The Key to the Golden Firebird (12 page)

What Pete apparently hadn't taken into account was that it was eight o'clock on a glorious Saturday night in June. The sun was just setting over the skyline, the air was balmy, and thousands of people were racing toward the downtown area. May found herself surrounded by tailgaters and weave-arounders who trapped her on the road, forcing her to drive all the way downtown. Or at least, that was how it seemed to her.

“Okay,” Pete said. “This turns into an exit lane. We'll loop through the city and turn around.”

“Loop through the city?”
May cried. “Are you nuts?”

“It's either that or keep driving forever,” he replied. “Besides, you just got off.”

May looked up and found, to her horror, that he was right. She was on a ramp now, about to merge with fast-moving traffic on the Vine Street Expressway.

She screamed.

“Just keep right,” Pete said firmly. “You're fine.”

May turned the wheel hard to the right, and an angry honking came from behind her.

“Uh…that's okay,” Pete said, glancing from back to front quickly. “Maybe use the mirror next time. Good. Now. Merge.”

“What?” she said, stepping on the brake. More honking.

“No!” Pete yelled. “Go! Go! Now!”

May stepped on the gas and the Cutlass narrowly slipped in front of a truck and into the right-hand lane of the expressway.

“Okay,” he said, wiping his brow and pointing straight ahead. “First exit. Right up there. Turn.”

This resulted in a near-death experience on a hairpin turn that wound 270 degrees and landed them on a tightly congested road near City Hall.

“Okay.” Pete sighed. “We can stop. I'll look for a parking space.”

“No, we can't!”

“Why?

“There are too many cars coming for me to stop!”

“Just find an empty space—”

“Shut up! I'll figure something out,” May mumbled.

They drove deeper into the city, into historic downtown Philadelphia, where the streets were as wide as twin beds. Cars were parked all along the side of the road, making it difficult for her to pass through. She gripped the wheel with such force, she felt as though she might snap it to pieces, like a pretzel.

May looked at the lunchbox-size spaces between the cars on the side of the road. She looked in the rearview mirror and saw the endless stream of cars behind her. All she could do was drive on and on, deeper into urban traffic hell, onto streets that
she imagined only got smaller and bumpier and had even more trolley tracks to catch the wheels on and more drunken bystanders wandering into them.

And this had all been Pete's idea. He sat there, in his bright red T-shirt, his hair wild in the intense humidity, the fringe around his face almost covering his eyes—like some overgrown talking rag doll that spouted nonsense about driving when you pulled its string.

“Come on,” he said. “There are two spaces right there. Just pull over and I'll do the rest.”

“I won't fit.”

“Yes, you will.”

“
No
, I
won't
. Have you seen this car? It's about fifty feet long. Just shut up for a second, okay?”

Cars were now crowding her out on her left. Why were people trying to make these streets into two lanes? She screeched in anguish.

“All right,” Pete said, speaking slowly, “at the next red light, put the car in park and I'll slide over and drive.”

“The light's not long enough for that!”

He leaned back against his seat and put his hands over his eyes.

At the height of her despair, May had a burst of inspiration. She knew, from the occasional trips she took into the city with her parents, that there were parking garages where attendants parked
for
you. It would be expensive, but it was better than crashing the car or running someone over.

“Look in my purse,” she gasped. “In my wallet. Open it up. See how much money I have.”

He gingerly picked up May's straw purse and poked around inside.

“Three bucks,” he said.

On her right May saw a sign with a big
P
on it and an arrow pointing left. She made an abrupt turn onto one of the narrow, cobblestone streets that she feared so much. There, in the bottom of some kind of warehouse, was the opening of a garage. She pulled the car up to the attendant and came to a jerky stop. She laboriously rolled down the window with a shaking hand.

“Do you, like, park the cars for us?” she asked.

“Yeah,” the man said, ripping a ticket in two and putting half under a windshield wiper.

“Okay.” May nodded. “What do I do?”

“You get out.”

May reached for the door release.

“Park,”
Pete said quickly, his hand flying for the shift.

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” May slipped the car into park, collected her bag, and exited. Pete was already standing off to the side, looking a little weary.

“So,” May asked the man, “how much?”

The attendant, who was gazing at May with unconcealed disgust, pointed at the huge wall sign with the times and amounts.

“Do I pay now or—”

“When you come back.”

“Oh, right.” She laughed. “Because that's how you'll know how long I've been gone. Okay. Great. Thanks.”

So what if her pride was shot? Her sense of relief at being out of the car was immeasurable. She suddenly understood
those stories of ship captains who dropped to their knees and kissed the sand once they hit shore.

“What are we doing?” Pete asked, looking down at her through his curly fringe. He was slouching a little more than usual.

“I have to go find an ATM to get some cash,” she said.

“Why didn't you say so? I have some cash. Let's just get the car back.”

“No,” May said as she started walking briskly. “I'm not borrowing.”

“Come on.” Pete groaned. “Don't get like that.”

“It's your fault we're here.”

“
My
fault? You wouldn't park!”

“‘Straight line on 95!'” May mimicked. “‘It's like the
easiest thing in the world
.'”

May walked ahead, and Pete followed, somewhat grumpily. The area was fairly desolate since all of the office buildings, squares, and historical sites in the area generally emptied out at five or six. There seemed to be a thousand shadowy nooks behind trees, low brick walls, and deep doorways. Independence Hall loomed up on their right.

Okay, maybe this
was
her fault. But it wasn't so bad.

“Look!” She held up her hands. “Free field trip.”

“Uh-huh. Maybe America's first ATM is in there.”

“Look, I'm sorry, okay?”

Pete stared up at the side of Independence Hall and attempted to whistle. All that came out was a strange sputtering sound.

