Huge Page 21

  With the way the ground sloped upward, the white-yellow glow from the back of Darren’s home was visible maybe fifteen yards above my head but two hundred and fifty or more yards away. The music was a bit clearer now, because I heard some treble and guitar licks along with the bass (although I couldn’t make out the song); there were sounds of splashing in the pool to the left, as well as shouts, hollers, and blips of elevated voices throughout; and the tiny backlit forms of maybe a hundred teenagers could be seen darting everywhere to and fro—dancing, standing, running, diving, tumbling, embracing.

  “Hey, Genie,” Stacy beckoned, snapping me out of it, “could you like put some bug spray on my back?”

  She was facing me when I turned around, and her hazel eyes glowed above her cheeks like a lynx’s in the night. Not that I’d ever seen one. She handed me the bug spray and our fingers touched, just for an instant, like a single brush of a hummingbird’s wing. She turned around, and I exhaled shakily but deeply, getting it all out, pumping the bug spray dispenser with my index finger toward her upper back, and then wiping the burning metallic mist from the corner of my mouth. I should probably point it at her, I thought, and tried again. Pshhht, pshhht, it went across her shoulder blades as I held her white blouse in my left hand and tried to think of cold and distant places with no hot chicks in them, like Vermont or Maine. Somehow, I didn’t know how, but somehow I managed to spray her lower back without fainting, which was a major accomplishment.

  “The back of my legs, too?”

  The back of her legs, too? The question almost didn’t make sense at first, but I was a gentleman, so I was obliging. The only problem was that Stacy had stood up, leaned slightly forward, bent over a little, and presented before my gaping mouth and disbelieving eyes a heart-shaped miracle in orange-and-yellow candy wrap. Steady, boy steady. I had to play it cool, like it was no big thing—no big thing at all, just round and tight and shimmering and perfect and close enough to touch. Aw, Christ! She shouldn’t be allowed outside with something like that for everyone to see! Why the hell wasn’t she home with a babysitter or something? Shit, why wasn’t I? No, Stacy was independent, she did her own thing, and she probably didn’t listen to her mom either; she was a bad girl who’d snuck out at night, and what bad girls needed more than anything else was a good spanking. I was sick, perverted and sick, and I was going to jail or the asylum, simple as that.

  “Hur-ry, the mosquitoes are way brutal.”

  Duty called, and I rallied to it despite my mental illness. I turned my head to the left as I squatted down, looking at the shore and glistening black water, until I’d safely cleared the source of all temptation, then turned my head back to see what I was doing and sprayed bug spray on the backs of Stacy’s priceless knees and calves. I didn’t touch them or anything else, though, because I hadn’t been invited to and it was wrong to touch without asking or being asked, so I didn’t. Then I stood up and realized that I’d done it, I’d really done it, without making an ass out of myself, passing out, or committing a crime. I felt great. My whole body was trembling and I’d collapse any second, but I felt great.

  Stacy plopped back on the rock, took her shirt from me, put it back on, tied it at the bottom, and said, “Thanks, Genie; that totally saved me.”

  I was a hero; a superhero—Bug Man—and she’d said as much herself.

  “Don’t you wanna sit anymore?”

  I’d done it, I was doing it; I was talking to Stacy! Well, she was talking to me, but it was time to break it down for her anyway.

  “Huge,” I said, and sat down beside her on the rock again.

  “What?” She looked at me with that slow, puzzled look of hers.

  “My name’s Huge,” I repeated, trying not to melt.

  “Okay,” she said. “Then why does everybody call you Genie?”

  “Because they don’t know me.”

  She squinted her eyes again and said, “Like everybody knows you; you’re Genie Smalls, the meanest kid in our whole school. You decked Ms. Witherspoon with one punch, got left back, and busted Stevie Thurgood’s face for like no reason at all. Everybody knows who you are, Genie, everybody. You’re totally bad news.”

