Damage - A. M. Jenkins [5]
“Parkersville’s got five thousand people in it, right?” Curtis’s eyes flick from booth to booth.
“Uh-huh.”
“So how come we keep seeing the same ones over and over?”
“Beats me,” you say, knowing what Curtis really means is the ones he keeps seeing don’t include Katherine Hopkins. Curtis can be pretty negative sometimes. He wouldn’t hesitate a moment to sit there like a lump in the middle of everybody else’s good time. On the other hand, there’s you; if God sends you a personal message to be joyful always, you’re going to take it seriously.
So when one of your little sister’s friends walks by, you reach out and give her ponytail a gentle tug. She’s been at your house a couple of times, but you can’t remember her name. She whirls around, breaks into a big smile, and says “Hi, Austin.” Exactly the kind of light friendly contact that helps pin things together so that the bottom doesn’t drop out of the evening.
When the food’s ready you get down to the business at hand: eating. This hamburger is the first meal you’ve had today, and you may not be hungry, but your body’s going to wolf down every bite.
“God, Austin, don’t they feed you at home?” Becky’s friend calls boldly from a nearby booth. She’s little, freshman-sized, underdeveloped—and she’s got on enough makeup to pave Highway 171.
Her tablemates are giggling. “I must have missed a meal,” you tell her, flashing a grin that dissolves the giggles into elbow poking. “Either that, or I’m having a growth spurt.”
Dobie has just taken a bite, but at the words “growth spurt,” he starts snickering into his hamburger.
“Now, Dobie,” you tell him, “get your mind out of the gutter. There’s nothing dirty about a little spurt now and then.” Normally, calling attention to Dobie in front of females would make him slide under the table—but right now all he can do is set the hamburger down and put his hands over his face, and try to stop laughing long enough to swallow.
Curtis eyes Dobie. “You’re not choking, are you?”
Dobie shakes his head frantically, behind his hands. His ears are beet red.
“Maybe you ought to whack him on the back a couple times, Austy,” Curtis suggests.
Dobie shakes his head again. After a few more moments he manages to swallow, and lowers his hands. “Don’t do that, man. Don’t make me laugh while I’m eating.” His face is getting back to its normal color.
“All I said was I’m having a growth spurt.” You start to add something about spurts being against the penal code—“penal code” being a surefire Dobie cracker-upper ever since eighth-grade social studies.
But Dobie’s attention has been caught by something outside the window. “Dang,” he mutters. “I think I’m getting a growth spurt right now.”
You turn to look. It’s Heather again, still outside. This time she’s bending forward to lean over the table. It is amazing, the lines a plain old pair of jeans can take on when a girl is wearing them. You feel like a dog perking up its ears.
Curtis has long since given up looking around for Kat. He’s just stirring a straw around and around in the cup he hasn’t taken a drink from. If Curtis was a dog right now, his ears would be limp and drooping.
You notice that Heather has one thumb hooked through a belt loop; the other hand flips her hair back over her shoulder. It crosses your mind that she knows how good she looks in those jeans, and wants everybody else to know, too.
Well, they do.
The light dusts her hair so that it looks almost golden. She looks a lot like one of those Barbie dolls Becky used to play with a few years ago—only nobody could ever make a doll so alive and perfect.
Heather turns her head and sees you through the window.
She gives you a smile so big and so bright that it lifts the breath up out of your chest. Somehow it doesn’t seem to be directed at Curtis or Dobie, although they’re sitting right next to you.
You nod hello back, then turn to Curtis, though you’re still watching her out of the corner of your eye.
“So,” you ask