Todd Strasser - Blood on my hands

I sat down at a lunch table by myself, not surprised to be shut out but feeling stung just the same. Someone sat down near me with a tray, but I didn’t focus on her until she asked, “What’s going on?” It was Mia.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“But why?”

There was no point in telling her why. It would only make her feel bad. So I said, “I don’t know.”

Mia bit into a cheeseburger and chewed rhythmically, her eyes downcast. As bad as I felt for myself, I felt equally bad for her. She’d done nothing wrong. All she wanted was to be in that crowd. The more I thought about how unfair it was, the angrier I got. Only I wasn’t sure who I was angrier at-Katherine for being so cruel, or myself for being so stupid.

Mia swallowed, then said, “You know why she dumps on us?”

I shrugged and shook my head.

“What’s the one thing all those girls have in common?” Mia asked.

I glanced over at the table. “I don’t know, what?”

“Money,” Mia said. “Lots of it.”

I thought about that for a moment. “Not Katherine.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Her dad doesn’t have a job,” I said.

Mia leaned close. “She’s a Remington . Her dad doesn’t need a job. Her mom comes from, like, a totally wealthy family. That’s why we’re not at that table, because our families don’t have as much money as theirs.” Her cheeks bulging with food, she shook her head. “God, I hate her.”

Deep down, I didn’t agree. It was hard to imagine that it was really about money, but maybe that was the easiest way for Mia to rationalize it.

“What’s so great about Katherine, anyway?” Mia asked. “So what if she has rich friends and a snobby attitude? I don’t need her friends and I don’t need her. I can have my own table and my own friends. How about it, Callie? Want to sit at my table?”

Why not? I thought. I had nowhere else to sit.

Tuesday 5:52 P.M.

“SLADE,” I IMPLORE him in a whisper from the backseat of the pickup. “Please?”

He still doesn’t answer. He’s turned away and is facing the front. All I see is the back of his head.

“Don’t you care?”

He grips the steering wheel and leans forward, resting his forehead on the back of his hands. “Don’t I care? For God’s sake, Cal, did you forget that you’re the one who broke up with me? Did you ever stop to think about what you did? You just plain straight up wrecked me. And now… now you want me to help you?”

We sit in silence. So I guess the picture on his computer means less than I thought. And he still hasn’t explained the panty hose. Maybe I should just open the door and get out. But I can’t give up. I just can’t! “Okay, Slade, you’re right. I’m not in a position to ask you to do anything. Just tell me one thing. What time is Congresswoman Jenkins scheduled to speak tomorrow?”

He sighs loudly and shakes his head as if he thinks I’ve lost my mind, but he also digs into his back pocket, comes up with a piece of paper, and holds it close to the window and near his face, trying to read it in the dim light. “She’s supposed to arrive at ten and take a tour of the facility. The ceremony starts at eleven. She leaves right after.”

“There has to be some time in there,” I tell him. “After the tour and before the ceremony. She’s going to want to primp before she goes in front of the cameras.”

He twists around and looks over the seat at me. “And what do you think you’re going to do? Just stroll in the front door and have a chat?”

I can’t answer. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I only know that I’ve got all night to come up with a plan. “I’ll think of something.” I expect him to turn away, but he doesn’t. He stays there, twisted in his seat, looking at me.

“I’m sorry, Slade. I really am. And… I know you don’t want to hear this, but I really do still love you, no matter what happens.”

He lowers his head and stares down. I can’t believe what an idiot I was. Here is the one real, true thing in my life and I threw it away. How pathetic. And yet… and yet… there’s still a little time. There’s still tonight. Maybe there’s a chance. I reach out and touch his hair, run my fingers gently over his cheek.

This time, he doesn’t yell. He raises his face. Is it my imagination or are his eyes glistening? He reaches around the seat toward me and I feel his fingers touch my cheek. He slides his knuckles along my jaw and toward my lips and I kiss his fingers. Maybe it’s insane to feel happy in a situation like this, but I do. I’m so glad to be with him again… to feel his caring again. The seat stops him from coming closer to me, but it doesn’t keep me from stretching up toward him. Closer… closer… until at last our lips meet.

We kiss in that awkward position. The dampness I feel where our cheeks meet must be from tears. His tears.

“I made a mistake,” I whisper. “Crazy things happen. Things you never expect. You look back and can’t believe what you did. Like it couldn’t have been you.”

“I know,” he whispers, kissing my face and lips. “I know.”

“And… you forgive me?”

“Sure, Shrimp. I forgive you.”

“And the panty hose in your truck?”

“Some clients want a texture in the plaster so we rub it with old panty hose.”

That’s a relief! “And… you still love me?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he sniffs. “I’ll always love you.”

He tells me to lie low in the truck and wait. After the last worker leaves, he’ll come get me. I fall asleep trying to figure out what I can say to Congresswoman Jenkins tomorrow.

When I wake up, it’s dark and very quiet. I’m instantly alert. Something isn’t right. Raising my head, I look through the windshield of the pickup. The parking lot is empty.

Then, near the back of the town center, I see something glow red in the dark-the ember of a cigarette.

I let myself out of the pickup. The air is cool and chilly and I hug myself to stay warm. Slade is sitting in the shadows, smoking, with a half-finished bottle on the ground beside him.

“Everyone’s gone. Why didn’t you come get me?”

Instead of answering, he takes a drag of his cigarette and exhales a plume into the air. “Know what I was just thinking about?”

“How could I?”

“How unfair it was that your birthday came right in the middle of those two months when I wasn’t allowed to speak or write to you.” He looks up with a crooked smile on his face. “Happy birthday, Shrimp.”

“Thanks.” I offer him my hands, to help him up. “Now come on. We’ve got things to do.”

He studies my hands, then shakes his head as if he can’t believe that someone as little as me really thinks she can help him up. But he takes hold just the same.

Limping slightly, he leads me across the dark, empty parking lot, around the orange cones blocking the newly painted white lines of parking spaces, through the back door of the new town center. In the hallway, under a bare yellowish lightbulb, he stops and looks back at me. His eyes are sad.

“What?” I ask.

Instead of answering, he gives me half a smile and shakes his head again, then takes my hand and leads me up the concrete steps to the second floor.

He pushes through a door and we enter a large shadowy room illuminated by some streetlights outside. The smell of drying paint is in the air. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I can see that this is the new lounge. Or at least, it will be the new lounge once it’s finished. Right now, the floor is still bare concrete. New rolls of carpet rest against a wall. In one corner couches covered with plastic sheets are positioned around a large flat-screen TV. In another corner is the ancient pool table from the old EMS building. Along the wall are cabinets and a sink, a stove, and a refrigerator, all with their new-appliance labels and warnings still attached.