Winter Loon(46)

“I mean I can’t drive stick.”

It seemed Lester had already bought beer for half the high school, and kickoff for the homecoming game was still an hour off. I was perched as usual in the back seat, leaning between him and Jolene.

He looked at me in the rearview. “How can you . . . oh, forget it. Ballot, you’re hopeless,” Lester said, pulling the tab on a can of beer, tucking it between his legs before shifting gears, slipping the Impala into third.

“Bull let me drive the farm truck once.”

“This baby is no farm truck, Ballot. She requires a man’s touch.”

“Troy taught me, you can teach Wes,” Jolene said. “Let him try.”

“No way.”

“Oh, come on!” She straight-arm shoved him against the door. “Just do it. Pull over right there in the bank parking lot.”

How could he say no? The lot was mostly empty, so Lester parked diagonally across two spaces and left the motor running. Both doors opened and we all switched spots—Jolene in back, Lester in the passenger seat, me behind the wheel of Lester’s precious car. He gave me the fundamentals, which I knew. Let up the clutch, give it a little gas. “Balance and timing, Ballot. That’s all it is. Balance and timing. She’s tight so you gotta go easy. You know what I mean, right?” The grin said it all.

Jolene’s voice in my right ear, her eyes on mine in the mirror.

“Are you blushing? Did Lester make you blush?” she asked.

Lester shook his head. “Cut the flirting and let’s get on with it already. You sit back,” he said to Jolene. “Don’t want you sticking your tongue in his ear or something.”

I caught her eye again as she fell backward, smirking, satisfied.

I hiccupped my way through town, grinding gears, stalling at stop signs, at the only light, until I managed to make the transition from first, to a revved second, to a growling third, and back down. “Alright, Ballot. I’ve got whiplash and beer all over my shirt, so how about you pull back in there and let me take over?”

Jolene leaned forward as I made the turn into the parking lot. She put her hands over my eyes. “Bet you can’t drive blindfolded!” It was only for a second, but Lester and I both panicked. I grabbed at her hand, Lester grabbed the wheel. The car died a spastic death.

“Jesus Christ, Jo!” Lester said. “Are you crazy?”

“Oh, lighten up! Nothing happened.”

But something had. Someone had witnessed the whole thing. We flung the doors open, climbed out laughing, beer soaked. Sammy Hagar blasting from the radio. And there was Burt Rook. Lester and I saw him first, Jolene came up behind me, wrapped her arms around my waist, ducked like a swing dancer to get under my arm. We all tried to come to attention, though beer and the situation were making us silly. I tried to focus just on Kathryn’s father’s face, ignoring Lester, who seemed to be teeing something up.

“You mind telling me what you’re doing?” He dipped his head toward a rusty sign. “No Loitering.”

“You okay, there, Mr. Rook? You look shook,” Lester said.

Jolene’s hand popped to her mouth. I tried to unruffle Burt Rook. “Don’t mind us. Switching drivers, is all. We won’t be hanging around.”

“But you are still around. Thought your father would have come to fetch you by now.”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Well, look at you. Making . . . friends.”

Lester threw his big arm over my shoulder. “Friends, girlfriends. Isn’t that right, Wes?”

Jolene gripped my other hand, pulled me back toward the car. “We should get going.”

“You stay out of my parking lot. Stay away . . .” He hesitated. “Just stay away, you hear? I don’t want to see you hanging around my . . . my property again.”

We scolded each other, mocked Rook a little, popped open beers, and put the episode behind us as Lester peeled out of the parking lot, heading toward the lights of the football field.



SEEMED THE WHOLE TOWN OF Loma came out for football weekends that fall. The lights on the field were new, so the games became a Friday-night social event. For the homecoming game, a rivalry, the excitement ticked up a notch. The booster club brewed hot cider and popped corn in the lean-to under the bleachers. The pep band led a throng of students on the march from the high school to the field, where a bonfire had been lit and the effigy of a hornet hung ready for torching.

The crowd of students circled the bonfire, which licked stories high. Kathryn was across from me, golden and glowing in the firelight. I caught her eye and smiled, hoping to tell her in that one gesture that there were no hard feelings, that I never meant to hurt her, that I hoped good things would come for her. And I did. She looked pretty there in that light. Her face softened, then seized up again. Jolene’s arms encircled my waist, her mittened hands were on my belly.

“Hey, you,” I said, pulling her around me. I put my lips on the part of her hair. She tilted her head up, let her chin rest on my shoulder.

“Kathryn’s watching you.”

“I know.”

“Do you need to talk to her? She’s really looking over here.”

“There’s nothing I need to say. She’s fine. Look.”

Like always, Kathryn was surrounded by friends, the two snide girls who’d first seen me with Jolene at the river, a few senior boys who would play basketball in the winter. Even Drew Fullerton was with her. They laughed about some shared joke, and Kathryn looked away from us, brightened for her friends. A boy and a girl broke away from the group and turned up behind me and Jolene.