  I felt tight and tensed. Not so much for what she’d said, but for bringing up old shit. I did deck Ms. Witherspoon with one punch and got left back for it, but everybody knew that already—it was ancient history, over and done. And I might’ve been the meanest kid in the whole school, but I’d never tried to be; it just sort of came naturally. But only a couple of people might’ve seen me bust Stevie Thurgood’s face on the last day of school, and that was something I’d rather forget.

  Stevie hadn’t said or done anything wrong to me, except get my awards at the assembly, and I knew even then that it wasn’t his fault; our teachers were to blame. And, no, I’d never had anything against him, either; he was a pretty smart kid and got straight As like I did, only I was smarter and my As were higher and he had to work to get his. But he was kind of friendly and cheerful, so kids didn’t hold his being a bookworm against him, and he had some friends and was popular and a few girls said he was cute, and he was standing near the bike rack after school on the very last day, with all the awards and a small group of kids around him signing the yearbooks they’d made us, and after they’d cleared off, I walked over to him from the bike rack, looked him in his happy brown eyes, heard Thrash whisper from my backpack, Yeah, do it, you know you want to, go ahead, as I cocked my right fist, shot it forward, and punched him in the mouth as hard as I could, saw his head whip back and him stumble a little, and watched the smile on his face crumble to confusion, pain, and fear.

  I got on the Cruiser and rode off, like nothing had happened, but his bottom lip followed me home, or the image of it anyway—how it had popped and burst open and looked like a thousand bloody worms squirming out of his mouth. I got to my place and had to sweat it out for a few days, waiting for the ax to fall, but it never did; Stevie didn’t tell on me—not to our teachers, his parents, or older cousins or friends who could’ve paid me in kind, like I deserved—and I got away with it scot-free. I felt down and sick to my stomach for the next few days, though, and couldn’t talk to Thrash at all, and mom thought it was because of the awards assembly, so that’s what I told her, and then she said how would I like to take the Cruiser down the Shore on my own, because she couldn’t have me moping around the house with nothing to do all day, every day, all summer long, and that I deserved it as a reward for my grades and good behavior. She couldn’t have been further off, but I jumped at the chance, went to the beach, felt a lot better when I was there, and never looked back—until now.

  “Why’d you hit him, anyway?” Stacy asked.

  I didn’t know. I didn’t even feel angry at the time; I just walked up and hit him, simple as that. It wasn’t like I was proud of myself for it either, not in the least. I knew I owed Stevie Thurgood an apology just like I owed Cynthia one, which he’d probably get right after she’d gotten hers—never.

  I shrugged my shoulders at Stacy. “Dunno,” I said.

  “So are you totally crazy like people say or just evil?”

  Anybody else would’ve gotten a taste of both for asking me that. But Stacy had never seemed all that smart in school, so she probably wasn’t trying to get smart now, and she was looking into my eyes with her mouth slightly open, her teeth peeking out, and that curious look of hers, and I could tell it was just a question, and that she only wanted to know the answer. So I gave it a shot.

  “No, I just lose it sometimes.”

  “Why?”

  Okay, I could do this. I’d been not-answering questions like these from counselors since third grade.

  “I’m angry,” I said, and found it easier to say than I’d expected.

  “About what?”

  “Everything all the time.” That was good, too.

  “But why?”

  I had to wait for a second, just so I could check. Nope, I was fresh out of answers. “Can we talk about
something else?”

  “Okay.”

  I was crazy about that word, I really and truly was.

  Stacy reached behind her with her right hand (I was sitting on her left side), raised the glass bottle to her lips, and took a sip. I rolled my tongue off the ground and back into my mouth. Not for what she’d done, but because Stacy had something to drink, and I was dying of thirst. Literally. I’d be dead any second, and I knew it.

  “Want some?” she asked, and offered it to me.

  Did I want some? I tried not to bark out a laugh, but I might’ve grunted some out anyway. She could’ve handed me a bottle of Liquid Drano and I would’ve downed the whole thing, which was just what I did, without stopping to think. Yeah, it was rude, and not very gentlemanly, and the beverage was sweet at first, too sweet, like overripe strawberries, and then bitter and hot in my throat.

