“Have all the tickets you want,” I say into the microphone. “Bitches are crazy.”
Creeper dude looks stunned. But not as stunned as Mr. Cavadini, whose face appears next to his. Cavadini is holding his clipboard, doing his rounds. His gaze shifts from the pile of bent-up tickets on the ground to me, and he’s horri ed. Customer service nightmare.
To Davy’s friend, he says: “Let me take care of this, and comp your attendance today.” And he gestures for someone to let the guy’s party through and clean up the pile of blank tickets.
To me, he says: “What in blazes is the matter with you, young lady? Have you lost your mind?” His nose is pressed against the Hotbox’s glass. His face is so red, his Cave tie looks like it might cut off circulation and strangle him.
“I’m really sorry,” I whisper into the microphone, gripping it with both hands as ugly tears stream down my cheeks, “but I sort of have lost my mind.”
“Well,” Mr. Cavadini says, unmoved by my pitiful display of emotion, “you’ll have plenty of time to nd it in your free time, because you’re red.”
“I hate to shatter your ego, but this is not the rst time I’ve had a gun pointed at me.”
—Samuel L. Jackson, Pulp Fiction (1994)
26
I don’t make a scene. I just clean out my locker, clock out, and leave while everyone gawks at me in silence. When Porter calls my name across the parking lot, I refuse to turn around. Helmet on. Kickstand up. Keys in ignition. I’m gone. ?e Cavern Palace is now a “was.” I no longer have a summer job.
I consider not telling my dad about getting red for about ve minutes, but I’m tired of being a coward. Besides, he’d nd out sooner or later. I wonder if the Pancake Shack is hiring.
Grace comes over to my house after her shift and I tell her the whole thing, every bit of it and more. Before I know what I’m saying, I’m telling her about Greg Grumbacher and the CliffsNotes version of how I got shot. How Porter was the rst person I really told, and now look—just look!—where that trust got me. And sure, I was talking to some guy online before I moved here, and yes, I had planned to meet him, but we don’t talk anymore, and NOTHING HAPPENED, and that’s none of Porter’s business. It’s no one’s business but mine.
For a brief moment, I’m worried that I’ve freaked her out.
But she says very seriously, “It’s a shame that I’m going to be forced to commit severe testicular trauma upon that boy.”
After this, our shared appetite for vengeance quickly spirals out of control. She calls Porter a C word, which is apparently okay to do if you’re English. She then asks if I want her to talk to him (I don’t) or spread horrible rumors about him at work (I sort of do). When she starts getting creative about the rumor spreading, it just makes me sad, and I start crying again. My dad comes home from work in the middle of my sob session, and Grace gives him the lowdown. She should be a TV commentator. By the time she’s nished explaining, I’m done with the tears.
My dad looks shell-shocked.
“Bet you’re sorry you signed up for your teenage daughter to move in with you now, huh?” I say miserably. “Maybe this is why mom hasn’t called all summer. She’s probably thinking, Good riddance.”
He looks momentarily confused, but quickly disregards that last remark, comes up behind me, wraps his arms around my shoulders, and squeezes. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss any of this for one single second. And if there’s one thing I know about, it’s how to get over breakups. Or potential ones. Whatever this is. Get your stuff, girls. We’re going out for lobster and laser tag.”
• • •
Porter starts texting me the next day. Nothing substantial, just several short texts.
Text 1: Hey.
Text 2: I’m so sorry about work. I feel awful.
Text 3: We need to talk.
Text 4: Please, Bailey.
Dad advises me to ignore all of those texts and let him simmer. After all, Porter did the same thing to me. Time apart is healthy. Dad also quizzes me, asking me if I’ve realized why Porter walked out on game night. “You’re a good detective, Mink. You can gure this out on your own.”
Maybe I don’t want to anymore. I’ve pretty much given up trying.
Besides, I have other things to think about, like looking for another job, one that doesn’t mind that I’ve been sacked from my last place of employment. Dad offers to ask around at the CPA office. I politely decline.
When I’m looking through the classi eds in the local free paper we picked up during our million-dollar lobster feast the night before, Dad says, “What did you mean when you said your mother hasn’t called all summer?”
“Just that. She hasn’t called. All summer. Or texted. Or e-mailed.”
A long moment drags by. “Why haven’t you said anything?”
