“Fluffy fella there is the type I want,” she says.
It’s a Bernese mountain dog, and it’s sniffing around the church garden while its owner sits on a bench checking his phone. They’re giant things, Berneses. Fuzzy and huggable and adorable. I understand why people like them, but all I can think about is how big a pain it would be to pick burdocks from their tails.
“You must still miss Skipper,” I say. Skipper was her family’s golden who they had to put to sleep last year. Cancer of the stomach. So sad.
“He was a good pooch all right,” Meeka says. “Old Diaper Breath.”
“Diaper Breath, huh? There are a couple of guys I know who could go by that nickname.”
“Fuck!” Meeka says. “Who? Not—”
“Not Logan,” I assure her. “That boy loves his Altoids too much.”
“Then who?”
“Forget it.”
“You can’t tell me there are at least two guys out there with diaper breath and expect me not to grill your ass on it. This is important information for girls to share.”
“Fine. Noah.”
“Fuuuck!” she howls as she pounds her fist on the wheel. The horn beeps and it surprises me how much it makes me jump.
“I know, I know,” I say. “He’s too hot to have bad breath.”
“I’ll bet he’ll be there tonight,” she says, and her eyebrows go up and down. “I’ll talk to him, get really close, and if I catch a whiff, I’ll faint. Fall right into a bowl of guac.”
“No you won’t.”
“Ya think?”
It’s never wise to call Meeka’s bluff. Meeka rarely bluffs.
“Fine,” I say. “Do what you want, but it means I’m not going to tell you who the other guy is.”
“Diaper Breath numero dos?”
“It’ll be your mission to figure it out.”
Meeka puckers up. “I’ll be kissing a lot of frogs tonight, then.”
I almost call her a slut, in a joking way, but then my chest seizes up.
Cole.
He used that word constantly. He’d always say, “Hey, if girls can call each other sluts, then I should be able to call girls sluts. And if black guys can call each other—”
“It’s Caden,” I blurt out. “He’s the other one.”
Meeka’s nose scrunches up and she says, “Booo. You’re no fun. And anyway, I’ve kissed Caden.”
“What?”
“Sure,” she says. “Freshman year. In the gondola. His breath was fine then.”
“Well, maybe he’d had a tuna sandwich the day I kissed him.”
“And when was this day?”
I dip my head. Sheepishly I admit, “Yesterday. After practice. In the parking lot by the fields.”
“He kissed you?”
“More like the other way around.”
“Holly!”
I rub my eyes and say what I haven’t been able to say but have been feeling all week. “I needed to think about something else for a bit. Anything else.”
Meeka’s head tilts. Her eyes are wide, taking all of me in. “You told me we would be okay,” she says, and she gives me her right hand.
I kiss it because I know that’s what she wants. Because it makes me feel closer to her. And I nod.
“We are okay.”
GRAYSON
I CAN’T BELIEVE I’ve known these kids for so long. Back to kindergarten for most of them, some of them even earlier. Five or six of them went to the day care that Mom ran out of our house, so they’ve seen me get my diapers changed. Not that anyone remembers that, but that’s the level of familiarity we’re working with for a lot of us. Connections run deep.
As parties go, this isn’t bad. Becca doesn’t want any spills or smells in the house, so we’re out back. It’s cold here on the patio, but there are a few heat lamps that make it bearable. Lots of hotties out here adding to the heat too, sporting Patagonia vests and beanies. Nice.
There’s a keg. Always a good sign. Problem is, it’s some craft shit Bornstein got from his cousin. Gose, it’s called. Tastes weird, like lemonade and dishwater. I hope it’s got a ton of alcohol in it, because if I’m not drunk soon, I’ll have to find a bottle of something strong and duck into the woods for a bit.
These kids are all so happy. They’re laughing about every little thing. That shouldn’t make me mad, but I kinda feel like grabbing some random guy and punching him so I can wipe the smiles off everyone’s faces. What can I say? I’m a real asshole. At least sometimes. And some of those times, I deserve to be.
“What’s up?” Paul Baker says as he crashes his Solo cup against mine.
It makes the beer spill onto my hand. Cold, but I don’t care. I take a gulp and say, “Getting wasted off this, whatever this is.”
“This!” he shouts. “This is the best gose in the country, son!”
He pronounces it goes-ah, which could be the right way to say it, but it only makes the stuff sound even worse. “Still tastes like piss,” I say.
“I don’t know. A ninety-four on BeerAdvocate. Pretty legit.”
“You’re the expert.”
Paul is the type of kid who will pull out his phone and check the ratings of movies, food, almost anything you’re enjoying. Or, in this case, hating. He’s got some old-ass Tumblr where he posts his own movie and TV reviews and other shit. Why? I don’t know. We’ve all got stuff to make us feel important.
“We’re in a golden age of beer,” Paul says, sipping his like it’s wine. “Bask in it.”
“If you say so,” I tell him, and I finish my cup without tasting, pour it directly down my throat.
If I didn’t know him better, Paul would be a good candidate for that punch in the face, but I do know him better and I sort of like him, despite the know-it-all attitude. The kid actually asks me questions about myself. A rare thing.
“So how are the sculptures coming?” he says.
“They’re coming,” I say, because that’s about all I can say. For one, I’m not really a “sculptor.” I nail, I carve, sometimes weld. I don’t really sculpt. So I don’t talk about it that way. Also, I haven’t touched any of my pieces in weeks. Not since we started our planning.