“You are here,” he replies.
His words remind me of raising my hand in class during attendance, saying “Here,” of the map near the information desk at the mall, marking your location in the middle of all the neon lights and window displays, of the poem I nearly used for my valedictorian speech, one from Walt Whitman I had to memorize for English class: “That you are here—that life exists and identity / That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.”
Finn is here, next to me, waiting.
With my index finger, I slowly trace a Y on Alice’s palm and then an O. She closes her eyes as I do, her breathing steady and even, and I keep tracing, talking to her in a low, steady voice.
“You’re here,” I say, as much to myself and Finn as to her. “You are here.”
Forty-One
“PARK THERE,” I SAY to Finn, pointing to the empty meter we’ve just passed. He jerks the truck to a stop, earning a deserved honk from the driver of the BMW behind us, who then screeches around us, giving us the finger.
Finn laughs under his breath, putting his arm on the back of my seat and craning his head around, parallel parking in the spot.
Just as he turns off the ignition, the sky opens up in sheets of rain.
“Come on,” I say. “We can run.”
The two of us wait in the truck cabin for a break in traffic on Delta Avenue, and as soon as I see one, I yell, “Go!”
We tear out of the truck, doors slamming behind us, and run across the street in the downpour. I hunch into myself the whole way, trying to make myself smaller and not get so wet.
We burst into Zip’s like an entire army is after us, earning a shocked look from the waitress.
We’re drenched.
Finn wipes his wet sneakers in the entryway, his T-shirt clinging to his chest.
I wring out my hair. “Sorry,” I say as the water runs off us in rivulets.
“It’s fine. Y’all are brave to venture out today,” the waitress says, hands on her hips, watching us both. “Two drowned rats, I swear. Just a minute.”
My wet skin and hair feel chilly in the air-conditioning, and Finn doesn’t look much warmer. But the waitress comes back with two pink sweatshirts, a Zip’s logo emblazoned across the fronts.
“Left over from when we sponsored the Flying Pig Marathon,” she says, handing them to us. “Sorry about the color.”
Finn shrugs, pulling his on, and I giggle when I see him.
“What?”
“It’s a far cry from Alice in Chains,” I say, pulling mine on too. It smells musty, like it’s been shoved in a box in the back of an attic, but it’s dry and warm. “Thanks,” I say to the waitress.
“Sit anywhere you want,” she replies, heading back to the kitchen. Since it’s only a little after eleven thirty, there are tables to be found, and I grab a booth on the side.
“I’ve never been here,” Finn says to me, taking in the surroundings.
I try to see Zip’s through his eyes, like I haven’t been going here once a month for as long as I can remember. It’s cozy and dark in the rain, the Reds away game playing on the TV in the corner, the toy train that circles the top of the main room chugging merrily along its track.
“My favorite part when I was a kid,” I say, seeing Finn notice it.
“Nice,” he says.
As soon as we sit in the booth, Finn grimaces. “Do you like baseball?”
“Eh, it’s okay,” I say. “Why?”
“Big talk?”
I nod.
“If I sit in this seat, the television is over your shoulder and I’m going to watch it the whole time, no matter how much I want to watch you. Switch?”
I’m grateful it’s dark enough that Finn doesn’t see me blush, so we stand, shuffle awkwardly around each other, and settle on the opposite sides of the booth.
The waitress comes over, hands us menus.
“What’s good here?” Finn asks, scanning the laminated menus.
“Burgers. You have to get a burger. That’s what they’re known for. That’s what I’ll have,” I say, turning to the waitress. “A Zip’s Burger and fries and a Diet Coke.”
“Same thing,” Finn adds. “But a regular Coke.”
My eyes dart to the game on the television screen behind him. The Reds are currently winning.
When I look back, Finn’s watching me—I see his eyes moving from my hair to my cheekbones, to my lips, to my eyes.
“Do I have something on my face?” I ask, reflexively wiping my lips.
“No, not at all,” he says. I blush. Again.
“What’s the deal with this place?” he asks.
“It’s been here since the 1920s. My great-grandpa first met my great-grandma here. It was before he left for overseas service, and he said this whole family of beautiful girls came in from church, all dressed up in hats. My great-grandmother was the youngest of five sisters. My great-grandpa originally had a crush on her older sister Irene, but when he came back from his time overseas, my great-grandma was all grown up, and he realized she was the sister for him. My mom loves telling that story about her grandparents.”
Finn nods, fiddling with the napkin in front of him, suddenly quiet.
“But it’s no Anchor Grill, you know?” I tease.
He doesn’t respond, and we sit there quietly, and I’m about to ask him what just happened, why he got so quiet, when he mutters something.
“What?” I say.
“Alice is lucky to have you,” he says, slightly louder.
“Oh,” I say.
The waitress comes with our food, and the burger bun is glistening with butter on the top, the fries golden, and my stomach gives a loud embarrassing growl.
We eat in silence, until I get the courage to say what I’ve been mulling over since the night at the airport.
“I’ve been thinking about your bruises, and I wonder if maybe you should take a break from boxing. Have a doctor check them out, you know?”
“Parker.”
“I just think getting hurt like that over and over can’t be good for your body. Maybe your coach should take it easier when you’re practicing.”
“It’s not even all from boxing,” he snaps, then immediately looks like he wants to take it back.
“What do you mean it’s not all from boxing?”
Finn lets out a loud sigh. “Johnny and I got in a fight last week.”
“What?” The question comes out as a strangled little shriek.
“It’s fine.”
“Your brother did that? That’s not fine!”
“Seriously, it was just a fight, okay? Brothers fight.”
“God, why do you put up with him, Finn?” I ask. “He’s dangerous.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. He hit you!”
Finn shrugs. “I hit him back.”
“But he’s dealing, too, isn’t he?”
Finn doesn’t deny it.
“You don’t owe him anything. He’s not a good person.”
He scoffs. “You don’t even know him. What gives you the right to judge?”
“Tell me, then. Tell me how he’s not all bad.”
Finn rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “One of the first things I remember growing up was Johnny talking about our mom. He had all these cassette tapes she used to love and her old Walkman. He listened to them all the time. You remember the Walkman, right?”
I nod, thinking of the careful way Finn showed it to me that first day, how he wrapped it in a sweatshirt in his backpack every day after school, tucking it carefully inside.
“Johnny loved those tapes. He listened to them for hours every day. But as I got older, I got mad because he’d never share them with me. So I stole the Walkman. I had it for a few months before he saw you that day on the playground.”
Finn’s face tightens. “Johnny was upset it broke. He said it was all my fault.” His mouth clenches shut.
“What happened?”
“When Dad came home that night, he found Johnny whaling on me. So he started beating the crap out of Johnny.”
I hold my breath, afraid to say anything, not wanting him to stop but scared to hear what will come next.