The Beginning of Everything(50)

We were still laughing when I pulled into the empty lot in the castle park.

“Maybe it’s some sort of ritual,” Cassidy said, speculating. “Like, they have to cover themselves with PAM and play tackle football.”

“Believe me, if that was going on, I’d know about it. The tennis guys would give football so much crap.” As if we didn’t already. We played a country-club sport; they put on protective padding and slammed into each other.

“Maybe they’re pranking someone.”

“It’s probably a drinking game. PAM shots with beer.”

We stared up at the enormous concrete castle, this bizarre combination sandbox and jungle gym with a tire swing I used to love as a kid. Cassidy held the candy and drinks we’d bought from the market, the plastic bag knotted around her wrist like a corsage.

“So we just climb up?” she asked doubtfully, taking hold of the rock wall that led up the side of the fortress.

I winced, realizing her doubt was focused in my direction.

“Well, there are stairs.” I disappeared around the other side of the castle, trying to make a joke of it, of how I couldn’t even handle a freaking jungle gym.

We claimed the castle’s lookout tower, the highest point of the playground, and it was sad how triumphant I felt at getting up there. A little plastic steering wheel was bolted to the balcony, which made Cassidy laugh.

“It’s like that castle from Monty Python!” she said, taking the helm. “Let’s take it out for a spin.”

“I thought you didn’t have a license,” I teased, sitting down on the rubberized floor of our little fort.

A full moon was shining high and white over the skeletons of the birch trees, and I could hear someone still on the tennis courts beyond the cookout area, even though it was nearly curfew. I wondered if it was anyone I knew.

Cassidy sat down next to me, her dress teasing me as it fluttered in the breeze. She broke the chocolate bar in half and waited for me to taste it with this I-told-you-so grin.

We finished the candy in an embarrassingly short time, and I watched as she absently licked the chocolate off her fingers. She blushed when she noticed my reaction.

“I bet you taste like chocolate,” Cassidy said.

“I bet you’re right,” I told her, and then we were very busy in our private little turret, Cassidy sitting on my lap in her little dress, driving me crazy with her bare legs against my jeans. I was kissing her neck, and her hands were under my shirt, and I didn’t know how far I was getting, but I didn’t care, because the magnificent possibility of kissing Cassidy Thorpe had turned into an indisputable fact of my daily existence, and I could hardly believe my good fortune.

I ran my hand up her thigh, half expecting her to push it away, but she didn’t. Instead, she sat up as though we’d been caught by her dear, sweet grandmother, and for all I knew, we had.

“Someone’s here,” Cassidy said, smoothing her hair. She scooted over to the edge of the lookout and peered through the crenellations. I hoped desperately that she’d imagined it, but then I heard laughter. Laughter and aerosol cans being shaken.

“You’re not going to believe this.” Cassidy motioned me over to take a look.

The football team had arrived, their trucks and Blazers lined up in the lot. With cans of cooking spray in hand, they advanced on the swing set and monkey bars.

“Are you kidding me?” I whispered as they began to PAM the monkey bars.

“That’s horrible.” Cassidy whispered back. “We should do something.”

“I’ll handle it,” I told her. After all, nothing kills the mood quicker than bearing witness to mass vandalism.

They didn’t notice me until I was right there, standing at the edge of the sandbox. I took out my car keys and hit the panic button, making everyone jump.

“Hey!” I said, killing the alarm. “Connor MacLeary, get your drunk ass over here!”

Connor stumbled toward me, kicking up sand. He was barefoot, wearing his jersey with a pair of jean shorts, and he looked strangely vulnerable without shoes on. I’d known him since kindergarten, and what I was thinking about then wasn’t how I was a cane-wielding member of my high school’s debate team, about to face off against the varsity quarterback, but how Connor had refused to put on his construction paper pilgrim hat during our kindergarten’s Thanksgiving party. He’d thrown a tantrum over it until Ms. Lardner had picked him up and sat him on top of the cubby nook to calm down.

He was the kid who’d refused to give fat girls Valentines even though you were supposed to bring enough for everyone, who’d always forgotten part of his Cub Scout uniform and who’d made dioramas on lined paper the morning they were due. And he was committing playground vandalism with cooking spray, which was so ridiculous that the vast difference between our respective lunch tables didn’t even factor into my decision to confront him.

“Faulkner!” Connor shouted, spreading his arms as though literally embracing my appearance in the castle park. “Perfect timing! Grab a can!”

“You’re an asshole,” I told him. “Also an idiot, but mostly an asshole.”

His smile disappeared and he scratched his head like he couldn’t believe I was actually angry, as though he was probably misunderstanding.

“What? It’s a joke,” he explained laughingly.