People laughed.
He flapped his arms and squawked like a chicken.
“Afraid you can’t throw that far?”
“I know I can.”
He lifted his hat in a small salute to my claim. Blond curls slipped out, then he plopped the hat back on and said, “I dare you.”
The guy with whom he had been sitting on the bench put down a dollar and motioned to me.
“Come on,” the blond guy taunted from the dunking bench. “Show us some muscle.”
This is what you find in a small town, I thought, guys from the last century when it comes to their attitude toward girls.
I made my way to the front of the crowd. The guy on the plank started singing what must have been the Wisteria High School anthem. His buddy handed me a softball. I focused on the target, imagining it was the first baseman’s glove at Birch Hill and we needed one more out to win the championship. I planted my feet and threw.
Bull’s-eye! He went down on a high note.
The crowd cheered loudly. For a moment all we saw was the floating hat, then his blond head popped up.
“Lucky shot,” he said.
“No way,” I replied.
“Law of chance. Eventually someone had to hit the target.”
“Want to try for two?” I asked.
“Twice lucky? I don’t think so.”
I grabbed a ball and raised my arm, ready to nail the target.
“Hey — hey! Wait till I get back on the bench.” He reclaimed his hat and climbed up onto the plank. “And somebody’s got to pay.”
I pulled a dollar from my shorts.
“Okay, girls and guys, let’s see if this looker is—” He swallowed the rest.
There were more cheers and shouts of “Do it again! Do it again!”
People started laying down money. I had never been surrounded by so many cute guys. I lost my nerve and backed away from the booth. “Sorry, I, uh, have to go.”
“Three in a row, three in a row!” someone shouted.
Others picked up the chant.
“No, really, I have to go.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a woman with camera equipment turn in our direction. I can pick out a press ID tag a mile away.
“Please let me through,” I begged, but the crowd pushed forward. I glanced over at the guy standing waist deep in the water and expected him to start taunting me again.
He met my eyes, then reached for his megaphone. “I’m not getting back on that bench,” he said, “not till little Miss Lucky leaves.”
“Aw, come on,” the crowd urged.
“No way.” He set down the megaphone, then flopped on his back. With his hat resting on his stomach, he floated and sang “God Bless America.”
Two guys began to goad him. I slipped behind them, dodged three more, and made my escape, not stopping until I reached Water Street. There I leaned against a tree and silently thanked the tease for letting me off the hook.
A short block ahead of me was the glittering Sycamore River. I gazed at it for several minutes, remembering long, lazy afternoons of watching it from Aunt Jule’s porch, back when it sparkled with nothing but happy memories. A wet hand suddenly touched my shoulder.
“Remember me?”
I turned quickly and found the blond guy grinning at me, dripping on the ground around him, the corners of his hat sagging. I tried to think of something clever to say; unable to, I said nothing.
“Are you shy?” he asked.
“No, not at all, not around people I know.”
He laughed. “That’s brave of you. What’s your name?”
“Lauren.”
“Want to go out, Lauren?”
I blinked. “Jeez! No.”
He blinked back at me, as surprised by my answer as I was by his question.
I fumbled for an excuse. “I’m not going to be here very long,” I lied.
“Perfect!” he replied. “My dating policy is one date per girl. Occasionally, I go on two dates with the same girl, but that’s my absolute limit. I don’t want to get hooked. You like movies?”
“But I don’t even know you,” I argued.
“You want references? I have college recommendations.
They don’t talk about my excellent ability with girls, but—” I glanced quickly to the right. A girl was watching us, most of her hidden by an artist’s easel and the flap of a tent. All I could see were her dark eyes, eyes that were drawn together, as if in pain or anger. When she realized I saw her, she turned and disappeared.
“Hey,” the guy said, touching me on the elbow, studying my face, “don’t take me so seriously.”
I glanced back at him.
“It’s no big deal,” he went on. “I can stand rejection. I’ll just be crushed for months.”
I smiled a little. “Maybe you know Nora and Holly—”
“Ingram?” he finished quickly.
“Their mother is my godmother.”
His eyes widened. He took a step closer, peering down at me. I was very aware of the the strong line of his jaw and the curve of his mouth.
Ten, I thought, he’s definitely a ten.
“You’re Lauren Brandt,” he said. “I should have known it.
You still have those chocolate-kiss eyes.”
I took a step back.
“Here.” He plunked his wet hat on my head. “Don’t go anywhere,” he told me, then turned away. When he faced me again, his eyes were crossed and his mouth stretched wide by his fingers. “Now do you recognize me?”
“Nick? Nick Hurley?” I asked, laughing.
He took back his hat. “You’ll be sorry to hear I don’t make gross faces as much as I used to. Now I’d rather smile at girls.”
“I noticed.”
He waved his hat around as if trying to dry it, his green eyes sparkling at me, as full of fun and trouble as when he was in elementary school. I relaxed. This was my old buddy.
We used to fish and crab together and have slimy bait battles with chopped-up eels and raw chicken parts.
“You’ve changed,” he said. “You’re — uh—”
“Yes?”
“Taller.”
“I hope so. I was ten the last time you saw me.”
“And your hair’s really dark now-and short,” he added.
My mother had loved long hair and fussed with mine constantly. The year after she died, I cut if off and haven’t grown it since.
