Payton Hidden Away (9 page)

“I think we’re
going to need another minute,” I say, and Kathryin with an ‘i’ after the ‘y’ sighs
audibly before haughtily turning her back and waddling away. Kristie just
covers her mouth, giggling quietly.

“I can’t believe they invited us
over,” Ritchie says as he combs his hair for the umpteenth time. The more he
combs it, the more ridiculous he looks, and I suspect he knows this, which is
why he’s keeps starting over.

“
They
didn’t invite
us
anywhere,” I mutter. “Kristie invited
me
.”

“She said I
could come too.”

“That’s because
you asked if you could come. What’s she supposed to say, no?” I look at my
friend making a mess of himself as he buttons his shirt which, of course, he’s
buttoning all wrong.

“Joanne’s gonna
be there,” he murmurs.

“I’m sure she’s
counting the minutes.”

Ritchie looks at
me with a hurt expression. “Why do you always gotta talk down to me? I’m supposed
to be your best friend. You’re supposed to have my back.”

“I got your
back. I just don’t want you getting your hopes up.”

Finally
realizing he’s buttoned his shirt in the wrong order, Ritchie starts over. His
big clumsy fingers are shaking. He is really nervous. I know he has a crush on
the poor girl, but she’s never reciprocated, and it’s too bad, because other
than being a big dummy, he’s a decent enough guy.

“Hurry up,” I
say, heading out the front door. Standing in the sunshine, I’m reminded that
summer in Payton is like an old vinyl record. Everything turns, but nothing
seems to change. It all just stays the same. Skip, skip, skip.

The screen door
opens behind me, the smell of cologne ruining the fresh air. As usual, he’s
overdone it. “I think I used too much,” he says as he contorts his face while
trying to look at the collar of his shirt. “I spilled a bit.”

“A bit? Like
what, half a gallon? Jesus, Ritchie.”

He frowns,
biting his tongue. “Come on, man. What did we talk about?”

I roll my eyes. “You’re
right, I’m sorry. Me and my mouth. Won’t happen again.”

“You always
gotta be so vulgar.”

“What do you
want me to say?”

“Nothin’. Don’t
say nothin’. When you get the urge, just don’t say nothin’. I hate it when you
talk like that. It’s not you.”

“I won’t do it
again.”

“You’re gonna do
it again.”

“I won’t do it
again.”

“You’re gonna do
it again.”

“Then yell at me
when I do.”

He shakes his
head before pointing towards Lawton. “Let’s go.” And just like that, we’re
straight out of a Mark Twain adventure, once again two buddies making our way
through the dry grass toward the Old Beaver. The afternoon is waning, the sun
the hottest it’s been all day and the color of the sky somewhere between yellow
and orange. It’s a July heat hot enough to make me sweat, so it must be awful
for Ritchie who sweats year round and a half-gallon of cologne might actually
play in his favor.

We cross the Beaver and follow
the path toward Lawton. Ritchie is going on about baseball, which is a welcomed
relief considering I expected him to ramble on about Joanne the entire time,
but today it’s all about the Tigers and what a lousy season they’re having.
Truth be told, I haven’t been paying much attention. It’s early yet, but
according to Ritchie, their season is already over.

“I can’t do it,”
Ritchie says. “Not in the Bigs, I mean.”

“Of course you
can. You’re just scared.”

“I ain’t scared
of nothin’. It’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly
like that.”

“I’m being
prodigal.”

“
Practical
,
ya dumb ass, and that’s still the wrong word.”

“I pitch for the
Pirates. Nobody I faced is pro material.”

“Yet you’ll
never know for sure until you try out.”

He slumps. “I
don’t wanna try out. I don’t want to move away. I wanna stay here.”

On his behalf, I’d
gone as far as digging up contact info for a few talent scouts in the Detroit area, but Ritchie refuses to call. Whenever I bring it up, he gets angry or
changes the subject. It’s like he doesn’t want to hear about his ‘potential.’
He wants to pretend he’s stupid and worthless and stuck here, and because he’s
worthless and stupid and stuck here, we might as well make the best of a bad
situation. He’s got the talent, but he doesn’t have the grades, and scouts
don’t come to Payton. Not on purpose anyway. He’s the best pitcher I’ve ever
seen—on TV or in real life, but if nobody knows, then it’s just wasted talent.

The sounds of Lawton are closer now, and soon we’re walking along the familiar streets and sidewalks.
The older trees hang like umbrellas overhead, shading us from the merciless sun
and allowing Ritchie to dry out by the time we reach the steps of the Lambert’s
front porch. As usual, Ritchie hangs back and fidgets while trying to decide
the perfect pose for when the door opens.

