“I think I’d better wait in the truck.”
“Listen,” I said. “Let’s go in there for a little while. I think we—-I should buy her a beer or two since she’s letting us stay at her place for free. I’ll make sure you’re sitting against the wall, away from the window. I will not leave your side. Okay?”
Petty breathed deeply, clearly psyching herself up.
“You want me to get your gun out of the truck? Would that make you feel safer?”
“It’s not in the truck,” she said, and opened her hoodie to show me her holstered pistol.
The sight of it made my stomach clench. I stopped walking. “Wait. You can’t wear that in there.”
“But you asked me if I wanted you to—-”
“I know I did, but I was just . . .”
Why had I said that? I’d never really thought about all the ordinary, weird conversational and behavioral tics everybody used; the casual lies, the empty offers, the figures of speech.
Petty awaited my answer.
“That’s just how -people talk.”
“Why?”
“They just do,” I said.
“So why can’t I wear the gun in there?”
“You got a concealed carry permit?” When in doubt, divert, distract, or avoid the subject altogether is my motto.
“I’m not going in there without it,” Petty said.
“You’re not going to threaten anyone, right?”
“Not unless someone threatens me first. Or you. Or even Ashley.”
The -people I knew who toted guns around with them—-who was I kidding? The guys I knew who carried were usually overcompensating for their shortcomings, ready to yank out their piece and wave it around like a flag. Petty was the first person I’d ever met who actually carried for self--protection. I couldn’t help but feel admiration for this strange girl.
“Okay,” I said.
Instead of holding the door for her, I led the way inside, where the sharp whock of colliding pool balls punctuated loud classic rock. Just beyond the door, Petty stood with her back against the wall and scanned the room.
Ashley, who had her arms draped over two guys’ shoulders, waved at me. I pointed to a table in the corner, which would be a perfect place from which to view the entire room.
Petty led the way over to it, turning in a circle, then sat on a stool with her back against the wall. Ashley came dancing over to the table, an unlit cigarette between her lips.
“You want a beer?” Ashley asked me, then turned. “You want a beer, Petty?”
Petty glanced at me.
“You need his permission, or what?”
“Is that how you ask permission?” Petty said. “By looking at someone?”
Ashley burst into laughter.
“And why would I need permission?”
My head spun. No way could I explain to Petty that Ashley was insulting her in order to assert her queen--bee status. That this new, fucked--up Ashley perceived her as someone too weak or too stupid to make her own decisions.
Thinking about all the head games involved in a normal social interaction depressed the shit out of me. I definitely needed a beer to stop the editorial bubbles from appearing over every communication. I dug out my wallet and handed Ashley five twenties. “Buy a pitcher and keep the rest to get yourself a -couple of packs of smokes and some groceries.”
Ashley screamed and threw her arms around me. “I love you!” she shouted, and returned to the bar.
I leaned close to Petty, but she leaned away.
“I wanted to tell you something,” I said, “to whisper it to you, so I need to get close to your ear.” I felt like a foreign exchange student host, having to explain American customs.
Even in the dim bar light, I could see her face redden, embarrassed at her ineptitude.
“But nobody will be able to hear it anyway,” I said loudly. “I was going to say we probably should have crashed at Mike Zang’s, but I thought you’d be more comfortable at a girl’s house. Ashley’s changed a lot since the last time I saw her.”
Petty didn’t look at me. She kept her eyes on the careening mass of -people before us. Ashley danced over to our table and set down two red plastic cups of beer. Petty pushed hers away, but then seemed to reconsider. She picked up the cup and took a sip.
I watched.
“My first beer,” Petty said, holding it up in a toast.
I clicked my cup against hers. “How about that. I had my first beer when I was ten.”
She tipped up the cup and drained it.
Out of the corner of my eye I watched Petty as she watched -people, until two guys by the pool table started arguing loudly.
“Don’t worry,” I said, in my best Batman growl. “I’ll protect you.”
“From those two guys? I could take them both, easy.”
I felt a thrill. She probably could. I smiled at her and she smiled back, her dimples deepening, and I realized this was the first time I’d seen her smile. It was a sight to behold, and it sent blood rushing through me before I could stop it. That was all I needed, to be crushing on this gooney girl who could probably snap me in half.