December Park(130)

We loitered around the game booths, scrambling for coins whenever we saw them glinting off the pavement. Once we had enough, we pooled the change into Scott’s hand, and he purchased five softballs to toss at a pyramid of ceramic bottles. Scott was a crack shot—he scattered the bottles with the second pitch. His prize was a ticket for a free falafel, which the five of us tore into like vultures, then washed down with a communal bottle of Pepsi.

At five thirty, the parade started coming down Third Avenue. It was led by two women who carried a banner that read Harting Farms Chapter of the Benevolent and Protective Order of the Elks and wore big floppy hats adorned with bright flowers. The Stanton School marching band followed, those kids sweating in their starchy blue and gold uniforms, their trumpets and trombones and bassoons blazing like fire in the sunlight, the snare drums resonating like machine guns.

Next was a conga line of dog walkers, the owners waving to the crowd, the dogs looking hot and tired and overall miserable. A few motorcars, outfitted in red, white, and blue streamers and piloted by men in patriotic hats who grinned like they had femurs wedged into their mouths, brought up the rear.

They all banked sharply onto Center Street. The marching band diverged, claiming its final position atop the risers erected in front of the bandstand. Then they broke out into a jazzy rendition of “You’re a Grand Old Flag.”

There were a few older girls seated on bleachers beside the bandstand, drinking what looked like soda but was probably alcohol from clear plastic water bottles. One of the girls was Audrey MacMillan, who’d gotten drunk and driven her car off the road last October. The damage to her leg must have been extensive, since she still wore a brace.

My gaze slid along the bleachers a bit farther until I saw Rachel Lowrey seated with some friends. She had her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and wore a purple blouse and faded pink pants. In her lap she cradled a fountain drink, and she sipped occasionally from the straw. She leaned over to Elizabeth Mosley and whispered something in her ear. Both girls laughed.

Rachel turned away and looked right at me. For a moment, she seemed surprised to see me. I wondered if she realized that I had been staring at her, and I instantly felt self-conscious. Then she smiled and waved. I smiled and waved back . . . then quickly averted my eyes as a not-so-unpleasant tingle sprung to life in the center of my stomach.

The Lambeth twins strutted over, each one sucking down a bottle of Cherry Coke. They wore Washington Bullets basketball jerseys and matching hats turned backward.

Jonathan Lambeth kicked one of Michael’s sneakers. “Hey, butt cheese. You guys hear about Mr. Van Praet?”

“Sure,” Michael said. “Can you believe it? A mountain lion in these parts?”

Jonathan scrunched up his face in confusion—a gesture his twin brother mimicked. “Mountain lion?”

“Yeah,” Michael said. “You heard he died, right?”

“Well, yeah,” Jonathan said. “It was a heart attack.”

Michael casually waved him off. “That’s just a rumor so people don’t start freaking out. Some mountain lion came down through western Maryland and was apparently living in the woods around town, eating out of trash cans. Old Mr. Van Praet was dragging his trash to the curb and—wham! The thing jumped out from behind a Buick and tore the poor son of a bitch down the middle like an old shirt.”

The Lambeth twins stared at him. In a drawn-out, somewhat squeaky voice, Jason said, “I don’t think that’s true.”

“You’re full of shit, Sugarland,” Jonathan said.

“Am I?”

“It would be in the newspapers and on TV.”

“Unless the local authorities don’t want to incite panic.”

“Oh yeah? How the hell do you know, anyway?”

Michael jerked a thumb in my direction. “Mazzone’s dad is a cop, remember? Who do you think had to scoop up the body parts and put ’em in plastic bags?”

“That’s not true,” I said. “My dad’s got an assistant who scoops up the body parts.”

“There’s no mountain lion,” Jonathan said, looking at me.

“Yeah, that’s right,” I said. “No mountain lion whatsoever. It was a stroke.”

“Heart attack,” Jason corrected.

“Yeah,” I said, “a heart attack. Or whatever. Just no mountain lion.”

Both Lambeth brothers eyed all five of us. Then Jonathan grinned. “You guys are a bunch of f*cking *s, you know that?” They sat down on the curb beside Michael.

“Did you hear Sasha Tamblin’s got a band?” Jason said. “They’re playing later tonight on the bandstand.”

“No shit?” Peter said. “What do they play?”

Jason shrugged. “Guitars and shit.”

“No, I mean what kind of music.”

“I don’t know.”

When the marching band completed its set, a local rock band took the stage. Despite the heat, the members were all grunged out in flannel and long pants with chain wallets. The lead singer looked like Michael Stipe, so predictably they opened with an R.E.M. cover.

I went with Adrian and Peter to get hot dogs while Scott, Michael, and the Lambeth twins remained on the curb, tapping their feet to the music.

“Whoa,” Peter said, snagging my shirt. “Take a look.”