Kristie greets
me with a wide smile, a big hug and kiss before inviting us in. Ritchie is
quiet as a mouse as he sits in the same chair he always sits in while looking
nervous. It’s quiet other than the whisper of bugs drifting in from the outside
and Ritchie’s fingers drumming the arms of the chair. Suddenly, there’s the
sound of someone bounding down the steps. Joanne dances her way down the
staircase before dancing through the living room and right into the kitchen.
Her eyes are closed, and she has headphones on cranked so loud that even from
across the room I can make out the song she’s listening to. That’s the only way
she can hear anything, but despite the tiny crackle coming from her headphones,
I can almost hear Ritchie’s jaw hit the floor. Joanne is wearing a white
tank-top, red panties and nothing else. There’s some white, a bit of red and a
whole lot of skin. I have to admit that even I’m impressed. I’m dating Kristie,
and the two have the exact same build, so it shouldn’t be a big deal, but it
is, because it’s like I just saw my girlfriend scamper obliviously through the
living room in her underwear. Only it’s not my girlfriend. It’s
her
.

Kristie turns my
jaw, redirecting my attention back to hers. “Don’t get any ideas, mister.”

I don’t say
anything. Not because I have nothing to say, but because I can’t say it. Not
without expecting some serious backlash.

“Apparently, she
doesn’t know you’re here yet.”

“Can she hear
what she’s listening to?”

“
Legally
deaf,” Kristie emphasizes. “Not
totally
deaf.”

“Yeah, well, you
should probably  talk to her before Ritchie freaks out even more than he
already is.” I nod Ritchie’s way, and sure enough, he’s squirming, his mouth
slightly open, fresh sweat stains appearing under his arms, his hands locked so
tightly to the armrests that his knuckles have turned white.

“He looks like he’s
going to pop,” she giggles.

“This isn’t
funny. I’m being totally serious.”

She frowns.
“I’ll be right back.” She crawls off me before leaning in to whisper into my
ear. “P.S. I look even better in the same outfit.” She kisses my cheek before
heading for the kitchen.

This leaves me
with a dilemma growing in my pants that is going to be very difficult to hide
in about ten seconds. I shift uncomfortably while trying to find a sitting
position that looks natural. Kristie re-emerges from the kitchen and trots up
the steps. Coming back down with Joanne’s shorts and headband, she disappears
back into the kitchen.

“Figures,”
Ritchie mutters. “I thought Jo did it on purpose.”

“We’ve talked
about this,” I say, still trying to find a natural looking position on this
stupid-ass couch. “Play it cool.”

He nods, but
he’s sweating. He looks at me, then the kitchen door, then me, then the kitchen
door. Poor guy. I feel lust and love and hate and anger and things like that,
but something tells me Ritchie feels those same things on a whole different
level. He looks terrible, fidgeting and sweating, eyes darting, fingers
nervous, feet tapping.

“Relax, Rich,” I
whisper.

He nods, wiping
the sweat from his brow, exhaling, breathing in and exhaling again. Slowly, he
lifts his eyes to the kitchen again, and this time he holds on, waiting. I can
almost hear his telltale heart even though he’s quiet as a mouse. When the two
girls finally emerge, Joanne’s face is red with embarrassment, but instantly the
two girls bust up laughing, and I can’t help but smile. I don’t think Ritchie
fully understands what’s so funny. He just bites his lip, his eyes devouring
Joanne.

“Hey,” Joanne
says, her tongue thick. I always thought her muddled accent was kind of
annoying, but seeing her like this, totally cool and confident with what just
happened, I have to admit, she’s bad ass. And good for her.

“So, what’s on
tonight’s agenda,” Kristie asks as she sits down and wraps her arm around me.

I shrug. “I was
thinking maybe a bonfire out by the Beaver.”

“That would be
fun,” Joanne says. “I’ll call Lindsey and Mary.”

Ritchie sits
still, his fingers still locked around the ends of the armrests.

“How about you,
Ritchie?” Kristie asks. “Bonfire? No bonfire? Yay or nay?”

“Good,” he nods.

Jo giggles.

Kristie leans
over and whispers in my ear. “He wore too much cologne again.” Her breathing in
my ear isn’t helping with my little ‘problem’ downstairs, so I sit up, shifting
again.

“You okay?”
Kristie asks.

“Ritchie says
he’s going to pitch for the Tiger’s one day,” I say in a desperate attempt to
divert attention from me.

“I never said
that,” he replies, turning red. “I said I’m not good enough.”

