The Spectacular Now (15 page)

Chapter 38

Talk about bad luck. My last class of the day is over, I’m in the middle of the parking lot, only two rows from the safety of my car, and all of a sudden here comes Krystal Krittenbrink, heading straight toward me. What am I going to do, run? That’s too weird, even for me.

“Sutter Keely, I want to talk to you.” Her little black eyes narrow, and her dime-size mouth twists down to about the size of a screw head. She has this strange fur collar on her blouse, apparently from a moose. “I just want to know who you think you are.”

“Um, the king of Mexico?”

She stops about an inch away from me. “Aimee told me about your little party out by the lake.”

“Yeah, that was fun.”

“And now you’re avoiding her.”

“I’m not avoiding anybody. I’ve been laid up in bed with a case of the seventy-two-hour elephantiasis.”

“Don’t think you’re going to joke your way out of this.”

“Hey, I’m not trying to joke my way out of anything. I’m not avoiding her. Besides, it’s none of your business, so get off my back.”

“Ha, I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“I was telling Aimee what she ought to do about you, and she said that same thing—told me to get off her back. I knew she had to get that from you.”

“She said that? Good for her.” I have to admit it makes me a little proud to hear Aimee took my advice about standing up to people.

But Krystal’s like, “No, that’s not good. Aimee’s not mean like that. She’s a sweet girl, and she doesn’t need you sniffing around her like a hyena and then skulking off when you don’t get what you want.”

“A hyena? Sounds like you’ve been watching too much Animal Planet.”

“I don’t know what else you’d call it. It’s been almost two weeks since that stupid party, but have you called her or taken her to lunch? No. You haven’t even talked to her one time.”

“So? What do I look like, the Lord of Time or something? I’m not responsible for how much time goes by. The only problem Aimee has is you bossing her around like she’s your own personal robot. It sure isn’t me.”

On that, I wheel around and make a beeline for my car. I’m sure she’s still back there comparing me to African wildlife, but I can’t hear her now.

Funny thing, though, that evening at work while I’m running the dust mop across the tiles, Krystal’s voice comes back loud and clear. Sure, she’s probably jealous that Aimee’s been getting some male attention, but as much as I hate to admit it, she also has a point. I have let the Aimee project slide. I mean, the whole idea was to bolster her confidence, give her a good shot of independence, but now she probably has to sit around for hours listening to Krystal tell her how stupid she was for going to that party with me in the first place.

And the truth is I miss Aimee. She has a way about her that latches on to you. It’s nothing big or audacious. It’s small and cool, like the first sip of beer on a hot afternoon. If I was going to follow Shawnie’s advice and find someone completely different from Cassidy, I wouldn’t have to look any farther than Aimee Finecky. She’s definitely different, all right. But I have to chuckle at the very idea of dating her. If Shawnie thought it was ridiculous that I asked out Whitney Stowe, what would she think of me dating Aimee Finecky?

But, I tell myself, it wouldn’t hurt to run by her place after work and pay her a friendly visit, catch her by surprise before she has a chance to slap on any lipstick. We’ll just hang out a little bit. It’s not like I’ll be leading her on or anything. She’ll just be another one of my girl buddies. Actually dating her is beyond the call of duty.

That’s what I tell myself.

When I get to her house, the Finecky family truck is parked in the driveway and just about every light in the house is on. Still, it takes a while for someone to open the door. It’s her little brother, and as soon as he sees me, he cranes his head around and yells for Aimee, then disappears, leaving me standing on the porch.

From somewhere, Aimee hollers back, asking him what he wants, and he goes, “Your boyfriend’s at the door!”

So then, she’s like, “Who?”

“I don’t know his name. That guy who came over a couple of weeks ago.”

“Oh God, um, tell him to hold on a second, I’ll be right there.”

“You tell him,” says Shane, and someone else—I assume it’s their mother—goes, “Well, don’t make him wait on the porch. Ask him to come in.”

“Come on in,” Shane yells.

Who would’ve thought Aimee could be related to people who crank the decibels up like that? It’s really quite the production. And the scene inside is fabulous. Mom and Randy, her eBay entrepreneur boyfriend, are both splayed out on the couch with their feet propped up on the coffee table. Mom’s got an egg body with stick arms and legs and wears her hair in a she-mullet. Randy-the-boyfriend’s basically a walrus in sweats that are way too tight. He has a bowl of Cocoa Puffs balanced on his pooch-belly.

