Slide - Kyle Beachy [10]
Twice I stood and moved through the party nodding and smiling at people while still maintaining a close eye on my seat. I caught up with guys I played baseball with, girls I'd taken to homecoming dances, people I wanted to call remnants from a past life but to do so implied a current or future life, distinct from the past. Whenever I caught someone scoping my chair at the deck table, I returned to sit at the last possible minute. The third time I did this I saved it from a confusingly old girl-woman who then pulled out the chair next to me. She smiled and asked how I'd been.
“Mainly fine,” I said.
She was medium all around and wore makeup that flashed at certain angles in the lambent blue of the pool light. I had no idea who she was. But I sensed a grave struggle between her straightened hair and the humidity, and I applauded her for it. I also found myself liking a small mole that sat central on the girl's right cheek.
“We had AP Bio together,” she said. “Didn't we?”
“I'm not sure,” I said. “But if so, that means we went to the same high school. Which is a big deal in this town.”
“Your name is Potter.” Now a smile took shape. “You sat in the lab group two over from me. Potter Mays. You wore big jeans and went out with that junior girl who played tennis.”
“Meredith Flackman,” I said. “But only until that bearded cocksucker on the diving board stole her from me.”
“Oh my God, I remember. That was the story about you. Weren't you also really good at soccer?”
“Baseball,” I said. “I hit a lot of singles up the middle.”
“Jesus, I had such a weird crush on you.”
I watched Edsel Denk flip his massive frame into the night and remembered the starfish sitting in the bottom of the deep end. I looked back at the girl next to me and in the interest of research I managed to force all Audrey comparisons aside.
“Weird how?” I asked.
“It was the kind of crush that shows up in flashback episodes of sitcoms. When the parents explain to their kids how they met? One of them was usually gaga over someone else. You were the one I had this crush on while I was waiting to meet the other guy, the one who would end up being my husband.”
The candle on the table smelled like pears burning inside a tire.
“What are you doing this summer?” she asked.
“Three days a week I volunteer at a not-for-profit women's center. I do counseling work. Grief, trauma, all of these. The other two days I drive down to Jeff City to help run a literacy program at the Missouri State Penitentiary.”
“Potter Mays,” she said, laying one hand flat and bringing her body over the table, toward my chair. “I thought I had your whole story pegged. Honestly, I'm surprised. I'm impressed.”
“And yourself?”
“I paralegal this summer for a friend of my father's, then it's off to Georgetown Law. I can't wait.”
I emptied the end of my beer into the bushes. “I'm sorry if I seem disconnected. My mom is going through some pretty serious health issues right now.”
“Oh my God. I'm so sorry.”
She put her other hand on top of mine and we shared a moment of silence. Her mole cheek was only inches from my face. I hadn't planned on lying, but I refused to be on the short end of this exchange. The last thing I needed was some average woman girl looking at me like a failure. I continued to not lick her cheek.
“Well, if you find yourself wanting to talk, I'm around.” She squeezed my hand and left me alone with the candle.
Everyone had gained weight. The men exuded an air of pride, something in their shoulders. A lot of the weight was muscle, but they were also getting fat. They spoke loudly, pointedly, men who understood the importance of active engagement. I saw hairlines in the early stages of recession. Young men who'd been timid and meek in high school had thickened into something else, some small locus of force, a piece in the whole national project.
I decided to find the sage. I