“Whatever,” I
say, waving him off. “No one can hit your junk.” I even throw in a Bostonian
accent. “Fer-gedda-bou-dit.”

“You’re
exaggerating.”

“When you’re a
Cy Young winner, I want you to remember us little people.”

“Kiss my grits,
Triple A-hole,” Ritchie mutters. He’s playing it cool while trying to hide
stolen glances.

Jo knows what’s
going on. Hell, she’s reveling in it. She loves the attention. It’s got to be a
major ego boost, and to be fawned over by the biggest name in sports this side
of Det      roit has to mean something. She’s trying not to smile, but I can
tell she’s covering up, and I’ll bet Kristie can tell too.

“Tony’s right,”
Joanne says finally. She doesn’t dare lift her eyes. “I’ve seen you pitch.
You’re good. Real good.”

Ritchie shakes
his head. “My grades are shit, and I only got two weeks left. It’s over.” He
even looks like a wet puppy. He’s breathing heavy, he’s sweating, and I can
only imagine the terror he’s experiencing inside. All those emotions crammed
into that frumpy frame. For a big guy, he looks curiously innocent.

“I do pretty
good in math,” Joanne says.

Ritchie nods.
“Everyone does pretty good in math. Except me.”

“That’s not what
I meant, ya big dummy.”

In the past,
it’s only ever been me with the guts to call him anything other than ‘Ritchie’
or ‘Rich.’ However, at the sound of her saying ‘dummy’ in that weird, distorted
accent of hers, everyone stops. Everything stops. Even the clock on the wall
stops. All eyes turn to Joanne. She’s sitting there on the arm of the sofa, one
bare knee up, blond hair cascading over her thin shoulders. She looks like a
Pepsi commercial.

“And if you’re
willing to put in the time,” she continues, “I suppose I could
also
help
you with your English.” She even emphasizes ‘also’ in case he still isn’t
catching on.

Ritchie sits
there, mouth open, eyes wide.

“Though when you
sign your first pro contract, I expect some kind of kickback,” Joanne finishes.

Ritchie is, for
the second time in under ten minutes, on the verge of exploding. His face is
turning purple, his eyes bulging. To be honest, I don’t think he’s even—

“Breathe, Rich,”
I say.

Kristie’s hand
has migrated to my stomach, and I’m starting to get nervous. If her hand
continues to wander south, she’ll realize something is literally ‘up,’ and if I
stand, my secret will be revealed.

“I only got two
weeks,” Ritchie murmurs.

“Then that means
we’d better hustle.”

Ritchie
trembles.

“We do this,”
Joanne says. “We go all the way. No half-assing it.” In her broken tongue, it
sounds more like ‘
No hav azzing it
,’ but still…

“All the way?”
Ritchie asks.

Kristie buries
her face against my chest to suppress her laughter.

“All the way,”
Joanne continues, and suddenly Ritchie’s in the best mood ever.

The phone rings.
Joanne gets up and crosses the living room to the end table beside Ritchie’s
chair. She picks up, but my attention isn’t on her. It’s on Kristie. Her hand
has gone lower, and I try (unsuccessfully) to shift into a position that will
flatten things out, but it’s too late. Her hand stops, and she lifts her head
from my shoulder, a curious look in her eye. Gently, she applies a bit of
pressure while a smile spreads over her lips. This time I can’t run away like I
did back in the park. I was uncomfortable up on the hill when it was just the
two of us, but here in Mr. and Mrs. Lambert’s living room, while in the company
of both Ritchie and Joanne, it’s ten times worse. Here I feel exposed.

She kisses my
neck before resting her head on my shoulder. To her, everything’s cool. We’re a
couple of kids playing grownups. We are the envy of everyone else. We’re past
all that ‘what if’ bullshit. We’re officially going steady, which means we’re
in love, which means I have no reason to be afraid. Which also makes it that
much harder to walk away.

“They’re not
home right now,” Joanne says into the phone. “Besides, my dad likes to cut the
grass himself. He has a riding mower and
loves
working the stick.”

Ritchie is
paralyzed, Joanne is teasing him, Kristie is teasing me and I’m dying. Ritchie
was right. Two weeks from now, and I’m all the way gone. These moments that
feel like Tom Sawyer meets Holden Caulfield meets Hermie Raucher are the best
of times, and in a way, also the worst of times. Being a teenager sucks. Not
because we’re naïve, which we’re not, and not because we’re invincible, which
are, but because we think in mirrors. Everything’s backwards. Everything’s new
and exciting, and all of it is eternal. If I live a hundred years, I swear to
God I’ll never forget this day.