Thirsty - M. T. Anderson [7]
She was in a summer dress, but she wore no shoes. Her feet arched and flinched on the warm gravel. She and her twenty-year-old sister were walking toward their hot, ticking car, talking.
“Shut up,” her sister said, laughing, “and eat your ice cream.”
“There are seven paths to wisdom,” Rebecca continued, raising her cone to her lingering tongue, “but I think the first three are smelly.”
She did a pirouette, and I saw her pockets were stuffed with napkins.
The afternoon drags on. We are talking and walking by the shore.
I have not yet thought of a way to lose Jerk. I can’t just say “Go home” or offer him ten dollars. If he weren’t with us, he wouldn’t have anything to do all afternoon. He would sit around and mope and watch Creature Double Feature. I cannot say anything serious in front of him, though, because he will offer some of his embarrassing advice. “Why not try different shoe sizes?”
As we cross a thin bridge over the dam’s rapids and eye the rusty cogs and ratchets of yesteryear, the two of them tell me the truck episode from the Choi movie. It is long and involves some chains and a busty blonde woman.
“That’s just like The Hitcher,” I say. “That happens at the end.”
We watch the man in black stalk toward us, taking the high path, stepping along it with a purposeful stride.
“That was a great flick,” says Jerk.
“It was,” I agree dully. “There was a truck scene like that at the end. Where he’s about to pull the woman in half by taking his foot off the brake pedal.”
“I saw it with Kristen Mosley,” says Tom.
“I am getting sick of seeing women pulled apart in horrible ways,” I say.
“On video,” adds Tom.
“Yes,” I agree, “I can never tire of it in real life.”
“No,” says Tom. “I saw it with Kristen Mosley on video. Sort of saw it. Needless to say, there were a couple of things that interfered with my concentration.”
I walk on for a minute, following the soft tawny shoulder of grass around the rim of the lake. The sneering pride in Tom’s voice is ringing through my head.
“It was a wicked good film,” says Jerk, “but a little bloody. Bloodier than a very bloody thing from the planet Hemorrhage.”
I turn to Tom and challenge him suddenly. “What did you mean? What did you mean you sort of saw it?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
Tom slows a step. He looks at me slyly and answers, “You know. There we were, on the couch.”
The wind has risen. Little whitecaps catch on the lake. “I don’t believe you said that,” I say.
With a glint of calculation in his eye, he boldly adds, “Two big wobbly diversions.”
I am suddenly irritated. He is doing this to irritate me. “I don’t believe you’re telling us this,” I say.
“What’s your problem?” says Tom, still looking at me boldly. The man in black approaches.
“I’m serious,” I say to Tom nervously. “I can’t believe you’re so cocky. Can’t you see it’s embarrassing?”
“For you, maybe,” says Tom.
“Are you boasting?” I ask.
“I have something to boast about. You’re hyper. What the hell is your problem?”
“I do not have a problem,” I say. “My problem is the fact that you’re doing this male boob-boast maneuver.”
Tom keeps pace with me. He is smirking. The wind waps his hair. “They’re sort of like Nintendo,” he presses. “You get bored pretty quick if you own a set, but it’s fun to go over and play with a friend’s. Bet you ten bucks that guy in black’s a CIA agent.”
“Screw this,” I say harshly. “You’re talking like a . . .” Whatever I am going to say is stupid and prissy, so I do not say it.
“You’re so goddamn jealous!” he says. “What’s your problem?”
“Stop it, you two,” says Jerk.
But Tom insists, “Lately you are always having a problem. You are being a complete peckerhead.”
“I am not a peckerhead,” I protest.
“Medical evidence suggests —”
“Would you shut