  “Whoa! You must really like wine coolers,” Stacy said as I handed the empty bottle back to her.

  Wine coolers? I’d just chugged half a wine cooler? Great. Now, on top of everything else, I was a wino, too.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “It’s okay,” Stacy purred as she dropped the bottle in the sandy mud at our feet. “I stole two more from the party.”

  She’d been to a high-school party, stolen from it, and then left to come down here and be by herself. Yeah, this was the girl for me.

  “So what do you want to talk about,” Stacy asked, “because you never talk at school. Hey, where’s that lizard you always have with you?”

  Didn’t anybody in this goddamn town know what a frog looked like? I didn’t say that, though. I said, “I gave him the night off.”

  “Why? Doesn’t he like skinny-dipping?” The smile Stacy flashed was secretive, devious. She leaned her shoulder against mine—what were the chances we’d both be wearing sleeveless shirts?—so I could feel her skin, and she whispered, “I saw you,” before pulling away, ducking her head, and giggling behind her bangs.

  You could’ve fried eggs on my face. But just as quickly it hit me that I’d been maybe a half-mile away in the dark, and that she couldn’t have seen anything, not the Lookout at least, so all she’d seen was me swimming, and the rest was just a guess, or teasing. I could handle that.

  “Don’t worry.” She lifted her head up, the same mischievous smile on her face. “I won’t tell anyone, because then you’d hate me even more than you do now.”

  Wait. Hold on. I had to back up. I missed something. “What?”

  “You hate me.” Stacy pouted. “And I’ve never—” She stopped for a second before going on. “And you shouldn’t hate me. I don’t want you to.”

  I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about or where this was coming from and I felt nervous—real, stiff-spined nervous. She had it all fucking wrong. A soft “No, I don’t” was the best I could do.

  “Yes, you do.” She was looking at me again, but her eyes and face were tighter now. That hurt; that hurt a lot. “You always look at me in school—I’ve seen you doing it a buh-gillion times, at the pool, too, on your bike—but you never say anything. And when people look at you like that but don’t say anything, it means they’re mad at you, because my dad used to do that to my mom and then they broke up. So it’s like you’re always mad at me, and if you’re always mad at someone, then you hate them, the way you hate me.”

  Whoa. Stacy-logic was strange but sort of compelling. I didn’t know what to say. I had no clue. I could hear cymbals and drums now, along with treble, guitar, and bass, longer snippets of louder voices carrying down, more splashing around, the feigned screams of girls looking for attention and the deep chug-chants of witless guys, like the party was all of a sudden closer or really cranking up. Maybe I was just getting used to being here, on the shores of the reservoir, because if you had enough time, you could get used to anything, and Christ knew I’d been here long enough, so maybe I was used to it now, and that’s why I was hearing things.

  I still didn’t know what to say to Stacy, though, or how to get used to her, or being near her, or how to set her straight without saying something I didn’t want to say and wasn’t ready to, because I should’ve been hiding in the bushes by Darren’s pool, helping my sister, finishing the case, and not like baring my heart to the girl I’d had a massive crush on for two years but had never spoken to before tonight. It was too much for me, way too much, and my plan was going to shit.

