Rusty Summer (6 page)

“Omg, that is so illogical and sweet! I love Beau! He is so adorable!”

“Totally, but see the other thing is he wants to have fun turning eighteen. He doesn't want to babysit his ma. He wants to do stuff that moms shouldn't necessarily see.”

“Well, just do whatever where she won't be looking. Sneak off.”

“Yeah . . . no. He's just worried. He doesn't even have a list of ‘very bad birthday plans,' he just wants to relax and party. So that's where we come in. You and I are going to chaperone Gina, and Matt, Beau's stepdaddy. They are going to love you! You are going to be hilarious, and I am going to tell them all about how you are my skate mentor and then you can show them that really messed-up bruise on your leg and distract them. Then we'll show 'em mine and the next thing we know it will be like ten o'clock, time for old folks to go home, and we'll be all ‘would you look at the time!' and escort them out, and
then
we can bring in the dancing bears and rodeo clowns!”

The boat horn blasting from Mount Saint Bashy can be properly described as “busting one's gut.”

 

Beau's big day is May twenty-eighth, but his party is the following Saturday night, chosen for maximum sleepover-ability.

If that's not a word, it should be. It's certainly a concept. I don't want anyone driving.

I know, I know—everyone tells me I'm:

1) A Worrywart. 2) A Wuss. 3) Bossy. 4) Omg, SO Preachy. 5) All of the Above.

Still, know what?

I don't care. The stakes are too high! I want my friends alive!

Friends don't let friends drink and drive! Regardless of the amount of fun they get made of . . .

 

Bright and early Saturday morning Gina comes over. I'm already up when I hear her knock and let her in.

She's immediately back on the stepladder, putting up crepe streamers in our school colors, since it's only a few weeks till graduation. She's good to go because she has been up for hours. I watch as the streamers spiral loopily across the ceiling, Gina humming cheerfully, while she creates her merry Mobius birthday banners.

Beau's still in bed, but when he hears his mom he comes crashing down, all squinchy-faced with sleep and rocking a nearly lethal case of bed head.

“MOM! IT'S BARELY NINE A.M.! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!” He's trying to screech at her from the stairwell but starts hacking instead as she bangs a tack into a streamer.

Gina jumps like ten feet. She's in midair in the middle of the living room so I reach out to steady the stepladder. She turns to look at Beau.

He has a very vile demeanor. He puts his hands out like “chill!”

“STOP! It's ALL GOOD! You have done ENOUGH! Just have some coffee and relax! Jeez!”

He stomps back upstairs. Gina looks at me. I shrug.

“Want some coffee?” I ask her. “It's fresh.”

She gets down from the ladder and comes with me to the kitchen.

“Man! He is such a stinker! I thought we would be better by now—but no!” Gina's irritated too.

I can feel for them both. They could use a chill pill—one apiece. I try to help.

“Nah, you guys are good; he just stayed up till like three this morning.”

“Again? Why?! What is the point of staying up all night?” She's looking at me, all cross and baffled.

“Um . . . because he can?” I offer. “I dunno. Because he wasn't tired?”

I stay up late too. No big. I think it's because we're still in our teens. I've heard you start to
need
to go to bed early when you get hella old. I begin to ask her if she feels that's true but then I stop because I'm pretty sure it would come out wrong. I pour her some coffee instead. She sighs loudly.

“All I know is everything I do for him is awful! I'm so embarrassing, apparently, I should just be shoved out on an ice floe! Fine! I didn't understand it was such a drag to have a mom! Whatever! Sorrrryy!!”

I pull a chair out from the table for her to sit on and she flops down. I smile a little, but only inside—outside I keep a straight face, because she is so miffed. She sounds like a kid herself—actually, she sounds just like Beau. Plus she folds her arms the same way Beau does when he's mad.

I can tell her feelings are hurt so I try to take the edge off.

“No, Gina, it's cool. You know your boy; he's always tripping about something. I think maybe he just likes to fend for himself more, you know, make more choices . . . solo?”

She scowls. Takes a deep breath and tries to calm down.

