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“Lin!”

“What?”

“You’re acting like a total space cadet.”

“Everett Barnes showed up today.”

“So I heard.”

“Wait. You did?” she said, slightly too shrill.

Ulla looked at her cynically. “Did Casanova try to sweep you off your feet?”

Linnea picked at the fabric of the couch. “He asked for my number.”

Ulla didn’t say anything. But the silence, the lack of Ulla’s steady respirations, was enough. “You didn’t give it to him, did you?”

“It’s not like he’s interested in me.”

“Are you?” Ulla stared at Scarecrow and Mrs. King conspiring at a cocktail party on the television screen.

“No,” Linnea lied. “Would you mind if I went out with him, though? Just once. I heard his dad died.”

“No.” But the cool shrug said otherwise.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Linnea

“Everett Barnes?” Linnea’s mother said as Linnea primped in the bathroom. Her dad passed through the hall, and her parents locked eyes, both laughing.

Annoyed, Linnea carped, “What?” as her dad continued into the kitchen. She heard the fridge open, the clink of amber glass. Next came the pop and hiss of the bottle cap being opened. She painted her lips red and smacked them.

Her mother fondled a strand of Linnea’s dark brunette hair and said to her reflection, “You’re such a pretty girl, Lin-Lin. People always comment on those beautiful eyes you know.”

“Whatever,” Linnea reacted under her breath. Margie Larsson never said such things.

“So much prettier than Abby.” Their eyes met in the mirror, and in her mother’s vacant stare, Linnea knew that was her last reach. Barely forty years old, she was all but gone.

“That’s enough, Mom.” She brushed past, out the front door, to wait for Everett on the steps. Her parents didn’t enforce a curfew, and never had. Probably assumed she’d go to Ulla’s.

Linnea hugged her jean jacket around her arms and fingered a pin button with a Dr. Pepper logo. One that Ulla had given her. She had a few others: Rainbow Brite was a secret fetish; Michael Jackson from his Thriller cover; a Mora Mustang, their school mascot; and one with a Minnesota North Stars hockey logo. She’d feathered her sufficiently hair-sprayed bangs and adjusted the elastic of her stirrup pants. She licked her finger and rubbed a speck of dirt from her white flats.

Everett arrived in the light gray and blue Chevy and got out. Anxiety jammed her throat. He looked very Andrew McCarthy in his shaggy hair and baggy blazer.

She stood and met him halfway, pocketing her shaky hands.

If Linnea’s speechlessness bothered Everett, it didn’t show. He said he was taking her to Minneapolis, a surprise. “I went to these types of places all the time in New York.”

He spent the next hour of the drive detailing his escapades, how New York was nothing like Minnesota. Judging by Everett’s new truck, his pleated khakis, and penny loafers, Linnea wondered how much more Everett’s father was worth dead than alive.

He gunned the Blazer and crossed the double-yellow line to pass a hazard-flashing sedan with a mattress tied to the roof. He cruised easily onto the interstate as “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” played on the radio. She marveled at the Metrodome where Minnesota’s pro football and baseball teams played. It was a monstrosity that sat in the middle of downtown like a squashed marshmallow. He appeared struck by it, too. “They opened it the year after we moved. We should go. I’ll take you to a game.”

“Really?” The squeal burst from her. She blushed, knowing it had to be all talk. Something casual he threw out, not a promise.

That spurred Everett’s chatter about sports, how he’d gone to see the North Stars play the Islanders at the Coliseum. He said his friend’s dad took them. The word Dad reminded Linnea she hadn’t properly offered condolences yet. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “about your dad.”

Everett shrugged as if she’d apologized for picking the wrong radio station. “Do you like hoagies?”