Wish You Were Gone(79)

“Really? So what does that mean?” Ben asked.

“Means I gotta come back on Monday.”

At that moment, a sleek, black BMW came careening into the parking lot and almost smashed right into Jackson’s truck, which was parked across the first two spots. The man driving dropped a few F bombs, audible even though the roof on his convertible was up and the windows were closed, and Ben and Jackson exchanged a look. The car’s brakes squealed as he zoomed into another spot, then got out of the car. He was wearing suit pants, no jacket, and a light blue tie slightly loosened, and he wavered on his feet as he walked toward them. One of his eyes was purpled and bruised, half swollen shut.

“This should be good,” Jackson said under his breath.

“Is that your fucking truck?” the man spat at Jackson.

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“You couldn’t park it at the back of the fucking parking lot?” the man demanded. “You could kill someone.”

Ben and Jackson looked at one another again. A half dozen retorts ran through Ben’s mind. About how this man was clearly drunk and had one good eye and he could kill someone driving that way. About how the truck was just sitting there and he was the one who’d been speeding recklessly into a parking lot. About how he was an overprivileged jackass who could keep his opinions to himself.

But although Ben often thought these things, he was not the type of man who would ever say them. He was a peaceful man. A live-and-let-live kind of guy. And this piece of shit wasn’t worth fighting with anyway. Jackson seemed to come to the same conclusion.

“Sorry. Won’t happen again.”

The man threw out a few more epithets, then turned and walked into The Tap Room. Ben was both relieved that the guy wasn’t entering his own establishment in that condition and disgusted that he wasn’t done drinking.

“Too bad your cameras are down,” Jackson said. “That footage might come in handy if he tries to drive home later and kills himself.”





KELSEY


Kelsey wished she had a costume. The raggedy black dress, the green skin, the crooked nose. There was something about standing there in the middle of the dusty stage with the house lights on, wearing her Oakmont Day hoodie and PINK sweatpants, that made it more difficult to summon the Wicked Witch of the West’s evil laugh. Did that make her a bad actress? Probably. Emma Watson would be able to transform into whatever character was asked of her even if she was standing there in her bathrobe.

Her father’s voice: You’re a worthless piece of shit. You’ll never amount to anything.

Her own voice: Fuck. You.

She’d done a fantastic job on the eulogy, after all. Several people had come up to her afterward with tears in her eyes. One woman had pressed a hundred-dollar bill into her hand—which Kelsey had given to a homeless woman outside the arena half an hour later. Now, Kelsey pointed at Rachel Falesto with her perfect Dorothy braids—typecasting all the way—and crooked her finger slightly as if she had arthritis, channeling her grandmother. She let out the laugh she’d been practicing in her room at night. It seemed to last forever, and when she was done the silence felt like it had weight. Everyone was staring at her.

Kelsey wondered if Emma Watson had a dickhead for a father.

“Great!” Mrs. Tisch said. “Great job, Kelsey. And then we’ll have the purple smoke and Kelsey, you’ll exit stage right and the lights will go down for the next setup. Good job! Let’s take five, everybody.”

Kelsey quickly walked off stage, clutching the hem of her sweatshirt in both her sweaty hands.

“That was awesome,” Frankie Potts said, and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

“Thanks.” She ducked her head and made for backstage, where her backpack and water bottle were. It was colder back there, somehow, and her teeth began to chatter. Which was weird. Because it definitely wasn’t that cold. She dove for her backpack and sat on the floor, leaning her back against the wall. Her entire body was shivering now, out of control. She gripped her elbows and tried to stop it. People walked by, but she avoided eye contact. Like a three-year-old she was trying to believe that if she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see whatever the hell this was that was happening to her. Not another panic attack. Her mother would put her in therapy.

“Hey.”

Willow kicked her foot.

“What?” Kelsey snapped, clenching her jaw.

Willow seemed to notice something was amiss. “You okay? Why are you shaking?”

Kelsey felt a pang. Of guilt. Of nostalgia. Of something she couldn’t name. But she shoved it away. “Like you care. Just leave me alone.”

“Are you, like, tweaking?” Willow whispered.

“No!” Kelsey shouted. And the shouting stopped the trembling for a moment. Inspired, she stood up and started to bounce like a boxer. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the phrase shake the sillies out echoed. Something her father used to say? When had her father ever said anything as whimsical as that? She threw a few air punches, imagining he was in front of her.

“Ooookay.” Willow eyed her from behind heavily blackened eyelashes. “So, listen, our moms are apparently going away to a spa on Friday and staying overnight. We should throw a party. At your house.”

“Ha!” Kelsey stopped punching and hugged herself. “No way.”