DAVID: A dreadful combination.
THOMAS: Unsurprising. So Billie is Daisy Mae?
DAVID: Billie is . . . complicated.
THOMAS: I’d say.
DAVID: You would?
THOMAS: Yes, because unless I’m wrong, Billie is very convinced we’re together.
DAVID: Me and you?
THOMAS: You and me.
DAVID: Why?
THOMAS: David Winters, are you ashamed to be with me?
DAVID: Incredibly ashamed. Your body is stupid.
THOMAS: My body is a wonderland.
DAVID: I’m doubly ashamed now.
THOMAS: You wish you could get with me.
DAVID: I’ve been with you. Seventh grade. Your couch. World of Warcraft. Seventh grade. Environmental science class. Kayak number eight. Seventh— THOMAS: Beside the point.
DAVID: The point exactly. We know what we look like when you’re courting me— THOMAS: I never courted, you antiquated fool.
DAVID: . . .
THOMAS: Okay, I courted you a little. I was quite young and rather ambitious.
DAVID: Regardless, we are NOT together now. And Gerry was. All. Over. You. Who wouldn’t know you two were a couple?
THOMAS: Gerry was also all over Billie. Which, I must say, Billie did not mind.
DAVID: You’d never know if Billie minded. She’s got a bajillion layers.
THOMAS: Well, one of those layers believes you’re gay.
DAVID: Great. And another couple of them are maybe in love with two other people.
THOMAS: Two? She is also rather ambitious. Remind me to tell her not to kiss you in a kayak. Very unstable.
DAVID: You’re giving me PTSD.
THOMAS: I kissed Gerry a bunch of times in front of her. Only as a sacrifice.
DAVID: I’m sure. What do you think makes her think we’re together?
THOMAS: Well, we vibe. And in your I-do-not-have-to-please-John-Winters exploratory phase, perhaps she sees eyeliner and tight jeans and thinks gay. I assume metro isn’t a look in Otters Holt.
DAVID: Not a popular one. Most of the dudes have a fishhook on their person at all times. But eyeliner should not mean I want to sleep with you.
THOMAS: Blame the vibe.
DAVID: That damn vibe.
THOMAS: Gerry and I talked about it.
DAVID: The vibe?
THOMAS: No. You and Billie. We like her for you. And Gerry says she’s grade-A in the kissing department.
DAVID: Well, thanks. Me too. But what should I do about the gay thing?
THOMAS: Well, you’re not a hundred percent straight.
DAVID: I’m straight-ish. At the moment.
THOMAS: True. True. Plus, there’s the problem of her liking two other people.
DAVID: I probably just need to let her think what she thinks.
THOMAS: If she thinks you’re with me, she’ll know you have excellent taste.
DAVID: Asshole.
THOMAS: You love me.
DAVID: I’d have to.
THOMAS: Seriously. Go with your gut on this thing. Tell her when it makes sense. Speaking of. What are you going to tell John Winters? She might be grade-A at kissing, but John will not find her fitting.
DAVID: He’s been pressuring me.
THOMAS: About girls?
DAVID: No. About living with him.
THOMAS: You could be back by lacrosse season.
DAVID: I could.
THOMAS: You thinking about it?
DAVID: . . .
THOMAS: I interpret that silence to mean you really like Billie, eh?
DAVID: Yeah, but that’s not it. I’m not sure what I’ll do yet.
11
There’s an after-church Hexagon meeting going on at Woods’s house. A much-needed Save the Harvest Festival follow-up. I’m late. Dad needed an extra thirty minutes of my time.
“Billie,” he said, waving me into his home office. I stood next to the coatrack, beside his robe, touching the velvet stole draped over the hanger. I’ve loved the feel of it since I spent Sunday mornings on his lap.
He whispered, “I’ve heard a rumor that your mother is on the Corn Dolly ballot this year.”
I wondered who was telling him positive things. “That’s great.”
“Billie, this might really help us.”
“I know.”
Then came the ask. “Can you tread carefully?”
The thing is: my nose was clean. Serving old people, being nice, wearing a shirt that wasn’t black to church this morning.
I promised him I would do my best.
He promised me that if Mom won a Corn Dolly no one would care about the fire.
We crossed our fingers that this rumor was correct. It was nice to be on his side again.
I push through the Carringtons’ back door without a knock. The kitchen smells like peppermint tea, which makes me think of Big T. Mrs. Carrington clucks. “There’s my favorite girl.” She’s standing at the counter, wearing yoga pants and a zippered fleece, attacking her grocery list. One of these days, if the festival doesn’t die, she’ll be awarded a Corn Dolly for being ungodly beautiful at fifty.
“Someone has to keep you on your toes,” I tease, and steal an orange from the bowl.
She chews her pencil eraser, strains her ears toward the hallway. “They’re in the game room. Try to make them behave.”
“It’ll take all five of them to make me behave, Mrs. C.”
“Please. Your insides are all mushy and good.”
“Take that back,” I call over my shoulder.
I pause outside the game room door, anticipating the scene. Woods stands at the front of the room. Einstein is on his easel. Some action movie is reeling on the big screen, but everyone is watching Woods. Fifty, Janie Lee, Mash, and Davey—in that order—are sardines on the couch. There’s a bowl of popcorn, two Mountain Dews, two waters, and Woods’s mug of tea spread across the coffee table. Fifty’s begging everyone to walk the beam; Woods is reminding them that “progress is imperative.”
When I push open the door, I am correct in ninety-five percent of my prediction.
Post church, Woods has stripped to T-shirt and mesh shorts. He is twitchy with excitement and casting a forty-foot shadow over the entire room. I am overcome by the desire to tackle him straight on, tell the rest of these bastards to leave, and see if he’ll watch the book television so I can nap on his shoulder. I wanted to be in a group, and now I want that group to be limited to two. Gerry said, I don’t kiss everyone. I kiss the people who have the little pieces of my soul. I am struck again with the knowledge that Woods has one of my pieces.
Instead, I say, “You assholes started without me.”
Woods throws a marker, which I catch and throw back. I launch the orange, too. It hits him in the chest and rolls under the couch. We’ll find it in a year and blame the stain on Mash.
“We waited as long as we could,” he says to me. To Davey, he says, “Elizabeth who?”
Davey drums his fingers on the side table. They nearly blur. And that’s just like him. He’s a helicopter. He could lift off, right here, and I wouldn’t be surprised. Catching my eye, he halts his fingers, looks at me, warns me about something without saying a word.
Unfazed, I give him the standard up-nod, and vault over the back of the couch. After having stepped on nearly everyone, I settle on the floor directly in front of Mash.