
that close
to saying it.

She sees it in his eyes. “That can't sound right coming from me,” she says.

“Won't argue with that. You gotta admit, Mary. This is bizarre. Getting all up in my stuff, then running into Hannah in the middle of the road at midnight and then the whole school's looking for you dead in the woods. Hannah told Justin you were wigged
way
out when she found you. What was
that
about? And where did you go?”

“I told you, Paulie, I can't talk about it. It's taken care of now, though, so you don't have to worry.”

“Were you high?”

“Paulie, come on.”

“Hannah also told Justin you didn't even know where you were.”

“Look, I was scared, okay? Can we leave it at that?”

“Not if I ran the zoo,” Paulie says. “But I fucking don't run the zoo.”

 

There's no open gym tonight, so Paulie drives aimlessly through neighborhoods killing time before putting in a couple of late hours cleaning up at The Rocket. He runs his earlier conversation with Mary over and over in his head and it still leaves him uneasy.
Awful things, Paulie.
What the fuck; he should get a million miles away from this.

The calories he's burned in the water today are catching up with him and a giant bag of buttered popcorn fills his imagination, so he pulls into the parking lot shared by the mall and the 16-screen cineplex
.

“Hey, Marley,” he says to Marley Waits through the glass at the ticket booth.

“Hey, Paulie. Going to the movies alone, huh?”

Paulie smiles. “It's not that bad, yet,” he says.

Marley looks at him with a hint of pity.

“What I need more than sympathy right now is popcorn,” he says, grimacing. “Any chance you can get me in as far as the concession stand?” He raises his eyebrows.

Marley looks behind her to see that no bosses are near, then back at him, shaking her head. “Don't look at me like that,” she says, “you're in enough trouble. And don't sneak in on me, okay?”

Paulie raises his right hand. “Good as my word,” he says, and Marley flinches. “I had that coming. I promise I will go only as far as the popcorn stand.”

“Listen,” she says. “I'm really sorry about you and Hannah. I mean, I'm on her side and everything, but . . . well, I'm sorry.”

Paulie turns to look behind him, aware he might be holding up the line. There is none. “Hell,
I'm
on her side,” he says, turning back. “It was dumb.”

Marley shakes her head. “Who in the world did you . . .”

“Privileged,” Paulie says.

“Have you seen Hannah's Facebook page?” Marley grimaces. “Man, I wouldn't want to be whoever the chick was if she finds out. I mean, have you seen the arms on her?”

Paulie smiles again. “I have seen the arms on her,” he says.
I've also seen what they're attached to.
“Any chance I could get that popcorn?”