“You ever watch
CSI
?” asks Mom, checking me over like there must be something wrong with me for coming to see her daughter. “We have thirteen episodes recorded. This is a good one. Wild and woolly.”

“They showed a cut-off head,” adds Shane, and I’m like, “Well, I can see you’re a man that enjoys a good decapitation. Maybe someone will get vivisected later. That’d really be something.”

Randy doesn’t say a thing, but lets it be known with a pained squint that all this talk is causing him to concentrate on the show way more than he wants to.

I start to follow up on the grisly maiming topic, but already no one’s paying attention to me anymore.

Finally, Aimee pops out of the back room. She’s wearing the kind of nice white Wal-Mart sweater that people don’t usually lounge around the house in, and her hair is all staticky from a high-speed, sixty-second brushing. Luckily, no lipstick, though.

“Sutter,” she says. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”

“Well, I’ve been really busy preparing for the big alligator rodeo.”

“Really, there’s an alligator rodeo?”

“No.” The girl really does need some help in the humor department. “The thing is, I’ve had a lot going on the last few days. But I just got off work a little while ago and thought, ‘You know what? I don’t care how busy I am. I’m going to see Aimee.’”

“Hey,” Randy calls out. “We’re trying to watch a show in here.”

“We want to talk to your friend,” says Mom, “but let’s wait for the show to end. It’ll just be a few minutes.”

Aimee’s eyes fill with actual dread. She seems to think the prospect of a motherly cross-examination will be enough to send me scrambling back to my car, never to return. But I’m in this thing now, and I’m going to stay in it.

So there we are, loitering in the shadow of the plastic hanging plant, no one but the
CSI
team uttering a word. A good five minutes pass. Everyone but Aimee seems to have forgotten me. I smile at her. She shrugs. Finally, I’m like, “How about we go get a Coke and some fries or something,” and she’s, “Uh, okay, let me get my coat.”

Picturing the resurrection of the puffy purple monstrosity, I suggest it’s way too nice out for a coat. She tells her mom where we’re headed, and Mom just nods. I’ll bet Aimee could’ve said we were going on a cross-country murder spree and garnered the same result.

No matter. I’m quite the matador, having dodged Mom’s interview, and better yet, the possibility of having to dredge up something to say to Randy-the-Sweat-Suit-Walrus. Freedom awaits in the Mitsubishi, along with the big 7UP.

Chapter 39

Aimee asks where we’re headed and I suggest a place called Marvin’s Diner. Now, just because Marvin’s is no high school hotspot like SONIC, that doesn’t mean I’m ashamed to be seen with her. I’m just not in the mood to have somebody like Jason Doyle wise-assing me right now.

Marvin’s is way over on the southwest edge of town under the radio towers. You can see the red lights blinking on the towers from miles away. “You know what they remind me of?” I ask Aimee. “They remind me of where my dad works—the Chase building downtown in the city. I’ll bet they’re about the same height. My dad works on the very top floor. He’s a business executive.”

“I remember you telling me that before. But, you know, I thought there was, like, a restaurant or a club at the top of that building.”

“Oh, well, yeah. There’s a hoity-toit club at the
very
top. I’m talking about the highest floor that the offices are on. That’s where the big deals go down.”

At Marvin’s, we grab a booth in the corner. This is one of my favorite places to eat, and believe me, since we almost never have meals together around my house, I’ve tried just about every restaurant in town. Nobody cares who you are in Marvin’s. It’d be a perfect place for adulterers, except it’s such a greasy spoon. We order a big plate of chili fries, and two 7UPs, and in Marvin’s dim lighting, there’s no problem at all spiking our drinks with a little whisky.

Aimee takes a gulp and goes, “Wow, that’s strong!” And I’m like, “You want me to order you another drink?”

“No.” Her eyes are watering a little. “That’s all right. It’s fine.”

The number one best thing about Marvin’s is they have a jukebox with plenty of Dean Martin, so I plug in a few songs and we settle back to talk. Just to get the conversation primed, I start out by making up stories for the other people in there, the waitress, the fat guy sitting behind the front counter where the register is (who may or may not be Marvin), the lonesome traveling sales dude at a table by himself, and best of all, the ugly couple in the booth across the way.