  But there she was, Stacy Sanders, in the flesh, staring at me, with a troubled, questioning look, waiting for me to say something, anything, and it was getting late, real late, tight, nerve-racking, like I had to make a choice between one or the other—her or the case. The case was way up there, and she was down here, right next to me, warm, probably soft, practically touching, turning her back for a second to twist the cap off another wine cooler, while the moon was right and the water was right and the temperature was right and the darkness was right and the rock was just right, and she took a sip and was looking at me again, with almost pleading in her eyes, as if to say, Why, why don’t you like me, and I did, I already did, I really did, but she didn’t think so, and I didn’t know how to tell her or what to say or how to say it, and I just wanted to go, I had to go, but I couldn’t go, not now, not like this, confused and aching and torn, because here we were, up close, alone, and my heart was pounding and I had to go, but I had to stay, because this was my chance, my shot to make her understand and set things straight, and I grabbed the bottle and took a swig and wiped my mouth and still felt thirsty and looked at her the way she was looking at me, and something moved and shifted and broke or clicked but I didn’t know what, and I heard myself whisper, “I don’t hate you, Stacy, I like you, I’ve always liked you,” and could not believe I’d said that and wanted to curl up into a ball or run and hide and take it all back, but I leaned over and kissed her instead and she kissed back and I was done, I was gone, I was lost and taken and somewhere else and totally fucked and there was no way back, out, or through. I’d kissed Stacy Sanders right on the lips—and my plan and my case and maybe even my sister were totally finished; everything I knew had come to an end.

  “Cool, because I like you, too.”

  No, I didn’t even cry.

  “Are you cold?” she asked.

  “W-w-why?” My teeth might’ve been chattering a little.

  “Because you’re like totally shivering, doofus.”

  That was good, it was funny and right, I was a doofus, and I didn’t mind hearing it from her. “M-m-my clothes are damp,” I said.

  “If you take your shirt off, I’ll rub your back and warm you up.”

  I wasn’t a gentleman anymore, never had been, but I was obliging all the same. The shirt came off.

  “You’re like almost buffed, Genie.”

  First thing to do tomorrow, if it ever came: sit down and write a long letter to Herschel Walker, thanking him from the bottom of my heart.

  “Huge,” I reminded her.

  “Oh, yeah. Okay … Huge.”

  Wow, that word, my name, and Stacy Sanders’s cold little hand, rings, and bracelets rubbing up and down my shirtless back. I could die now, you could kill me; it wasn’t ever getting any better than this.

  Well, except for when she pressed her sticky lips against my neck and gave me a quick peck.

  “How come you never talk?” she asked.

  My mind was muddled and spinning, my stomach was somewhere under China, and I took a long pull of wine cooler to settle down. It tasted terrible and didn’t work. But the answer to that one was easy, so I said, “I don’t have anything to say.”

  She pulled her face back while resting her palm on the bottom of my spine. “But you’re like wicked smart.”

  “Maybe, I don’t know.” I shrugged. “But it hasn’t helped me any.”

  Stacy’s face darkened for a second, then her eyes widened and she said, “Oh, I get it. You’re like complicated, right?”

  Yeah, I was complicated; I was all fucked u
p. I had goose bumps everywhere, and I would’ve strangled an entire convent of nuns for a shawl or a throw blanket. “Nah, I’m not. I’m not anything yet,” I said, and spooked the living shit out of myself by saying it.

  “Yeah, you are.” Stacy smiled. “You’re bad. Really, really bad, and totally sweet, and completely cute.”

  Okay, I got it. She was tipsy, maybe even hammered; she had to be. Why else would she say that to me, right now, with the state I was in? But I knew that being a stone-cold badass would work with chicks someday, not acting like one, but being one. I knew it. Chicks loved it; they couldn’t get enough, like fat kids with ice cream. And maybe, just maybe, someday was today.

  Stacy put the bottle down, wrapped her hands around my waist, leaned in close, placed her chin in the crook of my neck and her lips against my ear. “You smell like mud,” she said. “You were skinny-dipping, weren’t you?”

  Jesus, she had detective skills, too. “What do you do in those notebooks anyway?” I asked, because I really had to change the subject.

  “My notebooks?” Stacy lifted her head, her smile half-hidden by uneven bangs. “From school?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I draw clothes in them.”

  “Clothes?”

  “Yeah, I design clothes—skirts, dresses, blouses, shorts—like sketch them in my notebook, draw patterns for them at home, then cut those out and make them, with like material and sewing and stuff. It’s way fun, and that’s what I want to do when I grow up, so, yeah.” She stood up, and while I was saddened by the fact, it was a relief. “What do you think?” She spread her arms and spun around. “I made this outfit myself.”