Crescendo

Grease. I cringed and pulled the phone away from my ear.

I rubbed sleep out of my eyes and watched the numbers on the clock seesaw into focus. That couldn’t possibly be a six at the front … could it?

“Should I wear a hot pink bandeau, or a metallic gold bikini? The thing about the bikini is, I probably need a tan before I wear it. Gold will make my skin look even more washed out. Maybe I’ll wear pink this time, get a base tan, and—”

“Why does my clock say six twenty-five?” I demanded, trying to wade through the haze of sleep long enough to push some volume into my voice.

“Is this a trick question?”

“Vee!”

“Yeesh. Angry much?”

I slammed the phone down and snuggled deeper under the covers. The home phone started ringing downstairs in the kitchen. I folded my pillow over my head. The answering machine picked up, but Vee wasn’t that easy to get rid of. She redialed. Again and again.

I speed-dialed her cell. “What?”

“Gold or pink? I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. It’s just … Rixon’s going to be there, and this is the first time he’ll see me in a swimsuit.”

“Back up. The plan is for all three of us to go together? I’m not going all the way out to Old Orchard Beach to be the third wheel!”

“And I’m not going to let you sit home all afternoon with your sour face on.”

“I don’t have a sour face.”

“Yes, you do. And you’re wearing it right now.”

“This is my annoyed face. You woke me up at six in the morning!”

The sky was summer blue from horizon to horizon. The Neon’s windows were rolled down, a hot wind ripped through Vee’s and my hair, and the heady smell of salt water filled the air. Vee exited off the highway and drove down Old Orchard Street, eyes peeled for parking. The lanes on both sides of the street were backed up with slow-moving cars that rolled along well under the speed limit, hoping for a spot to open up on the street before they slipped past and lost their chance.

“This place is packed,” Vee complained. “Where am I supposed to park?” She steered down an alley and slowed to a stop behind a bookstore. “This looks good. Lots of parking back here.”

“The sign says employee parking only.”

“How are they going to know we aren’t employees? The Neon blends right in. All these cars speak low class.”

“The sign says violators will be towed.”

“They just say that to scare people like you and me away. It’s an empty threat. Nothing to worry about.”

She wedged the Neon into a space and cranked the parking brake. We grabbed an umbrella and a tote filled with bottled water, snacks, sunscreen, and towels out of the trunk, then hiked down Old Orchard Street until it dead-ended at the beach. The sand was dotted with colorful umbrellas, the frothy waves rolling under the twiggy legs of the pier. I recognized a group of soon-to-be senior guys from school playing Ultimate Frisbee just ahead.

“Normally I’d say we should go check out those guys,” Vee said, “but Rixon is so hot, I’m not even tempted.”

“When is Rixon supposed to get here, anyway?”

“Hey now. That didn’t sound very cheerful. In fact, it sounded just a little bit cynical.”

Shielding my eyes, I squinted at the coastline, looking for an ideal place to pitch the umbrella. “I already told you: I hate being the third wheel.” The last thing I needed or wanted was to sit under a hot sun all afternoon, watching Vee and Rixon make out.

“For your information, Rixon had a few errands to run, but he promised to be here by three.”

“What kind of errands?”

“Who knows? Probably Patch roped him into doing a favor. Patch always has something he needs Rixon to run off and take care of. You’d think Patch could just do it himself. Or at least pay Rixon, so he’s not taking advantage of him. Do you think I should wear sunscreen? I’m going to be really mad if I go to all this trouble and don’t get a tan.”

“Rixon doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who lets people take advantage of him.”

“People? No. Patch? Yes. It’s like Rixon worships him. It’s so lame. It makes my stomach heave. Patch is not the kind of guy I want my boyfriend aspiring to be.”

“They have a long history together.”

“So I’ve heard. Blah, blah, blah. Probably Patch is a drug dealer. No. Probably he’s an arms dealer and has Rixon out playing the sacrificial mule, gunrunning for free and risking his neck.”

Behind my knockoff Ray-Bans, I rolled my eyes. “Does Rixon have a problem with their relationship?”

“No,” she said, all huffy.

“Then leave it at that.”

But Vee wasn’t about to let it go. “If Patch isn’t dealing in arms, how’s he get all his cash?”

“You know where he gets his money.”

“Tell me,” she said, folding her arms stubbornly across her chest. “Tell me out loud where he gets his money.”

“The same place Rixon gets his.”

“Uh-huh. Just as I thought. You’re ashamed to say it.”

I gave her a pointed look. “Please. That’s the dumbest thing ever.”

“Oh yeah?” Vee marched up to a woman not far away who was building a sand castle with two small children. “Excuse me, ma’am? Sorry to interrupt your quality beach time with the little ones, but my friend here would like to tell you what her ex does for a living.”

I clamped my hand around Vee’s arm and dragged her away.

“See?” Vee said. “You’re ashamed. You can’t say it out loud and not feel your insides start to rot.”

“Poker. Pool. There. I said it and I didn’t shrivel up and die. Satisfied? I don’t know what the big deal is. Rixon earns his living the very same way.”

Vee shook her head. “You’re so in the dark, girl. You don’t buy the kind of clothes Patch wears by winning bets at Bo’s Arcade.”

“What are you talking about? Patch wears jeans and T-shirts.”

She put a hand on her hip. “You know how much jeans like that run?”

“No,” I said, confused.

“Let’s just say you can’t buy jeans like that in Coldwater. He probably ships them up from New York. Four hundred dollars a pair.”

“You lie.”

“Cross my heart, hope to die. Last week, he was wearing a Rolling Stones concert T-shirt with Mick Jagger’s autograph. Rixon said it’s the real thing. Patch isn’t paying off his MasterCard in poker chips. Back before you and Patch were Splitsville, did you ever ask where he really gets his money? Or how he got that nice shiny Jeep?”

“Patch won his Jeep off a poker game,” I argued. “If he won a Jeep, I’m sure he could win enough to buy a pair of four-hundred-dollar jeans. Maybe he’s just really good at poker.”

“Patch told you he won the Jeep. Rixon has a different story.”

I flipped my hair off my shoulders, trying to pretend like I couldn’t care less about the direction our conversation was headed, because I wasn’t buying it. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“I don’t know. Rixon won’t say. All he said was, ‘Patch would like you to think he won the Jeep. But he got his hands dirty getting that car.’”

“Maybe you heard wrong.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Vee repeated cynically. “Or maybe Patch is a damn lunatic running an illegal business.”