Where the Kissing Never Stops (5 page)

“Wow,” said Peggy, who had turned around to hear Rachel’s speech.

“That’s horrible,” I said.

“Really? Why?”

“I don’t know,” I sputtered. “It just sounds horrible. To never go outside.”

“Oh, you could go outside. You’d just be protected.”

“I mean really outside.” I rolled down the window and pointed. A huge car passed us on the left, going fifty-six to Sully’s law-abiding fifty-five.

“Of course you could if you wanted to. You could get in your car and everything. But you wouldn’t have to, see? Everything you’d ever want would be there.” She leaned back dreamily. “Everything.”

“How could you be born in a mall?” Sully said into the rearview mirror.

“In the hospital; some malls already have them. Dad wanted my mom to have me in the Houston Galleria, but she wouldn’t. Anyway, hospitals aren’t any big deal. West Edmonton up in Canada has a roller coaster.”

“And if you fall off, you get buried by Stiffs R Us, and then after the funeral everybody can shop.”

“Gee, Walter, don’t get mad. I —”

“It’s Walker, not Walter. Okay?”

“Oh, God, sorry.” She patted my hand, which twitched like a frog in biology lab. “You call me Raquel for a while, all right? Till we’re even.”

“What don’t you like about malls, Walker?” she asked a few uneasy miles later.

“Yeah,” boomed Peggy from the front seat. “What are you, un-American?”

“I just don’t like Westgate, that’s all. My dad and I went out there a couple of times and it was too weird.”

“It’s an old mall,” Rachel said analytically, “but it’s got some nice touches.”

“They were playing ‘Light My Fire’ on the Muzak, okay?”

“Jim Morrison,” moaned Peggy. “What a doll.”

“And I could hardly tell what it was. Elves could have been playing it. And then ‘Hey Jude,’ and I could barely figure that out either.”

“You aren’t supposed to listen,” Rachel pointed out. “Music only calms you down so you can buy, or peps you up so you can buy.”

“But that’s just it, Raquel,” I said sarcastically. “That’s what I don’t like about it.”

“That’s how you sell things, though. You make people feel safe, you get them warm or keep them cool, you get them in a good mood, and then they buy.”

“Whatever happened to going downtown, where nobody hummed you to death, and just buying what you need?” I was getting steamed. “That’s another thing I don’t like about Westgate. Whatever happened to downtown? It’s dead, that’s what. Everybody’s out at the mall being brainwashed.”

“People are afraid of downtowns,” she said. “That’s why they like the malls. They’re safe, Walker. Nobody ever got mugged in a mall.”

“Nobody ever got mugged in downtown Bradleyville, either.”

“What about Elizabeth Bartlett’s father?” asked Sully.

“The guys who did that had to be from Kansas City.”

“And Maureen Owens?”

“Well, she shouldn’t have been down there at that time of night.”

“What happened to Maureen Owens?” Rachel asked. “Was she mugged?”

“Worse,” said Peggy.

“Killed?”

“Worse,” said Peggy.

“Well, I don’t care. I still don’t like malls.”

God, I sounded like some little kid talking about spinach.

When we got to the concert, the girls went to the bathroom while Sully and I hung out by the refreshment stand hoping that one of the employees would call us over and force us to buy some beer.

“It got pretty quiet in the back seat there,” Sully said, “right after that impassioned plea for a bustling downtown.” He looked at me quizzically. “I never knew you had such strong feelings about stuff like that.”

“Did I sound dumb?”

“Just lighten up. You could do worse than marrying a land baron’s daughter.”

“With an overbite and no breasts?”

“How do you know that?”

“You looked at her teeth and said so.”

“No, the other. Did you check?”

“Of course. I started feeling around while we were arguing. Girls always go for that.”

“Just be nice, okay? She likes you.”

“Do you really think so?” I wasn’t being sarcastic anymore; I wanted it to be true.

