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Shutting the door as she pulled out of the drive, I leaned against it to bang my head against the wood. Regret and relief whooshed through me as I swallowed back my self-loathing.
I punished myself by mowing the lawn and making true my lies to Leslie. After a shower, I shaved, and tried to get my mind off everything by sorting through contact sheets of photos I’d taken last spring. I made careful note of which ones I wanted to enlarge when I had access to a darkroom again.
After about an hour, I found myself staring at Daniel’s number tacked by his photo on the bulletin board.
What would he say if I called him? Would it count as a date if we met up somewhere? Did I care?
The sun hadn’t set yet, but it was already past nine o’clock. Daniel probably wasn’t even home. He was probably out, maybe even on a date. Or maybe he was at Tilt-a-Whirl. My pulse quickened.
I went back to the contact sheets, pretending like I hadn’t already made up my mind.
Finally, I pulled on a clean Rick Springfield 1982 tour T-shirt I’d found at Repeat After Me. In front of the mirror, I studied my reflection: barely tamed dark brown curls, eyes still a mysterious gray, and ass perky as hell in new-to-me jeans.
Running a hand through my messy hair, I kicked aside the white sneakers my mom had bought me and pulled on the new gray Chucks I’d picked up. I decided on taking my old point-and-shoot camera. If I had to keep up with one of my babies all night, I’d be less likely to drink too much.
Before heading out, I left a note on the kitchen counter.
I’m going to Tilt-a-Whirl to meet friends.
I hoped it was true.
***
Using the payphone by Chalky ’N’ Joe’s, I called the club and asked to speak to Barry. Music saturated the line as they put me on hold for a long time. I was afraid I was going to have to feed in another quarter when Barry picked up.
“Hey, it’s me. Can you put my name on the list tonight so I don’t have to pay the cover?” I’d blown my entertainment budget on the Chucks.
“No way, Puker. No fucking way.”
“Come on, Barry. I swear to God, no, I swear on my dead dog, I’ll be good.”
Barry grumbled. Depeche Mode thumped in the background.
Finally, I burst out with, “Look, I don’t have anyone, okay? I’m lonely. And I need some friends. I learned my lesson last time about being careful. I promise.”
Barry grumbled some more.
My heart sank. I started planning an alternate evening of hunting the “wild photo” down by the train tracks, which was probably a hell of a lot more dangerous, actually, in the grand scheme of things. But then Barry growled, “Fine. Don’t let me down, though.”
The usual wall of smoke slammed into me as I entered the club.
Apparently, Rick Springfield and I were a hit because I was instantly approached by two pretty hot guys. Feeling smug, I kept my hand on my point-and-shoot camera in my pocket and headed straight upstairs, refusing to be distracted by the attractive men dancing with their shirts off, or the goateed dude who touched my arm with a smirk and a “Hello, pretty thing.”
It was quieter upstairs, though the muffled thumpa-thumpa vibrated the floor. Gazing through the smoky haze, I didn’t see Minty, Windy, Antonio—or, more importantly, Daniel. My spirits flagged, but Barry’s familiar presence behind the bar was comforting as I hopped up onto a stool.
“Thanks for getting me in for free.”
Barry put his elbows on the wooden surface of the bar and studied me seriously. “I’m trusting you, Puker.”
I lifted my camera and took a photo of him, glad I’d remembered to change the film speed to accommodate low light. “Everyone has a nickname for me.” I counted them out on my fingers. “Eater, Puker, Sweetie. Do I have a sign on my back that says, ‘Call me something stupid?’”
“Yeah, you do,” Barry said, sliding a glass my way. “Coke. That’s it.”
I sipped it nicely and didn’t complain.
“We’ve got some guest drag performers from Lexington today. Renée’s competitive as hell, so she’s doing that salsa number she’s been working on,” Barry informed me.
“Yeah?”
