Maybe. But this morning a headache wasn't going to stop him. The sight of Henry McCain's 4Runner or LaDonna McCain's Prius in the driveway might have; in that case he might've turned around, gone back to his own house, taken another Imitrex, and lain down in his bedroom with the shades drawn and a cool washcloth on his forehead. Possibly feeling the pain start to diminish as the headache derailed, but probably not. Once those black spiders really got a foothold -
He looked up again, this time squinting his eyes against the hateful light, but the Seneca was gone, and even the buzz of its engine (also aggravating - all sounds were aggravating when he was getting one of these bitchkitties) was fading. Chuck Thompson with some flyboy or flygirl wannabe. And although Junior had nothing against Chuck - hardly knew him - he wished with sudden, childish ferocity that Chuck's pupil would f**k up bigtime and crash the plane.
Preferably in the middle of his father's car dealership.
Another sickish throb of pain twisted through his head, but he went up the steps to the McCains' door anyway. This had to be done. This was over-fucking-due. Angie needed a lesson.
But just a little one. Don't let yourself get out of control.
As if summoned, his mother's voice replied. Her maddeningly complacent voice. Junior was always a bad-tempered boy, hut he keeps it under much better control now. Don't you, Junior?
Well. Gee. He had, anyway. Football had helped. But now there was no football. Now there wasn't even college. Instead, there were the headaches. And they made him feel like one mean motherfucker.
Don't let yourself get out of control.
No. But he would talk to her, headache or no headache.
And, as the old saying was, he just might have to talk to her by hand. Who knew? Making Angie feel worse might make him feel better.
Junior rang the bell.
2
Angie McCain was just out of the shower. She slipped on a robe, belted it, then wrapped a towel around her wet hair. 'Coming!' she called as she not-quite-trotted down the stairs to the first floor. There was a little smile on her face. It was Frankie, she was quite sure it must be Frankie.Things were finally coming rightside up. The bastardly short-order cook (good-looking but still a bastard) had either left town or was leaving, and her parents were out. Combine the two and you got a sign from God that things were corning rightside up. She and Frankie could put all the crap in the rearview and get back together.
She knew exactly how to handle it: open the door and then open her robe. Right there in the Saturday-morning daylight, where anybody passing might see her. She'd make sure it was Frankie first, of course - she had no intention of flashing fat old Mr Wicker if he'd rung the bell with a package or a registered mail - but it was at least half an hour too early for the mail.
No, it was Frankie. She was sure.
She opened the door, the little smile widening to a welcoming grin - perhaps not fortunate, since her teeth were rather crammed together and the size of jumbo Chiclets. One hand was on the tie of her robe. But she didn't pull it. Because it wasn't Frankie. It was Junior, and he looked so angry -
She had seen his black look before - many times, in fact - but never this black since eighth grade, when Junior broke the Dupree kid's arm. The little fag had dared to swish his bubble-butt onto the town common basketball court and ask to play. And she supposed Junior must have had the same thunderstorm on his face that night in Dipper's parking lot, but of course she hadn't been there, she had only heard about it. Everybody in The Mill had heard about it. She'd been called in to talk to Chief Perkins, that damn Barbie had been there, and eventually that had gotten out, too.
'Junior? Junior, what - '
Then he slapped her, and thinking pretty much ceased.
3
He didn't get much into that first one, because he was still in the doorway and there wasn't much room to swing; he could only draw his arm back to half-cock. He might not have hit her at all (at least not to start with) had she not been flashing a grin - God, those teeth, they'd given him the creeps even in grammar school - and if she hadn't called him Junior.
Of course everyone in town called him Junior, he thought of himself us Junior, but he hadn't realized how much he hated it, how much he hoped-to-die-in-a-maggot-pie hated it until he heard it come bolting out from between the spooky tombstone teeth of the bitch who had caused him so much trouble. The sound cf it went through his head like the sunglare when he'd looked up to see the plane.
But as slaps from half-cock go, this one wasn't bad. She went stumbling backward against the newel post of the stairway and the towel flew off her hair. Wet brown snaggles hung around her cheeks, making her look like Medusa. The smile had been replaced by a look of stunned surprise, and Junior saw a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth. That was good. That was fine. The bitch deserved to bleed for what she had done. So much trouble, not just for him but for Frankie and Mel and Carter, too.