I could hear a band warming up, so I practiced a few dance steps. Their muddled discord was perfect for my personal style. I’d be in trouble when they started playing together.

Peggy came up behind us, slipping both arms around Sully’s waist. Rachel had her hands behind her back like she was about to recite a short poem.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” she said back, smiling. “Are you still mad?”

I shook my head and leaned toward the wide aisle. “Let’s go in.”

We made our way through the crowd, losing Sully and Peggy in the process.

“Do you look different?” I asked. “Or are my senses deranged from smelling all the marijuana in the air.”

“Oh, that. Peggy sort of redid my outfit.”

“In the bathroom?”

“She’s really neat. She just whipped out these scissors, made a few fast cuts, and bingo!” She raised both arms and showed me.

“It looks good.”

“At first I thought she didn’t like me.”

“Peggy didn’t?”

Rachel nodded and pointed. There was Peggy about ten yards ahead, standing on a chair and waving to us.

“Where do you think she bought that outfit?” Rachel asked.

It looked like a man’s checkered sport coat. As she waved again, it rose to reveal an expanse of white tights.

“Peggy’s kind of a trendsetter,” I explained. “She was written up in the paper and everything. She makes all that stuff herself.”

“Where do you guys know her from, school?”

“She was a year ahead of us before she dropped out to take cosmetology classes. She’s really good at that, too, I guess.”

“But you all were in the same classes?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Did you ever go out with her?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Do she and Sully go together?”

“No. I mean, they never have. It just kind of happened, how we got to be friends, I mean. One day Sully and I were walking across campus and Tommy Thompson and some other creeps were giving Peggy a hard time, pulling her clothes and stuff and calling her names.”

“That was gallant,” she said, smiling. “She was like a damsel in distress. Did you get in a fight and everything?”

“It didn’t last long.”

“It’s funny,” Rachel said. “I never knew one Peggy before. Bradleyville’s got two: this one and the one everybody writes about on the bathroom walls.”

“That’s Peggy. That’s what the fight was about.”

“Oh, God. The poor thing.”

A band called Mojo opened. At first they seemed like just another bunch of guys with those dreadlocks that for all I know they put on in the dressing room.

But there was something spooky about them. The lead guitarist solemnly announced the titles: “Sad Forebodings of What Is Going to Happen.” “The Open Window of Discontent.” “The Dust We Love.” “Landscape of the Hungry Ghosts.” Not exactly your average rock concert.

They were pretty good, too, but I was a little distracted by trying to sway with the others so that nobody would think I was just woozy.

Then all of a sudden…

“I don’t believe it,” Rachel said. “That woman looks so much like my mom.”

“Are you kidding? The guy in the sport coat looks like my dad. I mean, for a minute….”

“Do you think they’re together?” She leaned into me, grabbing my forearm like we were at the movies on Halloween.

“How weird!”

We watched them make their way toward the exit. The guy really did resemble my father: the same thinning hair in front, the same thin lips. He was fairly good-looking, but I’d already begun to wonder if my hair would fall out while my lips shrunk.

“Do you know what I’d do,” Rachel said thoughtfully, “in every town Dad and I would move to? I’d automatically make friends with all the other kids whose mom or dad had died. I didn’t try. It just happened. It was like we could pick each other out. I remember this boy in Miami. We liked each other, you know? So after a little while he took me home to meet his folks, and there they are and there are all his brothers and sisters looking like they’re never going to die and I thought, What does he need me for?” She turned to me, her eyes bigger and, if possible, sadder than ever. “Isn’t that a funny thing to think?”

Spontaneously I reached for her hand. Amazingly, I didn’t miss.

“I’m sixteen years old,” she said, “and not a day goes by that I don’t think about my mom or wonder when I’m going to…” Instead of finishing the sentence, she pointed to the hot lights that hung above us. I could see the insects that had flown too close. We sat in an intermittent rain of tiny bodies.

“C’mon. Let’s dance,” I said.

She pointed to the ushers. “Isn’t it against the law or something?”

