The Drifter(8)

Ginny and Caroline’s number was the only one Kathy had written in her address book in ink. Her most persistent complaint about her daughter, and at that point in time there were many, was that she lived like a “gypsy.” Kathy never knew where to find her and threatened, more than once, to look under “Bars” in the Gainesville Yellow Pages and call every number on the list, beginning with the A’s. But Betsy suspected that the real reason Kathy called the apartment was because she liked talking to Ginny. In fact, the only thing Betsy didn’t like about Ginny was that Kathy clearly adored her.

“Did she ask you to keep tabs on me again? Keep me on the straight and narrow? Emphasis on the narrow?”

“She’s a mom. She called because she loves you. And because she worries about you,” said Ginny. “Did it ever occur to you that she likes to talk to me because I’m nice to her? You should try it.”

“Ha!” Betsy scoffed. “She likes to talk to you because she thinks you’re a good Christian girl who can keep me out of the bars. She doesn’t see that you’re playing the long con. And besides, she has to start being nice to me first.”

When they circled around the parking lot to order into the drive-thru speaker, Betsy shouted from the passenger seat.

“We’ll take two of everything that costs ninety-nine cents, and three of everything that costs seventy-nine cents.”

“Oh Christ, Betsy, will you shut up?”

“I’m sorry . . . Welcome to Taco Bell . . . Could you repeat that order, please?”

“Let me handle this, Betsy. I promise you’re not as funny as you think you are right now.”

“Oh Dorothy, you are absolutely no fuunn.” Even sober, Betsy’s Blanche Devereaux was awful. They had been on a Golden Girls watching spree that summer, and Betsy, who memorized every episode, quoted the show with alarming frequency. Ginny rolled her eyes.

“Fine,” she said, pretending to be exasperated, though Betsy could tell that she was secretly thrilled. “Uh, sorry about that, sweetheart, scratch that first order. What we really want is three of everything that costs seventy-nine cents. And two of everything that costs ninety-nine cents.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard the lady,” said Betsy, peering ahead at the guy leaning out of the glass enclosure to see who was taunting him, straining the cord attached to his headset. “My mistake. I thought that since you look like Yoda you were also wise.”

“Enough,” Ginny said, in a pleading whisper. “He is obviously not a fan.”

“Next window, please.”

“Uh-oh,” Betsy whispered. “Somebody is pissed.”

Of course, they had to reach the second window in order for Ginny to work her magic. After some profuse apologies and deft negotiation, they left with two orders of Nachos BellGrande, which they paid for, and three crispy beef tacos and two large Cokes, on the house.

“Oh see how handsome he is when he smiles?” Ginny said as she collected her change. “I could tell you had a generous heart.”

“Works every time,” said Betsy, digging into the bag. “Like a charm.”

“My days of taco swindling are over,” said Ginny with a laugh. “From now on, you’re on your own.”

As she pulled away from the drive-thru window, Ginny waved goodbye and grabbed a messy handful of tortilla chips. Then, when she dropped a glob of hot fake cheese on her bare thigh, she was squealing and laughing in pain when her car inched forward toward the sidewalk. Betsy was searching through the bag for a napkin and didn’t notice that the car was rolling slowly forward. Ginny looked up just in time to see the bike pulling in front of the car, from out of nowhere, and she slammed on the brakes with a quick chirp of rubber tires on hot asphalt. The nachos slid off Betsy’s lap onto the dirty floorboards.

“Holy shit!” Betsy shouted without looking up to see who or what was in front of them. “Don’t mind this big metal thing on wheels, jackass. It’s just a car. That could kill you.”

“Jesus, Betsy, it was my fault,” Ginny said, as she put the car in Park and jumped out. A man on a bicycle scrambled to his feet and stood silently, staring at them. “I’m so sorry, sir. Oh my God, are you OK?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” added Betsy with a salute, still in the passenger seat. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

Betsy looked up to find him staring at her and returned his gaze, which was oddly unsettling. He wasn’t outraged, shouting at them, or threatening to call the cops.

He was eerily calm and studied both of their faces. It was hard to guess his age. Could he be a graduate student? He was a little over six feet, shabbily dressed in dirty jeans and work boots, but that didn’t mean anything. Maybe he was just poor, like Betsy, scraping to pay tuition and stay afloat, but didn’t try to hide it. He had shaggy sandy-brown hair, glasses with cheap wire frames, a blue duffel bag, and a beat-up guitar case slung over his back. His clothes were too warm for the weather. And whether he was intimidated or resentful, or both, he didn’t treat them like peers. He was tense, and you could see it in the small, animal-like movements he made, like an actual, twitching deer in the headlights. Betsy sensed in her gut that there was no way this guy was a student.

“Don’t you have to get going? Aren’t you late for class?” Betsy said.