Two Truths and a Lie(76)
“I didn’t know you were running,” Alexa said.
“I just jumped in with some of the guys at mile three. I didn’t want to pay the entry fee. How would you know if I was running or not? And who’s that?” He nodded his head toward Cam. Cam was busy refilling water cups from gallon jugs at the far end of the table.
“Nobody,” said Alexa. “Don’t you want to keep running? To finish the race?”
“I know who he is,” said Tyler. “Don’t worry, I know exactly who he is.” And then he turned his head away, and then back toward her, and if she hadn’t actually been there she never would have believed it, because Tyler spit on her. Like, actually spit. On Alexa’s arm. There was a gob of spit on Alexa’s arm.
“What the hell?” cried Alexa.
“Oh, sorry,” said Tyler. “My bad.” And then he smiled a smile so awful that Alexa’s blood ran cold despite the hot evening. She could not believe she ever ever ever was attracted to Tyler. She couldn’t believe she’d bought him the Bluetooth headphones he was too cheap to buy for himself the previous Christmas, and that she very seriously considered sleeping with him after junior prom, and probably would have had he not passed out in the back of Lucas Spaulding’s father’s BMW.
Tyler broke back into a slow jog and continued along the course, rounding the corner that led to the hill. Alexa wiped her arm with the bottom of her volunteer shirt (she was grateful now for all of the extra material) and walked back toward the water table. She wanted to cry—she felt shocked and violated and frankly she couldn’t believe what had just happened—but with everything in her she forced the tears to remain in her eyes.
“Did he just spit on you?” asked Cam.
“No,” said Alexa, because she was too embarrassed to say yes.
“Really? Because it looked like he spit on you.” Cam’s mouth was set in a severe line.
“I think he was just, like, spitting out water or something,” explained Alexa. “You know how runners are.” (She had no idea how runners were, and they both knew it.)
“You want me to go after him?” asked Cam.
“No,” she said. “Of course not. Don’t be crazy.” For one thing, Tyler had rounded the bend on Spofford and was now suffering his way up the hill. Or he had dropped out. Either way, he was gone. For another, Alexa thought that Tyler could turn Cam into pulp with a flip of his massive paw if he wanted to. She filled more water cups from one of the gallon jugs even though they probably had plenty. Her hand was shaking, and she couldn’t get the water into the cups without spilling it.
When the last runner had gone by, the volunteers fanned out into the road and picked up the empty cups. There was something very team-oriented about the whole process that Alexa liked, even if they were literally clearing garbage from the street.
“That guy’s a jerk,” Cam said sternly as he held a giant garbage bag open for Alexa to dump the cups into. “I can’t believe you dated him.”
“I can’t believe it either,” said Alexa.
“Well, we all make mistakes,” said Cam. “I’m just glad you’ve come to your senses.” He grinned at her, and then he leaned down and kissed her. Just like that.
“What’s that for?” she asked, smiling.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” he said. “For being such a good volunteer.”
She rolled her eyes. “You kiss all the volunteers like that?”
He nodded. “It’s what keeps them coming back year after year. It’s why we have such a robust presence at mile five.” The way he smiled at her made Alexa’s stomach do that flippy-floppy thing, and she tried to concentrate on that, instead of the place on her arm where Tyler’s spit had landed.
58.
Sherri
Sherri took a sponge to the stovetop in the kitchen on Olive Street. In her old life she’d hardly ever touched a sponge—the cleaning ladies did all of the dirty work. But she’d grown up as a regular kid with regular chores: she knew how to clean. This stove, though, was almost too much: the marks around the burners had probably been made by years and years of renters, of spilled pasta water and stovetop popcorn.
Sherri took a break and leaned against the counter for a moment, and that’s when she heard Katie’s quick feet down the stairs, rounding the corner into the kitchen. She was holding her phone, and her eyes were shiny with excitement.
“There’s fireworks,” she said. “Tonight, for Yankee Homecoming, at the waterfront. Can I go, Mom? With Morgan and the other girls? Can I please go?”
Sherri remembered the awful night on the pontoon, the pop pop pop of the fireworks she couldn’t see, the panic rising in her chest. “Oh, Katie. By yourselves? Or with a grown-up?”
“By ourselves. All the girls are going, it’s totally safe, please, Mom, please please please. Please.”
“No,” said Sherri. “Absolutely not.” The risks were too great. The dark, the crowds, little girls alone. Anybody could grab Katie. Anybody. “I’m sorry, honey. You know I can’t let you do that. You know we have some rules that the other kids don’t have. I don’t want you wandering around downtown in the dark. It’s not safe.”