“It’ll be okay.”

It was against the law, but there weren’t enough ushers in the world, and the performers didn’t help. They all had this gorgeous accent, like tropical birds educated at Oxford, and they urged us, “Don’t be fearful now. Let your spirits soar.”

Luckily we were sitting on the aisle, so when a rent-a-cop came by, we just danced right back into our seats and then out again as he frantically tried to keep hundreds of people off their feet.

I danced like I had one foot nailed to the floor, but it didn’t seem to matter. It was still fun, and Rachel started smiling a little, one of those brave smiles.

I don’t know how it happened, but someone bumped up against me or her, throwing us within a few inches of each other, close enough for me to smell the perfume she was wearing and the Dentyne she was chewing, and then without even thinking about it, we were kissing.

We didn’t use tongues or anything, but it was still awful nice. Rachel was a soft kisser, and she wrinkled her brow a little like she was concentrating real hard. Debbie had been a hard kisser with a kind of timer: after a little while her mouth popped open and stayed that way.

I liked this better.

I
t was late when I got home. We’d gone out to eat after the concert and then to an under-twenty-one club, where I’d danced with Rachel again, if you call standing in one spot and swaying like a tree dancing.

I waved goodbye to Sully, then just stood there in the dark for a few seconds. I was pretty sure I liked Rachel. I wondered if she liked me.

Then I tried my key, but the door was unlocked. Inside, my mom was sitting at the kitchen table having a glass of wine and reading a magazine. She smiled up at me, but I was stony. I had my values: no smiles for ax murderers, slobbering vivisectionists, or parents who turned on me.

“Did you have a good time?” she asked.

“It was okay.”

I could see her switch on her Dishevelment Meter. Automatically I smoothed my hair and willed every wrinkle away.

“Honey,” she said seriously, “I feel way out of my league doing this.” She gestured as if describing the longest home run ever. “Way, way out. And for a lot of reasons I wish your dad were here to do it.”

“I know what you’re going to say, and I know plenty.”

“About what?”

“About what you’re going to ask about.”

“Which is?”

“God, Mom. You know.”

“I know I do. Do you?”

“Okay, okay. Sex, right?”

“I need to be certain, Walker.”

“Just don’t worry. I know all about it.” I plunged both hands into my pockets like I was about to show her the rare coins of insight collected from dozens of books and a thousand bull sessions with Sully, the doctor’s son. Then farther down would be the loose change of my halting chats with Dad.

“What did your father tell you, anyway?”

“A lot. Honest.”

“I understand that,” she said patiently, “but a lot in general or a lot in depth or —”

“A lot, that’s all. Plenty. More than enough.” I found myself spasmodically clenching my fists, which were still buried in my pockets. Until I imagined what that probably looked like. Quickly I tucked them under my arms like I was cold.

“Specifically,” she said. “What did he tell you?” She put up a cautionary palm. “Not enough to embarrass you, but enough so that I can sleep nights.”

“It was all in health ed., anyway: ovulation, menstrual periods, the never-to-be-forgotten drama of the sperm and the egg, masturbation, venereal disease…”

“But what,” she insisted, “did your father say to you?”

“I’m not going to do anything wrong!”

“Honey, of course not. But since a lot of things about your father were a mystery to me, how do I know what he told you?”

I gestured helplessly. “About birth control, that’s all.”

“You know what condoms are, then?”

“Places you live that don’t have yards?”

“Those are condos!”

“I know. I know. I was only kidding. This whole conversation makes me very nervous. I mean, I don’t understand why you don’t know what Dad told me. Didn’t you guys communicate?”

“You haven’t been listening to Dr. Phil again, have you?” she asked. Now she was trying to keep it light. “Didn’t I tell you to only watch mindless violence?”

“Well, didn’t you?”

“Your father may have worked for the phone company, but communication was not one of his gifts. He could have told you anything about sex. Or nothing. I never knew what he was thinking, or how much he knew about anything.”