“What the fuck?”McGown asks.“It’s not my fault Yarmark’s turned into a fucking gooner.I saw him at Riverside Burgers the other day—” McGown seems to remember I’m there and starts talking to me again.“I saw you there the other day, and you were talking to those kids.”
He means Colt and Ashley.There’s this weird tightness in my chest, like I somehow made a mistake by talking to them, but all I say is “They’re nice kids.”
“They were playing hooky, dumbfuck.It was a fucking Tuesday.Where the fuck are your brains?”
“Jesus Christ, McGown, fuck the fuck off,” Foley snaps.
“Yeah,” Gross says.He’s still trying to get a look at that mole.“Fuck off.”
“Fuck this.”McGown is looking around like he can’t believe this.“Are you fucking kidding me?Nobody else sees this?”
No one says anything.Water plinks on the tile in the showers.
“He hasn’t even complained about the fucking door to the smoke pad being propped open,” McGown says.“Not once in the last two weeks.”
And it’s not until he says it that I realize he’s right.People are always leaving the door propped open, and I report it, because that’s a security issue.
Foley is looking at me now.And Norman.And Gross.
They’ve been police for a long time.And they’re not stupid.
I yank my tee over my head, push a hand through my hair, and say, “It’s not a big deal.That’s what everybody keeps telling me.So, why am I going to waste my time reporting it, even if it does compromise the station’s perimeter?”
“Holy shit,” Norman says.
Gross whistles.
“Well, fuck me,” Foley says.“Little Sammy’s getting his cork popped.”
I slam my locker, grab my bag, and head for the door.
“What’s her name, sweetheart?”Gross calls after me.
“She’s never going to make you happy,” Foley shouts.“She can’t give you what I give you.”
They’re all cracking up.
And then I’m thinking about it.About how Ihavebeen acting different.But that’s okay, isn’t it?That’s not a big deal.Let them think I’m relaxed because I’m finally hooking up with someone.Let them think I’m distracted because I met someone I like.That’s all right.
It might even be true.
And then, when the next Saturday rolls around, there’s the proof.
It’s a beautiful day.Warm, smelling like the lilac bushes blooming a few houses over, the sun high in a clear sky.We’ve got the garage door open, and Gray’s car is up on a jack, and I’m on a creeper underneath, trying to get the oil drain plug to come out.
“Whoever did this last time was a jackass,” I say as I put some shoulder into it.“I swear to God, they did a bad job on purpose.”
“That’s because I pay a high school dropout twenty dollars to do it for me,” Gray says.I can only see his sneakers and joggers; he’s sitting on one of Gran’s totes, even though I told him he could go inside while I did this.“So that I can spend my Saturday with my boyfriend.”
“Youarespending your Saturday with—ah, got you, motherfucker.”
He’s trying to sound like Gran when he says, “Sammy, your language!”
“It doesn’t count if it’s when you’re working on a car.”
I slide the pan into place, pop the plug free, and as the oil begins to drain, I slide out on the creeper.Gray’s still sitting there, watching me likehe’s the creeper, only now he gets a huge smile.
“What?”I ask.