“Yes . . . I do know . . . I can completely see what I'm doing, but it's like I can't stop myself! I just get so worried, and then I feel so awful over what a hard time he's had, and how much fending for himself he has already done, without me even knowing about some of it—and then I think,
Hey, I can still do things for him,
and then, when I do, I realize he's just humoring me, but it's exactly like I'm addicted! Omg, I need help! I'm addicted to mothering and can't stop!”

I laugh out loud this time, because she says it in this joking, self-deprecating way that is so cute, but I know she means it.

She cracks me up. She's such a butt-in-ski . . . but
so
nice.

Just like my mom. It's a mom thing, bless their lil' hearts! They seriously cannot help it.

 

The first to arrive that evening is Bathsheba. She pounds on my bedroom door at like six thirty, and then—
bam
—it flies open. I'm sitting spellbound in front of the computer, fixated on the cave drawings in southwestern France. The ones from that Werner Herzog 3-D movie.

Just amazing. Even though this is ancient Cro-Magnon art, not Neanderthal, they're still good research for my story.

I barely look up, I'm so used to Bashy breaking into my room. She hovers over my shoulder.

“Hey! What are you lookin' at?” Her breath stirs my hair. She belches. I elbow her away. She pushes off my elbow and leans in so she can see the screen from her angle.

“Cave drawings, dude. The last word in prehistoric cool,” I tell her.

“Dude, if they're that hella old they'd be the first word, wouldn't they? Ha HA!”

She punches my shoulder to punctuate her wit, which makes me accidentally click on some sad side-screen ad. We watch briefly, our faces wrinkling prematurely in horror, as a depressing barrage of bad stop-action animation ages a woman's face super rapidly, then Botox steams out the wrinkles just as fast, delighting her till she does a tango with the Botox syringe—before it starts over and she wrinkles up again. The ad is aimed at my mom, apparently trying to depress her enough to get Botox injected into her brain or whatever they're pitching.

“So stupid . . . my mom is super young by cave-art standards,” I say as the little jitterbugging Botox ad concludes and I grow absorbed again.

“Jeez,” says Bathsheba, as she basically falls backwards onto my bed. “Just shoot me if my face starts to morph outta control like that, okay? I mean . . . whoa.”

“Dude, absolutely,” I promise, nodding, as I reenter the caves. “With like a bear tranquilizer . . . especially if your face starts spazzing out that abruptly. Yeah, that would be just horrifying.” I'm muttering vaguely, because I'm becoming lost again, gazing raptly at the Panel of the Horses, which you should google because it is awesome.

But Baz ain't havin' it. She chucks my new blue pillow from Ross at me. It bounces off my head.

“Hey! Cave-butt! Cut the Fred Flintstone crap and
focus!
Here's me, right on time: super early; totally demonstrating who's got your back! Right?! So! What should I do?”

I look over at her, then laugh.

She sounds motivated but she's sprawled on her back on my comforter (with her shoes on), foot crossed over her knee so one shoe dangles half off, hands folded comfortably behind her head, her eyes closed lazily. I laugh. Her expression reminds me of The Bomb.

I lob my Beanie Baby dragon that sits on my desk, so it lands on her gut. She regards it peacefully. I chuck my beanie kitty at her head too, for good measure. She blocks it. I laugh.

“Bashy, please don't budge—you look too comfy!”

“Seriously! Whadaya need? Should I mop or something?”

That makes me laugh more.

“Baz—so random! Of all the things you could offer to do, why mopping?”

“I dunno . . . mopping is so satisfying! For real! I'll mop the whole damn house! Just watch!”

She amuses me madly. I fake an awful Aussie accent. “Here we find the Great Northern Bathsheba, a rare species of moppin'-rawk-chick which, though crazy, is also apparently very tidy and quite easily pleased,” I stage-whisper like a voice-over from Animal Planet, because I like to make her laugh. Which she does, because she is easily pleased.

We go downstairs to an already spotlessly mopped floor (Gina), dusted furniture (Gina), and window-washed ground floor (yup, Gina again!). So instead we go check on Beau.

He's in the backyard hanging lights on the stoop. We mowed the lawn just for this party. The backyard looks pretty good, especially with the twinkly strings of light.

