All the Ugly and Wonderful Things(50)

“Wavy sneaks into the kitchen at night and eats, but honestly, I’ve been known to do that.”

Casey laughed, and Patty was glad she hadn’t said the other thing she couldn’t stop thinking about. The night Kellen had gone up to Wavy’s room and argued with her, there was one phrase she’d overheard. “I do love you,” he’d said, his voice rumbling through the floor. “I love you all the way.” Not the sort of thing a family friend says to a thirteen-year-old girl. Now it was too late to tell Casey, who would want to know why Patty hadn’t mentioned it right away.





2

WAVY

The motorcycle was beautiful, the stars sprawling over the fenders and spinning out around the gas cap on a field of deep shimmery blue, like August when the moon was dark. No matter how much he teased me, Kellen put the stars on the way they were supposed to be. Cassiopeia and Cepheus in the center and the rest of them tumbling away on the sides. Squeezed under Kellen’s thigh while he rode was Orion, the three stars of his belt glinting. Every star was a tiny scrap of silver foil sealed to the gas tank under clear enamel.

Looking at it, my heart hurt so much I almost couldn’t breathe. Not because the motorcycle was beautiful, but hoping it was for me and knowing it might not be. Nothing belonged to me, but the rule didn’t keep me from wanting Kellen to be for me only. I put my hand on the tank and tried to smile, but there were too many hot things trapped in my mouth.

Kellen smelled like the shop, so I knew he had just finished the bike. He had come straight to school to show it to me as soon as it was ready, and waited in the parking lot until I came out.

“Do you like it?” he said.

I nodded once, to say, “Yes, it’s beautiful.”

From the way he shifted on his feet, wanting to touch my hair but not doing it, I knew he thought my answer was small.

“I used that book you gave me to make sure I put them on right. Are they right?”

I nodded again.

“So, you like it, but you’re still mad at me?”

Resting his hand on the seat, he leaned over and breathed on me. I loved that. His breath was warm and wintergreen-smelling. He needed me to speak, because his heart hurt, too. I didn’t want to be mean, but sometimes, it was dangerous to open my mouth and let words out. Other times, my throat closed up so tight the words couldn’t come out. Looking at the Panhead, at all the work he did, the words trapped in my throat weren’t nice ones. They were words to say, I don’t like it, if you’re going to let girls with snake tattoos ride on it.

I knew I was breaking the rule, but I laid my hand on the seat next to his. It was a new seat, tall in back for a passenger.

“Me,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s your spot, Wavy. I love it when you ride with me. I’m sorry it took so long to paint, but that’s … I don’t even know how many coats of clear enamel. And I wanted it to be a surprise, but getting all those little stars right was a bitch without you to tell me where they go.”

“Only me.” I didn’t care if it was against the rules.

“Only you?” He straightened up and sunlight fell on my hair where he had shaded me. “Oh. Oh. Come on, put your helmet on and let’s ride this thing.”

That was another thing I loved, the way he swung his leg over the bike, started it with one solid kick, and settled his weight on it. But the bike wasn’t for me. There would be other girls. Snake tattoo girls. Perfume-wearing girls he loaned his jacket to. I wished the bike weren’t so beautiful. I wished it were still primer gray, or green-and-yellow flames like the day he wrecked it. I wished it didn’t feel so good to ride behind him with my arms around him. I didn’t want to enjoy the way the wind spun around me and pulled at my dress. It soothed me and I didn’t want to be soothed.





3

MISS HUMPHRIES

It had happened often enough in the last forty years that Miss Humphries had a well-rehearsed response. Because of the store’s proximity to the County Courthouse, once or twice a month, a scruffy-looking man stepped in off the street and said, “I need to buy a wedding ring.”

This one followed pattern: a big man in grease-stained jeans and engineer’s boots, ham-sized forearms covered in tattoos. He looked nervous, not quite making eye contact. Sometimes, as in this instance, the man had a child with him. Perhaps a soon-to-be stepdaughter. She was too old and too blond to be his natural child.

Before they could get more than a few steps into the store, Miss Humphries offered her warmest smile, one intended to reassure. Then she said, “You know, there’s a nice little drug store on Fourteenth and Mohawk. They sell plain gold bands at a very reasonable price.” She was never rude, but she considered it a kindness to dissuade people from embarrassing themselves.

“Not a band,” the man said. “A real ring. A diamond ring.”

“Well, we have a variety of engagement rings. In this case, I have some simple and elegant rings, starting at a quarter-carat weight.”

“Come and look, sweetheart. I want you to pick it out.”

The girl stepped up to the display and in the bright lights meant to make the stones sparkle, she was not what Miss Humphries had expected. Not a grubby girl, of the type who usually accompanied the scruffy-looking men. Her cheeks were scrubbed pink and her hair clung to her scalp not because it needed washing, but because it was so fine. She wore a pale blue dress with pin tucks down the front. Velazquez’ Infanta Margarita in motorcycle boots.