The Leaving(58)

“How many?” He smiled.

She gave him a look.

“No, really.” Smiled wider. “What’s a lifetime’s worth of mini-golf, do you think?”

The line moved forward, so they did, too. This was nice. It felt normal. Hanging out with a friend. Just a few days ago, he’d never have imagined it possible he’d be having a day like this. “Wait. Shouldn’t you be in school or something?”

“Starts up again on Monday.”

“You probably had more fun plans for spring break than all this.”

She shrugged. They were two people away from getting in cars.

“It was probably for the best. At least I’ve been able to be around for my parents. Well, my mom. And also, well. I’ve had a chance to get to know you again at least a little bit, and that hasn’t been so awful.” She leaned into him.

Was she flirting?

He’d read it all wrong.

Her feelings.

His feelings?

“You ever do this before?” she asked then, curious not funny or cruel or wiseacre-y.

“I doubt it?”

They gave their tickets, then got into cars, and the whole place smelled of burning rubber and he liked it.

The wheel of his car was hot, stiff.

The pedals heavy under his sneakers.

The light turned green for Avery, then red again, then green for him, and he tapped the pedal and the car jerked; then he pressed it more solidly and the machine zipped to life and out he went into the sun, taking curves, whole body vibrating, smiling, chasing after, yes, Avery with her hair like the tail of a kite.





AVERY



“It’s always a tough call,” she said, getting into the car again, her right leg almost numb from go-karts. Still. “Do you like your mini-golf with a side of pirates or a healthy dose of jungle animals?”

“I wouldn’t know how to even begin to choose,” Lucas said, starting the engine.

“Whose car is this?” she asked then, pulling a Strawberry Shortcake T-shirt out from under her feet.

“Ryan’s girlfriend,” he said.

“Okay, I guess. Whatever?” She tossed the shirt into the backseat with the others. “So the water features at Jungle Golf are arguably more impressive. But the pirates do have a way with rope bridges.”

“What kind of water features we talking?” he asked.

“Fairly impressive waterfall thing that leads into a rocky river and then a large pool.”

“I’m sold,” he said. “Which way?”

“Left out of the lot,” she said, and they were off.

Their date—no, not that!—their hang had extended into the evening. After go-karts there’d been bumper boats—they both got soaked, which actually felt good in the high heat of the afternoon—then some arcade games, most notably Ms. Pac-Man. Then they’d driven to a Chick-fil-A and eaten, and now mini-golf.

Being with him was just . . . easy.

And torturous. It would be easier if he knew how she felt and felt the same.

Studying his hands and arms as he drove and scanned through radio stations, she wondered what the hell she’d been thinking texting him in the first place. Did she think she could win him over? With go-karts and mini-golf? Did she think she could compete with Scarlett? With years of history and the bond of trauma?

What if what she was feeling for Lucas was some twisted thing where she was treating him like a stand-in for Max? Like a brother? Did the way she felt so excited to be around him have more to do with The Leaving than with real feelings?

They paid and picked out clubs and stood in front of a tub of balls.

“What color?” she asked him.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” Why had he even come? Boredom, maybe. Lack of anything else to do. “Where’s the fun in that? Pick a color.”

He laughed. “I honestly don’t care. Just pick one for me.”

“Fine,” she said, and she picked out a pink ball and a black one. They walked to the first hole, a straightaway beside a large gorilla. She tossed Lucas the pink ball.

“Seriously?” he said.

“You said it didn’t matter.” She wrote their names on the scorecard. “You first.”

He put the ball in one of the little holes on the rubber mat, then looked up at the course and tapped the ball. Sure enough, hole in one.

“So you’re a ringer,” she said.

“Beginner’s luck?” he offered.

It took Avery two strokes to get the black ball in and, though she knew she shouldn’t be, she was annoyed about it.

“Are you going to, like, go to school?” she asked on the next hole.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Nobody’s really pushing the issue but . . . I guess? I have no idea.”

He took his first stroke; the ball stopped about six inches short of the hole. She stepped up.

“What’s it like,” he asked. “Your school?”

“It’s school. With all the usual BS. But I do all right.”

“What are you into?”

“Yearbook. I did cheer for a few years but couldn’t handle the practices. So many practices. I played soccer. Briefly. I’m thinking of trying out for the school play next week, but probably not.”