“Remy, honey, get me some cold water, would you?” Lola yelled from the other room, and I could tell by her voice-cheerful but loud -she meant do it now, stat. “And some of that Neosporin from the cabinet beneath the cash drawer?”
“Sure thing!” I yelled back just as cheerfully, shoving the pictures into my purse.
I yanked the Neosporin out of the cabinet, adding some gauze and a few bandages, which from previous experiences, I thought we might need. Hair emergencies happened all the time, and the truth was, you just knew to be prepared.
Three hours later, when the drama had finally subsided and Lola’s customer had left with a bandaged scalp, a hefty gift certificate, and a written promise of eyebrow waxing for life, I finally got to lock the cash drawer, get my purse, and walk outside.
It finally felt like summer. Heavy heat, totally humid, and everything just smelled kind of smoky and thick, as if close to boiling. Lola kept the salon ice cold, so walking outside was like leaving an arctic freeze. I always got goose bumps as I walked to my car.
I got in, cranked the engine, and turned the AC on full blast to get it going. Then I picked up my cell phone and checked my messages. One from Chloe, asking what we were doing tonight. One from Lissa saying she was fine, just fine, but sounding all sniffly, which she knew I was getting sick of by now. And lastly my brother, Chris, reminding me that Jennifer Anne was cooking us dinner tonight, six sharp, don’t be late.
I deleted this last message with an angry jab of my finger. I was never late. And he knew it. Further evidence of brainwash ing by Jennifer Anne, who, unlike my brother, knew me not at all. I mean, I was the one who got him up each morning when he started for that Jiffy Lube job, otherwise, he would have slept through all three of his alarms, which he had set in various positions around the room, all requiring him to get up out of the bed to hit the snooze button. I made sure he wasn’t late, didn’t get fired, was out the door by 8:35 at the latest, in case he hit traffic down main street, which he always-
I was interrupted, suddenly, by a thwacking sound as something hit my windshield. Not hard: more like a slap. I looked up, heart jumping, and saw yet another snapshot of the old vacationing couple. Same WILL GOLF FOR FOOD T-shirt, same crinkly smiles. Now staring down at me, pressed against the glass, held there by someone’s hand.
And I knew. It was ridiculous I hadn’t figured it out earlier.
I hit the button for my window and it went down. Standing there, right by my side mirror, was Dexter. He took his hand off the windshield and the picture slid down the glass, lodging itself under one of my wipers.
“Hi there,” he said. He was wearing a white T-shirt under a uniform I recognized: polyester shirt, green with black piping. Right over the front pocket was neatly stitched FLASH CAMERA, the name of the one-hour photo place directly across the street from the salon.
“You’re stalking me,” I told him.
“What?” he said. “You didn’t like the pictures?”
“Will Golf for Food? How stupid is that?” I said, putting my car in reverse. “Is it supposed to mean something?”
“No musicians, no golfers,” he said, ticking these off on his fingers. “What’s left? Lion tamers? Accountants?”
I just looked at him, then put my foot on the gas. He had to jump out of the way to avoid my tire flattening his foot.
“Wait,” he said, putting his hand on my open window, “in all seriousness. Can you give me a ride?” I must have looked skeptical, because he added quickly, “We have a band meeting in fifteen minutes. And we instituted this new policy, so the repercussions for being late are brutal. Seriously.”
“I’m late too,” I said, which was a lie, but I wasn’t a freaking taxi service.
“Please.” He squatted down, so we were eye to eye. Then he lifted up his other hand, exposing a grease-stained bag from Double Burger. “I’ll share my fries with you.”
“No thanks,” I said, hitting the button to put up my window. “Besides, I have a no-food policy in my car. Repercussions are brutal.”
He smiled at this, stopping the window with his hand. “I’ll behave,” he said. “I promise.” And then, he started around the front of the car, as if I had said yes, grabbing the picture off my windshield and tucking it into his back pocket. The next thing I knew he was sliding in beside me, settling into the seat, the door swinging shut behind him.
What was it about this guy? Resistance was futile. Or maybe I was just too tired and hot to pursue another argument.
“One ride,” I told him in my stern voice. “That’s it. And if you get even a speck of food in this car you’re out. And I won’t slow down to do it, either.”
“Oh, please,” he said, reaching for his seat belt, “you don’t have to coddle me, really. Be blunt. Don’t hold back.”
I ignored this as I pulled out of the shopping center and onto the road. We weren’t half a block when I caught him sneaking a French fry. He thought he was being slick, cupping it in his hand and faking a yawn, but I was a pro at this. Lissa was always testing my limits.
“What did I say about food?” I said, hitting the brake for a red light.
“I’m hmphrgy,” he mumbled, then swallowed. “I’m hungry,” he repeated.
“I don’t care. No food in the car, period. I’m trying to keep it nice.”
He turned around, glancing at the backseat, then at the dashboard and floor mats. “Nice?” he said. “This thing is like a museum. It still smells new.”
“Exactly,” I said as the light changed.
“Take this left here.” He pointed, and I changed lanes, glancing behind me. “I bet you’re a real control freak.”
“Wrong.”
“You are, I can tell.” He ran a finger across the dash, then glanced at it. “No dust,” he reported. “And you’ve cleaned this windshield from the inside, haven’t you?”
“Not lately.”
“Hah!” he hooted. “I bet it would drive you crazy if something was out of place.”
“Wrong,” I told him.
“Let’s see.” He reached into the bag, carefully withdrawing a French fry. It was long and rubbery looking, bending as he held it between two fingers. “In the interest of science,” he said, waving it at me, “a little experiment.”
“No food in the car,” I repeated, like a mantra. God, how far away was his house? We were back over near the hotel where we’d had the reception, so it had to be close.
“Left here,” he said, and I hooked us onto the street, scaring a couple of squirrels into the trees. When I next glanced over at him, his hands were empty and the French fry, now straightened, was lying on the gearshift console. “Now, don’t panic,” he said, putting his hand on my arm. “Breathe. And just appreciate, for a minute, the freedom in this chaos.”
I moved my arm out from under his hand. “Which house is yours?”
“It’s not messy at all, see? It’s beautiful. It’s nature in all its simplicity…”
Then I saw it: the white van, parked crookedly in the front yard of a little yellow house about a hundred feet up. The porch light was on, even though it was broad daylight, and I could see the redheaded drummer, Ringo, coffee shop employee, sitting on the front steps with a dog beside him. He was reading a newspaper; the dog was just panting, its tongue out.
“… the natural state of things, which is, in fact, utter imperfection,” he finished as we jerked into the driveway, spraying gravel. The French fry slid off the console, leaving a grease trail like a slug, and landed in my lap. “Whoops,” he said, grabbing it. “Now, see? That was a first, good step in conquering-”
I looked at him, then moved my hand, hitting the automatic lock: click, and the button on his door shot up.