Changers Book Four. T Cooper
DJ and I huddled. I reached into my rear pocket and pulled out an envelope, passing it to him and squeezing his hand when he took it.
“I’m the proverbial messenger. Don’t shoot!”
“So, not good news then,” he mumbled.
“She really loves you,” I said. “Maybe read it later?”
He nodded and hugged me hard before being dragged away for yet more photos with yet another batch of delighted relatives. At which point I spotted Audrey across the field going through the same family-portrait rigmarole, although in a decidedly less heartwarming environment.
“Smile, little lady!” I heard her mother demand, as Audrey stood beside Jason, who was pretending to hump his empty diploma holder, because of course he was short the credits needed to graduate. “Jason Beauregard! You stop being so silly,” his mom said, as he struck a Heisman Trophy pose in his robe, then pretended to run and block Audrey on the football field.
Poor Audrey.
I got out my cell and texted her: 5 min by my scooter?
I waited till I saw her check her phone and glance around before typing back: I have to go to brunch at Eat-aly. Then I’m all yours.
Me: ALL mine?
Audrey: Stop it.
Me: I’ll pick you up outside Eat-aly in 2 hours. Bring me a breadstick.
Audrey: xoxo
* * *
Most excruciating two hours of my year as Kim, which was already wall-to-wall excruciating, truth be told. But that’s not important anymore. I won Audrey back, and this time she’s not going away, even if I am.
I can’t believe it was three years ago that Audrey pressed that Snoopy wrapping paper–covered box with the silver bracelet and the drum kit charm into my hand and told me we’d be best friends forever. In fact, we were supposed to have been adding charms to the bracelet each year of our friendship, which didn’t happen (for obvious reasons).
But wait, it can! I realize. So I motor over to the jewelry store next to ReRunz to see if they have any charms I can add to the bracelet, and then I can regift it to Audrey as a tangible promise of our future together.
I park, then push through the jewelry store door, which dings with an antique bell tied to the top. I scan the glass cases, searching for the charm section.
The saleslady comes over. “Do you need some help, miss?”
“I’m searching for something to go on this,” I say, pulling the bracelet out.
She bends down, unlocks the cabinet, and presents a massive display case with at least a hundred velvet cubbies with silver charms in each. Jackpot.
There are windmills, an open book, a penguin, a horse, a British telephone booth, every letter of the alphabet. A popsicle. I stick my fingers into as many of the compartments as possible, dangle each charm and consider whether it’s right. A tree. Interesting: life, growth, strength in the roots. Maybe. I lay it out on the counter.
A tire. No.
A flower. Her beauty. No, cheesy.
A shovel. Symbolizing my willingness to go deep with her. Or the holes I keep digging for myself. Pass.
A Scottie dog. Cute, but what does it mean?
Fishing rod—no. Football—hell naw. Notebook—nope. Pretzel—WTF? Who knew how many types of charms there are in the world? (Who knew people loved pretzels that much?)
Wait, what’s this? A paddle-wheel riverboat. Boom. The boat we watched slowly putter by from the riverbank when we, uh, reconnected. Perfect. I put it on the glass countertop. “This one for sure,” I say to the clerk, then keep sorting.
The Eiffel Tower. Nope. The moon. Not quite right. An anchor. Almost, maybe too cliché; lay it out. A music note, because she makes my heart sing . . . and now I’m making myself puke. And then, YES! There it is. An old-fashioned airplane like the one that was circling above when Audrey and Oryon kissed on the blanket by the community airport.
I ask the saleswoman to add the boat and plane to the bracelet beside the drum kit. But it still feels spare. I open my wallet to see how much cash I have left over from allowance.
“How much are the letters?”
“Five apiece,” she says, “but if you buy three, you get one free.”
“I’ll take an A, D, O, and K.”
“Most folks get one letter, for their first or their last name.”
“I’m not most folks.”
“Seems odd is all,” she pushes, really leaning into her role as the bracelet police. “Unless they’re the initials of your kids. They your kids?”
“I’m sixteen years old.”
The saleslady just slow-blinks. “Will that do it for today?” she asks at last.
“For today,” I nod, thinking about next year, and what initial I’ll be coming back to buy.
* * *
After getting the charm bracelet squared away and polished up, I fill up the tank on my scooter and scoop Audrey up from behind Eat-aly, and off we go. No maps on our phones, no plan. I did hear a stern, “Be back by seven thirty!” from Audrey’s father waft from around the corner of the restaurant entrance where I was hiding out. (I still keep my distance from her family, especially after the RaChas march.)
It’s amazing how soon you can get out of town when you want to. How quickly the buildings get more squat, more sparse, more alike. How the cars change from foreign to American, sedans and coupes to pickups and trucks. How a rebel flag will pop up here and there, sun-faded and whipping in the wind. How the people seem less on the move, more set in their ways. Because they are. If the looks we get at the Quickie Mart are any indication.
While Audrey goes to the bathroom, I wander the aisles and pick out a couple bottles of water, some spicy chips, corn nuts, a box of Junior Mints. The guy behind the counter in a Don’t Mess with Dixie hat sneers at me, glancing out at my Vespa, our two sparkly helmets perched on the rearview mirrors, then back at me, down at my chest. My chest! Then finally back up at my actual face, though he can’t seem to keep his focus there.
“Eight fifty-eight,” he says, with about as much disdain as can be mustered for mere numbers.
“Hey,” Audrey says, bumping my hips with hers as she joins me at the counter.
The guy takes my ten-dollar bill, being sure not to touch my fingers, and sneers at Audrey, turns his back to us, muttering.
“Really?” Audrey whispers, loud enough for him to hear.
I nudge her to quit.
“We’re out of pennies,” he spits, turning around to dump the change into my palm, again making sure we have no accidental human-to-human contact, lest he actually touch me and catch, what, feminism?
“Thank you!” Audrey says brightly (fakely), and we push through the glass door, the squeak of the hinge shy of making enough noise to drown out the “See you next Tuesday” aimed at our backs as we leave.
“Wait, did he call us—?” Audrey asks outside, seemingly ready to go back in and confront the guy.
“It’s not worth it,” I say. “Come on.”
Audrey’s face flares red, like a tomato about to burst. I feel responsible. The reality of me and what I am on the outside slamming full speed and face-first into our otherwise perfect afternoon, even though I know it’s not me, it’s the culture around us that’s the problem.
“What a creep,” she says. “I mean, why is he even . . .”