Those fingers ran through my hair while we kissed.
I held her hand in mine all the way home from the farm stand, on the way to the pond, and when I walked her to the van yesterday to say goodbye.
I pass her the jar. I’m trying not to linger in the familiar yet forbidden feel of her skin on mine. She’s a spring storm—wild and full, stirring up everything still within me. My fingertips graze her hand and lightning crackles, electricity racing through my veins. I absorb it all. Split like a tree that’s taken the bolt, but standing there as if I’m still in one piece.
She smiles up at me. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” I say, looking down into her chestnut-brown eyes.
Her cheeks start to flush pink. I step back, searching for something to do that doesn’t involve staring at Hallie.
“Okay,” Patrick says. “Showtime. It’s nine o’clock.”
I breathe out a sigh of relief. Distraction. Sweet distraction.
We take our places. Hallie and I stand at the table where people will line up to buy pie tins full of whipped cream. Patrick’s on refill duty when we run out. Meanwhile, he directs people where to stand for their throw.
Dustin’s first up to be the sitting target.
A group of teens approaches the booth.
“I love this part,” one of them says to his friend. “Who doesn’t want to hit a firefighter with a pie?”
“Firemen are your friends, gentlemen,” Dustin says.
“Well, friend,” a boy named Elijah says, “I’m about to get you good.”
One of Dustin’s favorite pastimes is smack-talking the people lining up to toss pies. I don’t see the point in it myself. They’re the ones holding a tin of whipped cream aimed at your face. Why irritate them?
But he pulls on the plastic poncho and goggles and starts in with the heckling anyway. “Aaaayyyyy, battahh battahh battahh suhhh-wing!”
He taunts Elijah. “You can’t hit me! Gonna surely miss me!”
Elijah, who just paid five dollars for a tin, turns around and stuffs another five in the jar so he’s aiming not one, but two pie tins filled with whipped cream at Dustin.
Elijah stands behind the line in the grass, about ten feet away from Dustin, winds up his arm, and flings the first pie tin. It sails through the air. Dustin pivots and the tin lands with a thwack on his cheek, sliding down his poncho and onto the tarp below him.
“Just the cheek!” Dustin taunts, sticking his finger in the cream on his face and swiping a glob to pop into his mouth. “Mmmmm. That’s good. Wanna try to actually hit me this time?”
Elijah looks even more determined. “Watch out. I’m getting you good this time!”
“That’s what they all say!” Dustin taunts.
Elijah winds up again, pulls his leg up like a major league pitcher and slings the tin with such force it passes right by Dustin and slaps onto the backdrop. Whipped cream sprays, exploding outward and splattering on several passersby.
Dustin stands and approaches Elijah, whipped creamdripping off him and leaving a trail in the grass. “That’s some arm you’ve got on you.”
“I play baseball for the high school,” Elijah tells Dustin.
“That’s awesome, man.” Dustin claps Elijah on the back.
Elijah and his group of friends move on to the next booth. More townspeople come. Dustin taunts. They throw. The jar fills with money.
“You’re up next,” Dustin says to me during a lull between groups.
He whips off his poncho and wipes at his face, using the side of his hand like a windshield wiper, scraping whipped cream off and flicking it onto the ground. Then he grabs a water bottle and tips his head over, spraying the water all over his head. He shakes the droplets off like a dog.
“Yippie,” I deadpan. “My turn.”