Beau looks really cute, though he's frowning in concentration. He just got dressed and his hair is damp and wavy and dark. He's wearing his new blue Nordy's shirt, which he's had his eye on for about six months (it was like three hundred smackaroos!) but dang, it makes him look like a rock star, so three hundred dollars well spent, I say.

It's so late it's pitch dark by the time friends start to arrive. Some of my Rat Lab Girls are the first to show up: The Five Cowgirls of the Apocalypse. That's what we call them because they travel in a posse most of the time. They have their RCRG names already. They are spectacular . . . on track and off.

And the party is
on!
Instantly!

I reintroduce them to Beau, though it's just a precaution because they have all been over before.

“Beau, you know Savage Sarah? Yeah, I know you do. And of course, Nora Never. Nora, Beau. And Thrashley SoHot, and the amazing Courtney Danger . . . and last but not least, Delilah Rambow. League wives, here's to our Beau's Eighteenth Birthday!”

They come in and hug and kiss him, and head over to the food table, which (thanks, Gina!) looks huge and delish. I start pouring out various beverages for everyone and the party takes over the house.

My league “wives” (as we call each other) are all variations of beautiful. Thrashley is a blue-eyed “burner” with long fuchsia dreads. Nora is really tall, like a glamazon, and the sides of her head are shaved with long, glossy black hair in the middle and pale iceberg-blue eyes. Sarah is a green-eyed redhead. And
built
—and buff! Courtney is a jammer and she is small and lightweight, with tiger eyes and long brown hair. Delilah is a jammer too, with black Road Warrior hair and wicked indigo eyes. She's hilarious. She's got the most ink, two full sleeves, but tattoo-wise, everyone is sporting a little sumpin'.

I don't have a tattoo yet. I probably will get something, but I want it to be really cool. Certainly not a tramp stamp. No cartoons. Not that dumb bird everyone calls a sparrow but is really a swallow. Maybe some cave art . . . or Stonehenge on my shoulder . . . something timeless, you know?

 

“So, did anyone hear if Em and Jess and Tisha're gonna show? Or Karen and Lissa? It would be cool to have everyone here.”

Delilah asks me this while I have chips and salsa in my mouth, which forces me to chew like a madman before I can answer. I shake my head. We haven't heard from the other league wives, but we expect them. Emily's Derby name is Em Famuda, as in, “Whenever you wanna, Dial Em Famuda.” Jessica looks like if a tattooed cornflower came to life, with long curls of fawn-brown hair. She is a jammer too: Jessica Rabid, cute and smart and speedy! Tisha is hilarious—a blocker: Tisha Gitcha, one of my former schoolmates from Baboon High, though I didn't know her there. She's tall, African-American, but maybe multiracial (I don't know for sure, I never asked her, because it's too rude, in my opinion), with these huge amber eyes and seriously thick naturally curly eyelashes. She has only two tats: the names of her dogs, both big old malamutes: Lulu and Ms. Precious.

“Not sure . . .
I
didn't. I just Facebooked and then counted whoever answered. They never said.”

“Who said
never?
” Nora Never comes up and puts her arm around my shoulders. Nora is 5'11”. She's like two inches taller than me. It's weird to look
up
to see another girl.

She smiles down at me with her slanting Icelandic blue eyes.

“Me,” I say affectionately as I put my arm around her waist. “I never said I'd never say
never
.”

“Whatever.” She strokes my hair with her arm still casually around my shoulder, “but they
better
show up!”

Just then, there's a rap at the front door and Jessica, Em, and Tisha finally stroll in. Tisha waves at us and points at Em—meaning “I brought her.” Apparently there was some car trouble and crisis narrowly averted that I didn't know about. I wave to them, I'm stoked to see them; they are all so great! Emily, aka Em, is a
very
hot natural blonde, she's a jammer. She is small and fast, but strong at the same time. Like if you look at her straight on, she looks narrow, but if she turns sideways, she's cut. She has cool hair; it's so blond it's practically white.

Everyone's glad to see them. Em is so funny! Dial Em Famuda! Are you kidding?!