“They have blinds in the windows,” May said, stopping and pointing up. “That seems wrong.”

Splutter.

“I was just trying to keep your car in one piece. You can't blame me for that.”

He switched over to humming.

They walked around Independence Square, which was filled with construction equipment. One lonely park ranger stood against the barricade that surrounded the area. He turned orange, red, and purple as the huge spotlight that sat on a tall building just beyond Independence Hall threw its light down on him. At the end was the Liberty Bell pavilion, a small glass structure that housed the world's most famous defective noisemaker.

“Remember coming here in grade school?” May asked as they looked across the square at the building.

“Yeah. I think we went about twelve times.”

“I always thought they'd keep it someplace bigger…and look at this,” she said. “It's a
shed
. And it's just a bell. It feels like such a rip-off.”

“It
is
kind of a rip-off.”

“Then why does everyone get so excited about it?” she asked.

“I have no idea.”

“A lot of things seem like that,” she said. “They build you up and build you up, and it's…a bell in a shed.”

They examined the bell and its housing critically.

“So,” May said, giving him a sideways glance, “speaking of big buildups, you haven't told me about the prom. Was it good?”

“It was all right.”

“So are you and Nell
dating
now or something?”

“I don't know.” He shrugged.

“How do you not know something like that?”

“We might go out again,” he said. “But I haven't really dated anyone since Jenna.”

“Jenna?” May said, throwing him a puzzled look. “You dated Jenna? Jenna Cazwell?”

“Yeah. All last fall.”

Jenna Cazwell was an unrelentingly perky girl with huge boobs and an amazing singing voice. She had been in May's elementary and middle school classes.

“How did I not know this? How did that happen?”

“We worked on some shows together.” Pete shrugged again. “Things happen when you do shows. And we liked a lot of the same stuff—same bands, same shows, same movies. She was really into movies, like me. Really specific stuff, too. Like we both like bad shark movies. She had
Jaws 4
and
Deep Blue Sea
on DVD. She even had
Shark Hunter
.”

“Jenna Cazwell collects
shark movies
?” May said. This seemed about as likely to her as finding out that Jenna collected human bones.

“I know. I couldn't believe it either. She seemed perfect—but she was so—”

“Chestually blessed?” May offered.

Pete was wise enough not to reply to this.

“Jenna always reminded me of a stewardess,” May said coolly, “with that creepy smile. And she was kind of dumb.”

“Yeah, well, we're not all geniuses.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I didn't get a 200 on the PSATs like you did,” he said,
looking just a little irritated. “I mean, I didn't think she was dumb.”

“Two-oh-five…,” May mumbled automatically before catching herself. “It doesn't matter. So what happened?”

Pete didn't reply right away.

“We kind of…stopped calling each other.”

“You stopped calling each other? That's it?”

“Kind of,” he said, pulling on his watchband.

“That's weird.”

“It happens that way sometimes,” he said.

“God,” May said, finding herself inexplicably annoyed by this new knowledge. “You're like crush boy. Nell, Jenna, Diana…”

She started walking again, a little faster this time. There was a strong horsey smell here, which was emphasized by the heat. May picked her way through the numerous knee-high concrete thumbs that had been planted all along this stretch of sidewalk, presumably to keep cars from crashing into the square, or maybe just to make life
that much
more difficult for people searching for ATMs in a historical zone. “That's not a lot,” he said. “It's just that someone's there, so you date them.”

May raised an eyebrow. She wasn't sure what this meant, but he seemed to be
saying something
.

“What about you?” he asked.

“What
about
me?”

“Do you…like anyone? I mean, you never mention it.”

“All-girls' school.” She smirked. “It's not happening.”

“What about work?”

“It looks like you're already dating Nell. That totally breaks my heart.”

He stopped moving for a moment. Pete was one of those people who had to freeze completely when he was turning something over in his mind.

“It's so hard for me to share her with anyone,” she clarified quickly. “Come on. I guess we should be looking for the ATM.”

 

Brooks managed to bum a ride home from the party, and she arrived home at the pathetic hour of nine o'clock. Only Palmer was home when she got there, and she was glued to the television as usual. Brooks sat alone at the kitchen table in the dark, looking down at May's books and notes, which were spread everywhere. She felt the dryness setting in. She needed hydration. She got up, threw open the refrigerator door, and eyed the empty water-filter pitcher.

“Does that thing
always
have to be empty?” she muttered. “Is it the
law
?”

There was nothing cold enough to drink. There were a few cans of warm soda, but the ice cube trays were also empty. She got some water from the kitchen tap, but it seemed to make her throat even scratchier. Her stomach was tumbling lightly now. She knew this was only a sign of the turbulence to come.

The Dave and Jamie movie was still playing on all screens inside her head, and now, as she thought about it, it was all getting weirder. She had shown Jamie the condoms. She had told Jamie her plans for the night. And what had Jamie done? Vamped herself up in bondage pants and planted herself in Dave's lap. In fact, Jamie had moved in before Brooks could do anything.

Jamie had screwed her over. She had done it intentionally.

Brooks drummed her fingers on the table. Then she got up and started pacing the kitchen. Her head was going to explode.

A glint across the room caught her eye. The key to the Golden Firebird hung from the key rack on the kitchen wall. The pewter key ring embossed with the logo, the key with the three colored triangles at the top…

She knew why no one had touched the car. It had never been said, but it had never needed saying. It was Dad's car. The car was where it had happened. The car was frozen in time—left, like a museum exhibit, commemorating the worst moment in all of their lives. Through the warm haze of grain punch, beer, insecticide, and whiskey, Brooks saw the absurdity of this. Dad wouldn't have wanted the Golden Firebird kept that way. He had loved that car, and the thought of it rotting away would have made him miserable.