Rusty Summer (31 page)

“Why are you crying?” I ask. She wipes her face on her pillowcase and rolls over.

“Ask Shane.” She grabs a Kleenex and blows her nose as she stares at me damply.

“Leonie, what did he do?!” Immediately I'm up in arms.

“Settle down, Rye. Nothing bad, and nothing he could help. Just go. You'll see.” She turns away.

I go back out to the living room.

“What is going on?”

“Can I tell you while you drive me? I'm going to be late.”

“Um, sure. We just have to go get Beau,” I say hesitantly. I'm not that reassured about Leo but now Shane's got further weird news regarding Beau.

“He's not coming either.”

“Okay, what is going on?” I'm beyond bewildered now, and starting to freak out a little. Beau isn't going to see Shane off either?

“Let's go first.”

So we do.

Outside, we throw his bag in the van, and climb in. I start the engine and we drive toward Lake Union, smack in the middle of town, where the float planes land. Shane quietly smiles at the passing landscape.

At first, silence; then, when we're almost there:

“Well?” I say. I've waited most of the ride. “Would you please just say what is going on?”

Shane looks at me. I keep driving, my gaze straight ahead.

“Leo confessed.”

“What?!” I say. I take my eyes off the road to stare at him for a sec, then I figure out what he's talking about. “Oh, Shane! Omg, dude!”

I know now why he is so quiet and pensive. I understand everything in a blinding flash.

We pull into the parking lot and park. I look at him with total remorse and cover my mouth with my palm, as I recall all the times we ended up bullshitting him—pretty much whenever he would call.

Shane goes on.

“She told me who was responsible for the texting and jokes, and that you would tell her things to say during our phone calls. She told me it was you all along, and while I was falling in love with her looks, even more—I was falling in love with her
mind.
” He stops and stares at me. “And that was never her, Rylee. That was you.”

Omg. For once I am without words.

Shane continues:

“All last month I've been thinking she was beautiful
and
brainy. And really funny! I've been crazy about the notion of this woman . . . and now I find out it's really
two
women.” He pauses. Silence.

I am gut-punched. I feel terrible—I never meant to hurt him.

We treated him like an object. Like a beautiful
prize
to win . . .

“Oh, Shane! I'm so sorry! I didn't think about the repercussions! I just helped her; it was sort of spontaneous . . . then she was so freaked out that you would find out and think she was dumb, that it kind of snowballed. I'm so sorry. Omg, I should have figured something like this would happen.”

I stare at the dashboard repentantly. I have screwed up!

Shane is quiet. I feel such remorse. I've been playing with people's hearts. So smug.

I sigh painfully. He looks over at me. Shrugs . . . and then smiles.

“Beauty versus brains. Of the two,” he says quietly, “beauty is overrated.” His dark eyes are intense.

What did I just hear? I gape at him.

“Beauty is a flash,” he continues. “Brains last. No comparison. When you get old, you'll still be smart and funny; maybe even more so, but is anyone still ‘beautiful'? Uh-uh, I don't think so.”

I check to see if he's just winding me up. But no . . . his splendid face is completely sincere. He shrugs again and looks forward. I admire his chiseled profile and consider a reoccurring theory.

Have you ever noticed it's the beautiful people who dis beauty? Gorgeous people go, “Oh, it's no big deal, this perfect face of mine. Inner beauty is better!” My theory: it's easy to underrate the effect beauty has on people when it's yours. Everyone's just really nice! You don't understand—and won't for some time—what life's like without it.

Of course Shane would dis beauty. It's like rich kids dissing money.

But hey, he's allowed one flaw, right?

 

“Yeah . . . so, anyway, thanks for the laughs. You're a crack-up.” His expression is warm.

“Thanks.” I don't know what to say.

We sit in the parking lot. We can see the plane his friend owns. It's bobbing on the water in front of us. We both get out and I hand him his bag from the back. We walk over to the plane.

“Thanks,” he says. We hug goodbye. We stand afterward for a second, smiling at each other.

