Spontaneous. Aaron Starmer
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run out of the woods and find your peers huddled up and asking each other, “Again? Really? Again?”
Really. Again.
The police couldn’t round up and interview everyone at the football game. They certainly couldn’t rope off the scene. So when Joe Dalton spotted me, he rushed over and said, “We’re hightailing it out of here before shit goes crazy. Jenna’s pulling the car around to Rumson Road and we’re heading to Laura’s house to get blind. You in?”
“Who’s gonna be there?” I asked, because guest lists are important when blindness comes into play.
“Me, Jenna, Laura, Holly, Greer, and Rasheed,” Joe said.
A more-than-acceptable roster, so I turned to Dylan and asked, “Do we join them?”
It was like Joe didn’t even notice Dylan until I addressed him, like Dylan was some mythical beast that only materialized when its name was spoken. “Oh, hey, man,” Joe said. “Sure. You should come too.”
Dylan pursed his lips for a few seconds, then replied, “Nah. Go on ahead. Get somewhere safe. I’m going to stick around here for a while.”
I was in a bit of a pickle. I wanted to be with Dylan but I wanted to leave. The buzz of the night was wearing off and I was sinking back into the sludge of awareness.
Really? Again?
“Come on,” I said. “Nothing good will come out of staying here.”
“Have fun,” Dylan said, and before I could object, he kissed me on the cheek and jogged away, in the direction of the flashing lights.
I could have chased after him, I guess, but I didn’t want to. He had left at the exact right moment, leaving me in a state of anxious anticipation. At Laura’s house, all I needed was some gin and SunnyD to pick the buzz back up, and while everyone was trying to piece together what happened on the field, I was musing about what might happen next with me and Dylan.
What happened next was a text, arriving at nine a.m., as I burrowed under a blanket on the living room couch. It read:
Everything,
I wrote back immediately.
Me: Deep.
Him: I meant that last night I felt everything.
Me: Not every THING. Next time. Maybe.
Him: When’s next time?
Me: Not today. Parents got me doing a double shift at the hug factory.
Side note: My parents weren’t big huggers but, after Katelyn, they rolled up their sleeves and did their due diligence, smothering their daughter whenever her face got all droopy. It worked at first, but ever since Brian, it was the opposite of what I needed. Still, Mom and Dad wanted me home that Sunday to be their little stuffed animal. I think they’d come to depend on the hugging, in fact. This was no longer about me.
Him: When then?
Me: Not tomorrow either. Working at Covington Kitchen. Keeping busy helps.
Him: Should I stop in for an Oinker?
Me: Yaaassss! Wait. No. Not because I don’t want to see you.
Him: Too much of a tease?
Me: Exactly. Monday?
Him: MONDAY!
As you already know, my deli gig was interrupted on Sunday by the emergency town hall. Cell reception was terrible at the theater, so even when I tried to connect with Dylan, I didn’t get through, and I certainly couldn’t spot him in that sea of anxiety. I’d love to break down all the bullshit that was shat out at that meeting, but I think covering Tina’s DNA witch hunt is enough. Because it represents when the theories went off the rails.
That Sunday evening, my parents were still huggy, so I was constantly retreating to the bathroom for alone time and giving in to the stupid urge to pull out my phone and shake a virtual fist at all the trolls. TV was even worse. A tour of cable news resulted in teeth-grinding and blind-pulling because I was sure that some helmet-haired reporter was creeping through our shrubbery, about to thrust her head through our window and say, “So is it terrorists, homosexuality, or the overall crappiness of your home-town that’s tearing your generation apart, young lady, and do you mind holding your answers and tears back until my cameraman gets the proper lighting in place?”
So I went dark for a few hours. I didn’t text Tess or Dylan because if I couldn’t see them in person and hold on to them, then it wasn’t worth it. All I could do was get in bed and wait for sleep to grab me and whisk me along to a future closer to my date with Dylan.
a little further in the future
On Monday morning, less than three full days after Perry Love spontaneously combusted, Cranberry Bollinger’s dad waltzed into his daughter’s room to wake her up and found Cranberry sauce all over her Miyazaki posters.
Fuck. Sorry. Bad joke. Old habits die hard. But come on, the girl’s name was Cranberry.
It was and has always been Cranberry, as far as I know. My earliest memory of her is the first day of fourth grade, when Ms. Caldwell took attendance and said, “Cranberry Bollinger. Is Cranberry Bollinger here?”
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