Jackson’s eyes are glazed over with crazy, his gun propped under him. He glances at me once then yells, “Pull!” I can barely hear the word through the earplugs, but I duck as the clay bursts out of one of the long pipes. Jackson shoots the clay and it breaks into tiny pieces above the empty field, like bits of solid rain. He looks over and smiles. “Your turn.”
I must look like someone trying to walk for the first time as I fumble with the gun. His dad leans back against the wall with a tense look in his eyes, like he’s afraid I’m going to shoot my foot off. Adrenaline is running through my veins and I’m fighting to not think of the last time I held a gun in my hand. Are they really going to let me just shoot something? I adjust the gun and turn my head to Jackson, gripping the gun so tight I’m afraid it’s going to slip out of my fingers and kill him. “I don’t think I can. . . . Am I holding this right?” I look up at his dad.
His dad nods. “Show the girl how it’s done, son,” he says.
Jackson laughs, comes over, and adjusts the gun to the correct position. He leaves me and stands on the other side and smiles. “Go ahead, say it.”
I take a deep breath. “Pull!”
The clay flies out of an opposite tube that Jackson’s clay did. I find it in the air and shoot. This sends me flying back into the wall as the gun topples onto the ground. The clay whistles in the air until it drops.
Jackson laughs as he holds out a hand for me. I grab it and dust myself off. I look down at the gun and the memories come back. Placing it in my mouth, pulling the trigger. I can still taste the metal on my tongue. An involuntary shudder passes through me. “I think I’m done shooting for now.”
His dad walks by and places a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve seen worse, kid.” Then he’s gone faster than I can place the gun down.
Jackson gives me a crooked grin. “That’s more than he’s said to me.” He laughs, then drags me inside to the bar. We take a seat at one of the tables and order our drinks. Jackson’s dad glances over before turning back to the huge screen. As I look around I realize I’m the only girl other than a few of the servers.
“Where’s all the girls?”
Jackson places his arm across the back of the booth and scans the room. “Huh, never noticed that, but yeah, you’re right. It’s pretty testosterone-filled.”
“Have you brought Janie here?” I ask as our server brings our drinks and some chips and salsa.
He laughs again. “Uh, no. Not really her scene.”
I grab a chip and dip it into the bowl of salsa. He scrutinizes me and I get paranoid, touching my face to make sure I don’t have any salsa on it. “What?”
He folds his hands and weaves his fingers together. “What are you doing with Colter?”
I dip another chip into the salsa and take a bite. “I’m not going to talk about him with you.”
“I am the one who gave him your number.”
“So?”
He shifts in the booth and nudges my foot with his. “I never told you what he said when he asked for it.”
My heart momentarily stops beating. I stir the salsa with a tortilla chip. “I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.”
For once I can tell he sees through my lie.
“Sure, okay. If you don’t want to know, I don’t have to tell you.” He smiles and takes a sip of his water.
I roll my eyes. I know he wants me to ask, but he can’t know I’m actually starting to like Colter.
“He said he was curious about you. That he wanted to get to know you.” He takes a drink of water and leaves me hanging on his words. He places the glass down carefully. “I told him you weren’t interested.”
“You said what?”
He laughs. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer. I asked him what he saw in you, and you know what he said?”
I shake my head and clutch my fingers together under the table.
“He said he could help you. I asked him what with? But he didn’t answer.”
“Really?”
“So . . . has he helped you?”
I can feel the smile beginning to form on my lips, so I try to disguise it before Jackson can notice. “He’s trying.”
Jackson eyes me carefully, analyzing my expression like only someone who knows you can. “He must be a saint to put up with you.”
I laugh for a few seconds before hearing Tate’s voice slip into my brain, the memory of our conversation on the porch where she called my imaginary boyfriend a saint. Laughing feels like a betrayal, so I stop and try to recover before he can see tears form. I toss a chip at him. “What’s your excuse?”
“Temporary insanity.”
31
Party City is full of shit. Cool shit, but still, shit that can be thrown away or shoved into a closet and forgotten about until the next year. Most of the time it never makes it that long. I stare at the Party City sign through my smudged windshield and laugh. The sign has the R and the first Y burnt out, so it looks like it reads Pat City.