I explain to Aimee how I figure they’re worn out with their relationship. Really, they pretty much hate each other but have to stay together because they murdered her ex-husband for his three-hundred-dollar life insurance policy. Now, when she gets mad at him, she whips him across the shoulder blades with a windshield wiper, and he’s too big of a wimp to fight back, so he’s slowly poisoning her by slipping kitty litter into her morning oatmeal.

Instead of even getting a little chuckle out of that, Aimee’s like, “I guess you don’t have a very high opinion of marriage, huh?”

“It’s not so much the idea of marriage,” I tell her, “as the idea of forever. That’s a concept I just can’t get my mind around.”

“Oh, I can.”

“Really? I mean, your parents weren’t married forever, right?”

She sets her drink down and looks off toward the lonesome salesman. “My dad died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s okay. It was a pretty long time ago.”

“What happened?” Sometimes my tact takes a vacation. Tonight it must’ve gone to Kuwait or somewhere.

“My father was really a good guy. He was a big animal person, practically an activist. And smart. Just for fun, he read books on physics and Aristotle and everything. He loved van Gogh. He used to read out loud to me, and I thought it was the greatest thing in the world. But he had this problem.”

She pauses, and I’m like, “You can tell me. I’m a very nonjudgmental dude.”

She starts nervously winding a strand of her hair around her forefinger, but she goes on. “Well, the thing is, he was addicted to inhaling gasoline fumes. He kept big containers full of gas in the shed behind our old house.”

I’m thinking,
My God, the dude blew himself up!
I can just see him taking in a snootful of fumes, then lighting a cigarette, and
kablooie!
But that’s not it.

What actually happens is that the gas eats away at the blood vessels in his brain until one day, Aimee’s big sister, Ambith, comes home and finds him lying in the doorway to the shed, stiff as a rake. Aneurysm.

I’m like, “Jesus. That’s a tough way to go. I’ve seen it on TV. Not the gasoline thing, the aneurysm.”

“Yeah.” She takes a hefty pull on her drink and this time doesn’t even flinch at its stoutness. “But it’s going to be different when I get married. I’ve thought it all out. That’s what you have to do. You can’t just go into something like that blind.”

Now, I know better than to get the subject of marriage cranked up around a girl, but I’m ready to put as much distance as possible between us and the gasoline-huffing, dead-dad story, so I ask her to tell me all about this vision of marriage she has.

“Well, when I get married, we’ll live on a horse ranch.”

“Right. And you’ll work for NASA.”

“Right.” She smiles at how I remember that.

“Will the guy have to work for NASA too, like maybe as an astronaut or an accountant?”

“Oh God, no. We won’t have to have all the same interests. I don’t believe in that—the husband and wife having to be just alike. I think it’s better if they kind of offset each other. Like if they have these different dimensions they can bring to each other.”

“I like that idea. That’s cool.”

This potential husband dude—I don’t know—he seems about like a cross between Peter Parker from
Spider-Man
and Han Solo from
Star Wars,
with a little bit of one of those old, dead romantic poets thrown in for good measure.

The ranch is just as implausible, like some fantastic foreign-planet wonderland. Purple sunsets, bluebells, jonquils, Queen Anne’s lace, a crystal-clear stream winding through the valley, a big red silo the size of a rocket ship. And horses. Herds of them, red, black, silver, appaloosas, and paints, galloping everywhere—like horses never get tired.

It all sounds like something a nine-year-old would dream up, but what am I going to do, tell her it’s not feasible? Maybe say, “Look, there’s no such thing as flying saucers or Martians, or Santa Claus, and there’s no chance you’ll ever land a ranch or a husband like that”? I’m no dream crusher. The real world already does enough of that without me getting into the business.

Besides, it doesn’t matter if it’s real. It never does with dreams. They aren’t anything anyway but lifesavers to cling to so you don’t drown. Life is an ocean, and most everyone’s hanging on to some kind of dream to keep afloat. Me, I’m just dogpaddling on my own, but Aimee’s lifesaver’s a beauty. I love it. Anyone would if they could see the way her face beams as she clutches that thing with all her strength.