“She has her mom to help her,” I say.
We head toward the square, where the antler arches greet us at the four corners. I think about how long ago it feels since I first came here and stood under one of those arches, when my hair started to glow and my mom decided we needed to dye it. Just to get me by until I learned to control it, she’d said, and I’d laughed and said something like, I’ll learn to control my hair? and it had felt crazy, saying that. Now I can control it. If my hair started to glow at this moment, I’m fairly certain I’d be able to put it out pretty quick, before anybody noticed.
I’ve grown up, I think.
We walk into the park and take a seat on a bench. In one of the trees over our heads there’s a small dark bird staring at us, but I refuse to look closely enough to see if it’s a bird or a particularly annoying angel. I haven’t been seeing as much of Sam these days, only twice since February, and neither time he spoke to me, although I’m not sure why. I wonder if I offended him, last time. I take a sip of the soda I got for the movie. Sigh.
“It’s nice to be back,” I say.
“I know,” Wendy says. “You haven’t talked much about what’s going on with you. How’s Stanford?”
“Good. Stanford is good.”
“Good,” she says.
“Stanford is great, actually.”
She nods. “And you’re going out with Christian Prescott?”
I nearly spit out my soda. “Wendy!”
“What? I’m not allowed to ask you about your love life?”
“What about your love life?” I counter. “You haven’t said anything about that.”
She smiles. “I’m dating a guy named Daniel; thanks for asking. He’s studying business communications, and we were in the same English composition class last fall, and I helped him with some of his papers. He’s cute. I like him.”
“I bet that’s not all you helped him with,” I tease.
She doesn’t take the bait. “So what’s going on with you and Christian?”
I’d rather have my teeth pulled than have this conversation, her staring at me expectantly with her version of Tucker’s hazy blue eyes.
“We’re friends,” I stammer. “I mean, we’ve been on a date. But …”
She quirks an eyebrow at me. “But what? You’ve always liked him.”
“I do like him. He makes me laugh. He’s always there for me, whenever I need him. He understands me. He’s amazing.”
“Sounds like a match made in heaven,” she says. “So what’s the problem?”
“Nothing. I like him.”
“And he likes you?”
My cheeks are getting hot. “Yes.”
“Well.” She sighs. “It’s like my daddy always says. You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.”
I don’t know what she means, but I have the distinct feeling that she’s getting at something Tucker-related. I laugh like I get it, and look off across the street, where there’s a sudden flurry of noise and movement. Some kind of show is being put on. They’ve blocked off part of the road, and a number of costumed guys are standing in the middle of it, shouting something about how the notorious Jackson gang has robbed a bank in Eagle City.
“What is this?” I ask Wendy.
“You’ve never seen this before?” she asks incredulously. “Cowboy melodrama. One of the other great things about this town. Where else on earth can you go and witness a good old-fashioned Wild West shoot-out? Come on, let’s go have a look.”
I follow her across the street toward the action. The cowboy actors are quickly drawing a crowd from the tourists on the boardwalk. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I notice that the actors all tote rifles or pistols.