I long to touch him, to push the honey hair from his eyes.

Then the improbable, the incredible, the
impossible
happens.

He looks at me deeply. His umber eyes are heavy-lidded and so sexy. My heart hammers.

Shane leans down and kisses me.

Smack on the lips—soft and hard and sweet, just like I've imagined so often.

Stunned, I kiss back, like it's my dream come true. 'Cuz it is.

My first kiss . . . and second and third. We kiss and kiss. His arms close around me as I lean in.

It feels like the movies! The big, old-time epic ones, with close-ups on faces as tall as buildings! I simultaneously feel all the things I've heard in songs: I'm weak in the knees, I'm falling, I can't see anyone but Shane, I'm on fire, I can't get higher, I'm filled with desire, I feel love, I can't stop, I've never felt this way before, I got a brand-new bag, I'm on a balloon to the moon, in June . . . our arms wind around each other and my hand twines his honey hair as his open palm burns white hot against the bare skin of my lower back, underneath my T-shirt and hoodie, and I briefly flash on an image of the ochre-outlined handprints along the ageless cave walls as my galloping heart shouts and I cuddle and kanoodle and gloriously snog Shane . . . Shane, the amazing . . . this mad doctor, Shane. . . . I can feel the rhythm of his heart too, and it's racing insanely and sounding in my ears and then we're kissing again, and it's spinning me and sending me to infinity and it's just like it should be, just like I'd dreamed.

Finally we stop for air.

We step apart. Stand gasping and staring for an instant. I gimbal. He steadies me.

We regard one another, regaining our breath and composure.

“You know where I live, Rylee,” he says softly. I'm pleased to note he's a little flushed and staggery too. I see his buddy approach behind him and wave when he sees me look at him. He'd been waiting far enough away to give us space, which I think was polite. Shane turns and yells to his friend. He grabs his bag and then hops onto the strut of the plane. He throws me a quick look and a kiss before he disappears inside. His buddy jumps in the other side, and within five minutes they are taxiing down the lake, preparing for takeoff.

I watch it ascend and bank north. Before Shane and the plane vanish into the wild blue yonder, it waves its wing in farewell.

I wave till the plane evaporates into sky.

 

As I drive back I get a text from Leo. I read it at the red light. It says:
come 2 yer moms pleez!!

When I get there she's sitting on the sofa, looking at the backyard. It needs mowing.

“Hey.” She looks up listlessly.

“Hey.” I plop down on a chair across from her. “How are you?” I ask. She looks at me plaintively.

“I'm . . . whatever. I'm not interesting without you. Shane likes you.”

“Gimme a break!” I say. But I don't tell her what happened.

“It's true! But you know what? I'm glad I told him! It was too exhausting!” Leo heaves a huge sigh. “It's too hard to pretend to be something you're not!”

Then she smiles a little. “Hey—I think I feel better! I think I feel like—a Peace Warrior!”

I feel repealed.... “A Peace Warrior of The Now?” I ask.

She grins at me. I grin back, with relief.

“You wrote that part.” She points at me. It's a statement, not a question.

“Kind of,” I admit. “I wrote ‘Peace Warrior of The Near Future. ' Beau changed it to ‘Now.' I guess The Near Future isn't soon enough.”

 

The next day Bashy comes over. I've only seen her at the graduation and we couldn't really talk.

“You need a name!” Bashy has her hall-monitor face on. “Tell me your name!”

“Bashy, I've been busy! I don't have a name! I guess I'll be The Skater with No Name!” I say.

“I thought you liked Helen. A. Hand Truck,” she says, severely. “Which is awesome!”

“It is! I do! I'm just not sure it's for me!”

“Well, you have
one
day, then I'm supposed to tell the league, as your mentor. They aren't sure what to think. They're like, ‘is Rylee skating?' and I'm like, ‘uh, I think she's already skated!'—'cuz you had—you were in Alaska! Get it? You already skated—see?—to Kodiak! Get it?! That's hilarious!”

