got drunk after prom, stayed out all night, split a plate of biscuits and gravy at Bob Evans, and I kissed her goodbye sometime around 8:00 a.m. The kiss was more innocent than I wanted it to be, just a quick peck on the lips, although I did try to pry open her teeth with my tongue. I’m a giver.
“Thanks for choosing McDonald’s this morning, May I take your order?”
I recognize the cashier’s bad bowl cut and pencil-thin mustache. His name is Chip Funke. He’s in our class. Nice guy but keeps to himself at school and plays trombone in the band. A little on the delusional side—drives go-karts on the weekends, talks about one day winning the Indy 500.
“Morning, Chip.”
“Oh, hi there, Hank.”
“You plan on going to school today?”
“I pulled a twelve-hour shift last night. Thought I’d stay and help the morning crew before I head out.”
“That’s mighty charitable of you. How’s the racing going?”
“Doing pretty well in three-quarter midgets.”
“Does that involve race cars or actual midgets that are seventy-five percent as tall as normal midgets?”
“Shut up, Hank. What do you want to eat?”
“I’m just fucking with you, Chip. Egg McMuffin and a coffee, please.”
Hatch orders two sausage biscuits and a Coke. Claire and Beth both just order coffees, their appetites curbed by the most popular of high school diet pills, cigarettes. Claire, Beth, Hatch, and I sit at our regular booth in the far corner of the restaurant. The Dwyer twins sit a couple booths away with their boyfriends.
“Tammy, Sammy.”
“Hi, Hank!” Their Prepster boyfriends don’t even raise their heads to look at us. Hatch and I call them “Steff-1” and “Steff-2,” in honor of their feathered hair, glassy eyes, expensive suits, and cotton shirts unbuttoned down to their navels that were more than a little derivative of James Spader’s character in Pretty in Pink. Steff-1, Tammy’s boyfriend, is the guy who likes to rip out spleens. Steff-2, Sammy’s boyfriend, has slept around behind Sammy’s back for almost their entire relationship.
Beth looks at all of us. “I can’t believe we’re seniors.”
Claire nods. “This year is going to be one to remember.”
“I plan on not remembering much of it.” Hatch laughs. He passes the invisible baton to me. “How about you, Fitzy?”
“Umm…” I can’t think of anything to say, which of course means I’m about to say everything. Even better, I’ll probably phrase it as a question, as if to mitigate the moment with uncertainty.
“Laura and I are back together?” The sound of a cash register…
Thanks for choosing McDonald’s this morning. May I take your order…
The cash register again…
Your order number is fifty-seven…
“What?” Hatch slams his hands on the table. “You’ve gotta be fist fucking me.”
Claire shakes her head. “Unbelievable.”
“Seriously, Fitzy.” Hatch grabs my shoulder, squeezing. “You better be yanking my chain, or else you can just go suck a fat baby’s dick.”
I try to ignore Hatch’s metaphor onslaught. I stare at Beth. She hasn’t said anything.
Number fifty-five…
I look at the receipt in my hand. “That’s us.” My eyes do a quick back-and-forth glance from Beth to the cash register. She picks up on the hint, stands up, and walks with me.
“Well?” I say to Beth.
“Well, what?”
“You okay?”
“W-when did this…” She stutters, her first hint of recognition.
“It didn’t all of a sudden happen. Laura sent me a letter a few weeks ago. We talked. And it just sort of went from there.”
I leave out the details of course. About our stolen smiles and “accidental” bumps in the hallways that each became a new promise to one another. About every forbidden late night rendezvous that by day could turn me into a social pariah. About every after-hours phone call made after Mom fell asleep so she wouldn’t know I was again talking to the girl who reduced her little boy to a pool of liquid charcoal and self-pity. About my desperate attempt to erase the pain, rationalizing that love and anguish just went hand-in-hand.
“Did you see her before or after that night we—”
“After, definitely after.” I grab the tray off the counter.
“You sure?” Beth’s eyes narrow, testing me, trying to catch me in a lie. I’m not lying, but she overestimates her ability to tell one way or the other. I’m a very good liar.
I throw a handful of ketchup packets onto my tray. Beth follows with some creamers and sugars. I sense some disbelief.
“Beth, I think you know me well enough by now. I swear to you, I thought Laura and I were done. I got the first letter from Laura, the one that said she wanted me back, right after you and I hooked up.”
“That same night?”
“Yes, I’m talking minutes after we dropped you and Claire off at your house.”
“Jesus, Hank, that was like six weeks ago. Have you two been back together ever since?”
“More or less.”
“Is that why you’ve been so weird lately? Why you haven’t been returning my calls?”
“I’m sorry.”
“What are you apologizing for?”
“I-I don’t know.” My turn to stutter. “You know, you and I, w-we…”
“You and I weren’t ever a couple, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
We sit back down at the table. I ready my concession speech. “Guys, don’t think for a second anything’s going to change this summer. We’re still going to have a blast.” My tone conveys the opposite of my original intent, like I’m trying to convince myself more than anybody else. But they play along. That’s what friends do.
Claire reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You bet we’re going to have some fun.”
Hatch slaps me on the back. “Even if I have to drag your whipped ass out of the house to do it.”
Again, Beth is quiet. She’s tying a discarded straw wrapper in multiple knots. She looks past us, out the window.
I catch myself staring at her for the second time this morning. As good as Beth looks in a gymnastics leotard, never mind her bikini, her usual wardrobe reads like someone in a witness protection program, like those National Enquirer photos of movie actresses who go out in public in old sweat suits, baseball caps, and sunglasses. Most of the time, at least when she’s sober, Beth doesn’t want to be noticed. Like this morning, a blue jean miniskirt that’s more maxi than mini, and an unflattering long-sleeved rugby shirt untucked and draped halfway to the end of her skirt.
But there’s something about Beth—if not a confidence, a boldness to her. She never asks to be taken too seriously. She has a hellion side to her personality. About seventy-two ounces of barley and hops separate the girl who drove your grandfather to Sunday night bingo from the girl who’ll give you a hand job in the backseat of your car. She’s a refreshing change from Laura, who tends to grow detached and sullen in direct proportion to the number of drinks she consumes. With Laura, there’s just so much emotion—too much emotion—tied up in even the smallest of affections. In a lot of meaningful ways, Beth is the