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9.
We bought dish towels at a 7-Eleven on I-Drive and tried our best to wash the
slime and stink from the moat off our clothes and skin, and I filled the gas tank
to where it had been before we drove the circumference of Orlando. The
Chrysler’s seats were going to be a little bit wet when Mom drove to work, but I
held out hope that she wouldn’t notice, since she was pretty oblivious. My
parents generally believed that I was the most well-adjusted and not-likely-to-
break-into-SeaWorld person on the planet, since my psychological well-being
was proof of their professional talents.
I took my time going home, avoiding interstates in favor of back roads.
Margo and I were listening to the radio, trying to figure out what station had
been playing “Stars Fell on Alabama,” but then she turned it down and said, “All
in all, I think it was a success.”
“Absolutely,” I said, although by now I was already wondering what
tomorrow would be like. Would she show up by the band room before school to
hang out? Eat lunch with me and Ben? “I do wonder if it will be different
tomorrow,” I said.
“Yeah,” she said. “Me, too.” She left it hanging in the air, and then said,
“Hey, speaking of tomorrow, as thanks for your hard work and dedication on this
remarkable evening, I would like to give you a small gift.” She dug around
beneath her feet and then produced the digital camera. “Take it,” she said. “And
use the Power of the Tiny Winky wisely.”
I laughed and put the camera in my pocket. “I’ll download the pic when we
get home and then give it back to you at school?” I asked. I still wanted her to
say, Yes, at school, where things will be different, where I will be your friend in
public, and also decidedly single, but she just said, “Yeah, or whenever.”
It was 5:42 when I turned into Jefferson Park. We drove down Jefferson
Drive to Jefferson Court and then turned onto our road, Jefferson Way. I killed
the headlights one last time and idled up my driveway. I didn’t know what to say,
and Margo wasn’t saying anything. We filled a 7-Eleven bag with trash, trying to
make the Chrysler look and feel as if the past six hours had not happened. In
another bag, she gave me the remnants of the Vaseline, the spray paint, and the
last full Mountain Dew. My brain raced with fatigue.

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With a bag in each hand, I paused for a moment outside the van, staring at
her. “Well, it was a helluva night,” I said finally.
“Come here,” she said, and I took a step forward. She hugged me, and the
bags made it hard to hug her back, but if I dropped them I might wake someone.
I could feel her on her tiptoes and then her mouth was right up against my ear
and she said, very clearly, “I. Will. Miss. Hanging. Out. With. You.”
“You don’t have to,” I answered aloud. I tried to hide my disappointment. “If
you don’t like them anymore,” I said, “just hang out with me. My friends are
actually, like, nice.”
Her lips were so close to me that I could feel her smile. “I’m afraid it’s not
possible,” she whispered. She let go then, but kept looking at me, taking step
after step backward. She raised her eyebrows finally, and smiled, and I believed
the smile. I watched her climb up a tree and then lift herself onto the roof outside
of her second-floor bedroom window. She jimmied her window open and
crawled inside.
I walked through my unlocked front door, tiptoed through the kitchen to my
bedroom, peeled off my jeans, threw them into a corner of the closet back near
the window screen, downloaded the picture of Jase, and got into bed, my mind
booming with the things I would say to her at school.

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