_*_ 20 _*_
All of the bus windows were open on the ride home, but the air that poured through them came straight out of a volcanic eruption. I closed my eyes and thought about a long, ice-cold shower. After that, I’d eat a box of Popsicles and then, I’d call a limo to take me to the megaplex and I would watch movie after movie in air-conditioning so cold I’d need to buy a sweatshirt to prevent hypothermia.
Except that I was broke, so most of that plan was a mirage brought on by the ungodly temperature of the bus.
The shower would feel good, though. Maybe I’d eat a Popsicle in the shower, cool my inside and outside at the same time.
The bus stopped, wheezed open the doors, and let off another group of bedraggled students.
I didn’t want to go to the football game. It would be safer to ride my bike than ask Dad to drive me, and that meant I’d be sweat-soaked and gross again by the time I got there. And I’d be even grosser by the time I got home. I should have held out for twenty bucks. Maybe fifty.
The bus stopped in traffic, and the sun beat on the roof, broiling me like a cheap steak set too close to the coils at the top of the oven.
A cold shower, Popsicles, and then I would fill the bathtub with ice cubes and lie in it. The books I’d checked out of the library earlier in the week were still stacked on my bureau, whispering my name and begging to be read.
If Finn wanted me to write about the game, then he’d have to find a way to get me there and home again without me risking heatstroke. I checked the number he’d written in my notebook, dialed it, and listened to it ring twenty times before hanging up.
Who doesn’t have voice mail?
The Big Date must have already started. I started to text Gracie to ask if she knew who Finn was going out with, but I deleted the message. The information wasn’t worth alerting her Early Warning System. It was probably a girl from another school, anyway. He was a big flirt with an inflated opinion of himself. In fairness, he was sort of funny. And not entirely unattractive. My thoughts drifted to what he must look like in a Speedo, but I yanked them firmly back. The heat was causing my brain to short-circuit.
I stepped off the bus, wiped the sweat off my face, and started walking. Maybe I’d skip the game. I’d find a way to borrow the team statistics and eavesdrop by the jock table Monday morning to pick up a few quotes. That would work. Totally work.
The closer I got to home, the better I felt. I’d treat myself to a reading marathon all weekend. All the ice cream I could eat, all the pages I could read. Heaven.
The mood lasted until I saw the trucks crowded in our driveway: two shiny pickups, a battered SUV, and a Jeep Wrangler with no roof or doors, along with three motorcycles. They were stuffed full of camping equipment, fishing poles, coolers, and covered with military bumper stickers.
The windows of the house were open, shattered, maybe, by the deafening volume of the music being played in the living room. The song stopped and a loud chorus of voices, men’s voices, burst into laughter, name-calling, and cursing.
I opened the door. The living room and dining room beyond it were crowded with a dozen guys all older than me and younger than Dad, with military-short hair, black ink on jacked-up arms. They wore T-shirts stretched tight, silver dog-tag chains slipping under the collar. Despite the heat, they all wore long pants, jeans, or camo. A couple had knives hanging off their belts and sat with knees bouncing, eyes restless, darting on involuntary perimeter checks. Soldiers, for sure. Active duty infantry, on leave.
Dad sat in the middle of the couch, pale and tired compared to them, but looking more like himself than he had in months. He raised a can of soda high.
“Hayley Rose! Just in time!”