What Happens to Goodbye(41)

“What she means,” Leo informed us, “is that she was known around town for writing bad checks.”
“They weren’t bad,” Tracey said, taking the building from Jason as he handed it to her. “I just didn’t have any money.”
“I think that’s the same thing,” Jason said, not unkindly.
Tracey bent over the model base. “So if that’s where I shopped, and that was my bank, then my apartment was . . .” She ran a finger down the center of a small strip of road, right to the edge. “. . . apparently nonexistent. I was off the map, I guess.”
“Here be dragons,” Leo said, popping another row of wrap.
We all looked at him. Tracey said, “Jesus, Leo, are you high right now? Because you know what Gus said, if he catches you one more time—”
“What?” Leo said. “No, I’m not high. Why would you think that? ”
“You’re talking about dragons,” she pointed out.
“I said ‘Here be dragons,’ ” he said. When he realized we were all still looking at him, he added, “It is an expression they used to use, you know, back in the day. When they made maps, for the parts that hadn’t been discovered yet. The area they didn’t know. ‘Here be dragons.’ ”
Jason shook his head, smiling, and popped a roof onto another building. “Man,” he said, “that is seriously deep.”“Will you stop with that shit? ” Tracey said. “He’s not a genius! He’s functioning on, like, half his brain cells on any given day.”

“At least he’s got half,” Dave told her.
“Such the optimist,” I said as I passed behind him. He looked up at me and grinned, and again, I felt this strange urge to smile back. And I was not someone who smiled a lot. Especially lately.
“Hello, hello!” I heard Opal, sounding entirely too cheery, call out as she came up the stairs. “Everyone ready for the paparazzi? ”
Tracey rolled her eyes. Then, under her breath she said, “She always gets so stupid when she’s nervous.”
Jason shushed her, which she ignored, then tossed her the house he was holding. As she and I bent down over the model again, Opal emerged, a woman in jeans and clogs behind her. A curly-headed guy with a camera around his neck, who looked half asleep, brought up the rear.
“So, here you see a group of our local youth volunteers, working away,” Opal said. “We’re only at the very start of the project, but I think you can still get a really good idea of what the end result will look like. Basically, it’s a representation of the downtown area. . . .”
The reporter had pulled out a pad and was making notes on it as the photographer moved around the model, popping off his lens cap. He squatted down right beside Dave, who was putting a roof on a house, and snapped a couple of frames.
“I’d love to talk to a couple of the kids,” the reporter said, flipping to a fresh page on the pad. “Why they’re here, what about this project interested them . . .”
“Oh, of course!” Opal said. “Yes! Well, let’s see . . .” We all watched her make a show of scanning the room as if there were, in fact, multiple options, before looking squarely at Dave. “Maybe, um . . .”
“Dave,” I said under my breath.
“Dave,” she continued, “could, um, speak to that point?”
The reporter nodded, then moved closer to where he was sitting, her pen at the ready. “So, Dave,” she said. “How’d you get involved in this?”
Oh, dear, I thought. But Dave played along, saying, “I was looking for a good volunteer opportunity. I’m in a place right now where I just felt I needed to give back to the community.”
“Really,” the reporter said.
“Really?” Tracey said to me.
“Community-service requirement,” I told her, my voice low.
She nodded knowingly. “Been there.”
“Anyway,” Opal said, her voice still entirely too high, “I think we’re all really excited about having this chance to show our town in a way we haven’t seen it before—”
“Small and plastic?” Tracey asked.
“—and,” Opal shot her a look, “provide an interactive, lasting representation that can be enjoyed by generations to come.”
The camera was clicas the photographer moved around us, getting shots of me and Tracey, then Jason, then Dave again.
“Hello? Anybody home?”
I saw Opal, who was standing by the stairs, visibly flinch at this sound. Her face flushed as she turned, calling over her shoulder. “Lindsay, hello,” she said. “We’re up here.”
There was the sound of footsteps—footsteps in heels—coming closer, and a woman emerged. She was tall and thin, with china-doll features and blonde hair falling in a perfect bob right to her shoulders, and was wearing a black suit and high heels. She smiled at us, her teeth incredibly straight and white, then strode across the floor like a beauty queen working the runway. Confidence just wafted off of her, like a strong scent.
“Check it out,” Tracey whispered as I struggled to breathe. “Opal’s nemesis.”
“What?” I said.
“Since high school,” she replied. “They competed over everything.”
“Maureen,” the councilwoman said, extending a hand to the reporter, who shrank back a bit before accepting it. “It’s so great to see you again! I was just commenting to the mayor about your piece on the waste-treatment center options. Very thought-provoking, although I do wonder where you got some of your statistics.”