The People We Keep(11)
He’s parked all the way at the end of the driveway. Truck turned to the road, backed in to ensure an easy escape. He’s always acted guilty like that, even when you can’t point to anything specific he’s done wrong.
Since it’s his gas, I drive out to the Big M in Harristown instead of shopping at the Nice N Easy in Little River. I change all the presets on his radio. Irene has him listening to Christian rock and Evangelical talk show crap. He used to like The Doors. He listened to Floyd. He used to say Bob Dylan was God.
There’s three hundred bucks in his wallet. Cash. He doesn’t trust banks. I start out thinking I’ll spend it all, but then I feel bad and rein it in to a hundred. It’s not all he has. There’s probably a stash in a hole cut in the mattress or taped under one of Irene’s dusty-pink La-Z-Boys. It could even be in the truck somewhere, so Irene won’t come across it while she’s cleaning. It’s not like he doesn’t owe me, but there won’t be any more coming in for a while. So I take four twenties and two tens and shove them in the back pocket of my jeans as I walk across the Big M parking lot. Inside, I grab a cart and hit the aisles. Family sizes and name brands on everything. No more store brand toaster cakes and dented tuna cans for me. I spend five minutes debating the merits of yellow American cheese singles versus white ones before I decide to buy both and do a taste test. I buy Pop-Tarts in five different flavors and Coke in glass bottles that look like they came from the fifties. I get three bags of cheese puffs like the ones Margo got us that time—the ones that are more crunchy than they are puffy. I buy cold medicine, ibuprofen, and tampons, and stock up on soap and toilet paper so I don’t have to steal from school. I walk around for over an hour filling up the cart, counting on my fingers and rounding up to make sure I don’t go over a hundred. I don’t want to pull out my dad’s wallet at the store. And I don’t want to have to put anything back. Not today.
In line at the checkout, this woman behind me with frosted mom hair and a big coupon wallet watches me unload my cart onto the conveyor belt. “Sweetheart, I think you missed a few food groups,” she says, like she thinks I’m dumb enough to hear it as suggestion instead of criticism.
“It’s for a party,” I say.
When the checker rings everything up and it only comes to ninety-three dollars, I pick out two Mars bars, a bag of M&M’s, and four packs of Juicy Fruit from the rack next to me. Mrs. Coupon Wallet shakes her head. “Take the change off her bill,” I say to the checker, while Coupon Wallet is busy loading her six gallons of milk onto the belt. It’s only a dollar and change, but I’m sure it’s enough to throw her off her game.
It’s two thirty now, so on my way back I swing by to see Matty. He’s walking. Halfway home. Just turned onto Woodland Road, Bills cap pulled low over his perfect face. I drive real slow next to him. He picks up speed, doesn’t look over. I wonder if he realizes it’s my dad’s truck. Maybe he thinks his evening will be made busy with a shotgun and a preacher. Maybe he doesn’t know whose truck it is and thinks I might be some kind of pervy serial killer. I keep his pace for all of Woodland, but when we turn onto Edgar, I get a good glimpse and he looks panicked and I feel bad. I roll down the window and yell, “Hey, butthead!”
He turns around. His face is blank and kind of white, but then he realizes who it is and smiles that big Matty smile that’s just about him and me.
“Why does you driving this big truck make me nervous?” he says, climbing in the passenger side when I slow down enough for him to get in. He kisses me on the lips, his head blocking my view. It doesn’t matter. I know these roads.
“I am an excellent driver,” I say.
“Okay, Rain Man.”
“Okay nothing. I know what I’m doing.”
“I’ll say.” He smacks his hand on my thigh. It stings the slightest bit. He uses the potholes as an excuse to bump his hand up higher and higher and I use them as an excuse to slide my leg toward him, so eventually, his hand is right there and he’s rubbing his finger up and down the seam of my jeans right where the legs meet and there’s that thick part, all the seams coming together, and he’s making me crazy and I want to close my eyes but I’m driving. He’s acting like he doesn’t know. Pretending like the bumps in the road just led his hand there and he has no idea what it’s doing to me. He’s humming and looking out the window, but there’s that great big smile across his face. By the time we pull into his driveway, he’s got my jeans unbuttoned.
We make out in the truck for a while even though his mom is at work, his dad is on a job out in Olean, and his little sister has Girl Scout cookies to sell or something. It’s more fun this way. His bedroom is getting old. And it’s not like anyone will see. His nearest neighbor is a quarter mile away, and there’s so many pine trees.
I still have my dad’s jacket on, but my jeans are hanging over the seat. Matty unbuttons his pants, grinning. Even when we kiss I can feel his movie star smile. His grandfather was a poster boy for the U.S. Army Air Forces during World War II, and with his strong brow and noble chin, Matty looks like he could have been the one painted in the clouds holding a rocket bomb. His smile feels like sun breaking through.
“Do you have something?” I ask, determined to keep my wits about me.
“In my room.” He takes his pants off and climbs on top of me. It’s flopping around in his boxer shorts, like it’s spring loaded. We’re in our underwear, but I feel him trying to push the right things together.