The Impossible Fortress(41)

Actually, I was pretty sure she meant something else.

“It’ll be fun,” she promised.

“What about the rain?”

“I’ll race you.”

Before I could respond, Mary was already sprinting down Market Street. I ran after her, and within moments I was soaked. The sidewalk puddles were inches deep and my Chuck Taylors filled like sponges. Thunder cracked again and Mary shrieked, running faster. We ran past the bank and the post office; we blew through stop signs and red lights and we ducked in front of idling traffic. A station wagon locked its brakes to avoid hitting me, hydroplaning on the asphalt and nearly colliding with a pickup truck. After three blocks, Mary abruptly switched to walking and I blazed past her.

“What’s wrong?” I called back.

She was out of breath. “It’s no use,” she said. “We’re soaked!”

The front entrance of Zelinsky’s was shuttered with a large metal grate; Mary knelt down and unlatched the bottom, and then the spring-loaded grate rose up, coiling beneath the awning like a window shade. Then she unlocked the door and went inside. I moved to follow her, but she stopped me.

“You need to stay here.”

“But I’m drenched!”

“It’s my dad’s rule. There’s a security code, and no one’s allowed to see it.”

She pulled the door closed, leaving me out in the rain, and the significance of the moment was lost on me. I wasn’t thinking about alarm codes or security systems; I was thinking of the way she’d held my hand in the Regal, gently squeezing my palm whenever anything exciting happened in the movie.

And now we were going back to the store.

To play some games.

A moment later, Mary opened the door, letting me inside.

The store was dark except for a small work lamp beside the cash register. My heart was still pounding from the run. Mary looked at me and laughed. “We’ve got towels in the back,” she told me. “Don’t move. If you get water on any of the magazines, we can’t return them.”

Rain had flattened her hair and made her T-shirt transparent, revealing the outline of her bra; she looked like she’d just stepped out of the shower. She saw me looking at her and bit her lower lip. And that was it. She started to say “I’ll be right back—” when I stepped forward, placed my hands on her hips, and kissed her. We toppled against the counter where Mr. Zelinsky repaired his typewriters. Mary was kissing me back, and I had never experienced anything like it. She tasted like thunderstorms and gummy bears. And it was all so natural. It was my first time kissing a girl, but to my astonishment it felt like the easiest thing in the world.

Until Mary pushed me away.

“No, no, no.”

I stopped kissing but didn’t let go.

“What’s wrong?”

“We can’t.”

“I like you, Mary. I think I—”

“Get off,” she said.

I was too surprised to move. I was shocked.

She shook off my hands. “Let go.”

“What’s wrong?”

She wouldn’t look at me. Her eyes were all over the store. She looked at the windows and the newspapers and the floor—at everything but me. “You shouldn’t have done that, Will. We had a good thing going and you ruined it. Why did you ruin it?”

Why did I ruin it? Me?

“I thought you wanted me to.”

“I like you as a friend,” she said. “None of this other stuff.”

All the other stuff raced through my mind: Mary holding my hand in the movie, Mary complimenting my Bugle Boy pants, Mary scooping an eyelash off my cheek with a touch that felt like a kiss. “But I thought—”

“I’m sorry if I gave you wrong signals,” she said.

I didn’t believe her. I couldn’t believe her. We were not just friends. There was something more, I was certain of it.

Mary was shivering. She suddenly looked wet and cold and miserable. She turned to the Ademco alarm panel and pressed EXIT. The LCD screen flashed ENTER ACCESS CODE, and Mary pressed four keys in quick succession. I didn’t process what I was seeing; I was still too bewildered by her reaction.

“You’re serious?” I asked. Later, I would cringe over the desperation in my voice, the way I practically whined to her. Later, I would feel ashamed of myself, ashamed of my stupid pathetic mumbling: “You really don’t like me?”

“Not that way. I can’t, Will. I’m sorry.”

The panel was beep-beep-beeping, warning us to get out of the store, and Mary elbowed me outside into the rain. Then she locked the door and pulled down the grate and locked that, too. I just stood there watching her as the rain crashed all around us. I had to shout to be heard over the noise.

“Where are you going?”

She nodded to the pay phone at the train station. “I’ll call my dad.”

“Do you want me to wait with you?”

“I want you to go home.”

She didn’t wait for me to answer. She just turned and walked to the train station.

Now, you don’t get to be a fourteen-year-old boy without getting knocked around a few times. I’d been pummeled in locker rooms, tripped in school hallways, and thrown from my bike; I’d scraped my knees and sprained my ankles and bloodied my nose, but nothing had prepared me for this. This felt worse than all those things combined. This was the kind of hurt that didn’t stop; it just kept getting worse and worse.