Twisted(33)

Billy breathes deep. Then he stands up. “All right, screw this. Let’s go.”

He walks around the corner and digs into the cabinet under the kitchen sink. I have no idea what he’s looking for.

“What do you mean? Go where?”

He pops up holding up a screwdriver. “To the place where our problems can’t touch us.”



Billy pulls the truck into the parking lot. And the headlights illuminate the huge, darkened sign.

Can you see it?

ROLLER RINK

We climb out. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Billy.”

“Why not?”

We walk to the side of the building. Here’s some advice I learned young: When you’re walking in the dark? Or running from the cops through the woods? Step high. It’ll save your shins and the palms of your hands a world of pain.

“Because we’re adults now. This is breaking and entering.”

“It was breaking and entering when we were seventeen too.”

We get to the window. I can just barely make out Billy’s face in the moonlight.

“I know. But I don’t think Sheriff Mitchell’s going to be so quick to let us off the hook now.”

He scoffs. “Oh, please. Amelia said Mitchell’s been bored out of his gourd since we left. He’d kill for some excitement. Kids today . . . too lazy. There’s no creativity to their vandalism.”

Wait. What?

Let’s back up a moment.

“What do you mean, ‘Amelia said’? Since when does Amelia talk to Sheriff Mitchell?”

Billy shakes his head. “Trust me—you don’t want to know.” He holds up the screwdriver. “You still got it? Or have you lost your touch?”

For the second time tonight, I accept his challenge. I snatch the screwdriver and walk up to the window. And under twenty seconds later, we’re inside.

Oh, yeah—I’ve still got it.

The roller rink was our place: breaking in after closing, our national pastime. Idle hands really are the devil’s tools. So—for God’s sake—get your kids a hobby.

Ten minutes later I’m flying across the slick floor in worn, size-six skates.

It’s a wonderful feeling. Like floating on air—spinning on big, puffy clouds.

The stereo system plays the eighties’ greatest hits in the background. Billy leans against the wall—toking up and blowing the smoke out the open window.

He inhales deeply. And tufts of white puff out from his lips as he says, “You know, you could come to California with me. Set up your own shop. I have friends—guys with money—they’d invest with you. My friends are your friends. Mi casa es su casa—and all that.”

I stop sliding as I consider his words. “Actually, that means, ‘My house is your house.’?”

Billy’s eyebrows come together. “Oh.” He shrugs. “I always did suck in Spanish. Se?orita Gonzales hated me.”

“That’s because you crazy-glued her Lhasa Apsos together.”

He giggles, remembering. “Oh, yeah. That was a great night.”

I chuckle too. And go into a spin that any Olympic ice skater would be proud of. The song changes to “Never Say Goodbye” by Bon Jovi. It was our prom song.

Raise your hand if it was yours too. I’m pretty sure, after 1987, it’s been the prom song of every high school in America at least once.

Billy snuffs out the joint with his fingertips. Then skates up to me. He holds out his arm, doing his best Beetlejuice impression.

“Shall we?”

I smile. And take his arm. I put my hands on his shoulders, and while Bon Jovi sings about smoky rooms and losing keys, we start to sway.

Billy’s hands sit low on my back. I turn my head and rest my cheek against his chest. He’s warm. His flannel shirt is soft and smells like pot and earth . . . and home. I feel his chin against the top of my head as he asks me quietly, “Remember prom?”

I smile. “Yeah. Remember Dee Dee’s dress?”

He laughs. Because Delores was the original trendsetter—even then. Lady Gaga’s got nothing on her. Her dress was white and stiff, like a ballerina’s tutu. And it had a string of twinkling lights along the hem. It was really pretty.

Until it caught on fire.

Her date, Louis Darden, put it out with the punch bowl of spiked Kool-Aid. She spent the rest of the night sticky and smelling like a doused campfire.

I continue our trek down memory lane. “Remember the last day of junior year?”

Billy’s chest rumbles as he snickers. “Not my stealthiest moment.”

It was the final day of school—and about one hundred and three degrees inside our sadly under-air-conditioned school. But Principal Cleeves refused to let us out early. So Billy pulled the fire alarm.

Right down the hall from where the principal was standing.

A hot pursuit ensued, but Billy successfully avoided capture. So the principal went on the intercom system and tried paging him. “Billy Warren, please report to the main office. Immediately.”

“I know I’m not the brightest bulb in the box, but come on. Did they really think I was stupid enough to actually go?”

I laugh against Billy’s shirt. “And then as soon as you walked in senior year, Cleeves grabbed you and was all like, ‘Mr. Warren, there’s a chair in detention with your name on it.’?”