She beams at me, all proud of herself and her amazing wit.

“No, yeah, you're right—that
is
hilarious!” I loyally tell her.

“So think up a name, goo-friend!” Which makes me roll my eyes because she's still doing her lame-ass impression.

Just then Leo walks in. She has The Bomb with her.

“Hey!” I say. I forgot she said she might walk The Bomb over from Mom's.

“Hey, you guys,” she replies.

“That was a long walk! You must be feeling better!” I'm gleeful. She looks so pretty and well.

“I do. I needed to get out of the house. And Bommy said she wanted to see you.” She flops on the couch. We sit and chill for a moment. I greet The Bomb.

“Well, I'm out of here. I have an audition.” Bashy stretches luxuriously and looks for her shoes. (Did I mention Bashy does theater? Yeah, she does.)

“You do?” I cackle. “What kind of part?”

“The evil bad guy! My fave!” She mugs wickedly. “See? I'm freaking diabolical!”

“Oh, dude! Very evil!” I say, complimentary. She pulls her face back to normal.

“Then I might go to the
America's Got–The Next X Idol
auditions, either today or tomorrow.”

“Seriously? They're here? Too funny! Where are they being held?”

“The Center, at the Exhibition Hall.”

“Well, shoot; good luck, young hopeful!”

“Thanks. After I win, I'm going to buy a private jet and fly us to all our Derby meets!”

“Cool! Godspeed, dude!” I say, amused. As ever, Bashy slays me.

“'Kay. I'm peace-ing out! Tell me your name! Tomorrow! Deuces!”

“I will, I will! Okay, kick ass! Peace!”

It seems quiet after she leaves. The clock ticks.

Leo re-parks in an easy chair. The Bomb is investigating where I spilled Jell-O on the rug.

We go sit on the stoop, since it's sunny. The wind is warm.

“Heard from Shane?” Leonie asks, her eyes closed in the sunshine.

“Um, just friends on Facebook. Have you?”

“No.” Full stop. Her eyes remain closed.

“I had a ton of stuff to do on Facebook after I came back,” I say rapidly, to change the subject. “Everyone was all, ‘Rusty where did you go?' and I have to explain to people across the country. It's weird, isn't it? All these people you never met, that you somehow really care about.”

“Facebook friends,” Leo explains. She shrugs. “It's the twenty-first century.”

 

I'm staring at the computer the next day, trying to work on my short story, when my phone makes its little “you have mail” tinkle. I look—a text from Leo:

I drive over and she is standing at the door with her hat and her sparkles and The Bomb.

“Let's go!” she whispers, though we are alone in the house.

 

The joint is packed. We are herded into the bleachers. We scream on cue for the camera.

She gets her number and we stand and we sit in the bleachers, and we wait and we wait.

She aces the first elimination . . . and all the others that day. Waving, we scream for the camera.

We wait some more . . . and then she is chosen to see the real judges!

I stand in the hall with the camera crew and the strange little host man and his microphone.

“How do you feel?” he asks predictably.

“Good,” says the inscrutable Leo.

Then it's her turn.

Leo puts on her hat and I hand her The Bomb's leash.

And in they stroll . . .

I watch everything on the monitor outside the room.

“Hi, doll!” says the Nice-But-Sketchy Judge.

“Hi!” says Leo.

“Cute dog! What's the name of your act?” says Guy-in-a-Band Judge.

“Thank you. We're Leonie and The Bomb,” says Leo.

“Which are you?” asks the Usually Snotty Judge, being funny.

“I'm Leonie. This is The Bomb,” clarifies Leo, politely. The Bomb looks politely impressed.

“Leonie, what are you going to do for us today, darling?” asks Usually-Snotty Judge.

“Sing,” says Leo.

“Duh, hun! It's a singing contest. He meant what are you going to sing?” says Nice-but-Sketchy.

“I'm going to sing ‘Woodstock,'” Leo informs them.

“And your puppy? The Bomb?” asks Guy-in-a-Band Judge. The Bomb's ears prick up.