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“Not at all! Nadine and I have so much to chat about,” Patricia sings in her high, feathery voice. “I’m sure we’ll be brunchin’ away for at least a good hour or two. That’s long enough for them to see their movie with what’s-his-name!”
“What’s-his-name!” agrees Nadine, and the two ladies laugh.
Bobby and I stare at each other, unsure whether to be pleased or alarmed at how well our mamas are suddenly getting along.
We decide to be pleased.
The ladies leave arm-in-arm while Bobby and I make a short two-minute trip down the road to the movie theater, me stabbing the pavement with my crutch the whole way there. At the box office, Bobby greets the bushy-haired girl who always seems to be working there, gets his two allotted employee passes for the day, and leads the way inside by holding open the door for me to carefully crutch my way through. What a gentleman.
Unlike the crowded church, Bobby and I enjoy a whole back row to ourselves in our auditorium. I even kick my bad foot up on the seat ahead of me, since the only other people in the theater are an older couple near the front who pay us no mind at all every time we laugh at the movie—it’s way super awfully bad—and heckle the actors on the screen.
It’s just about twenty minutes into the movie when I shift in my seat and throw an arm around the back of Bobby’s chair—a totally casual, reflexive move I make without thinking.
Bobby freezes at first. But after a glance to the left and right, he gives in, sinking his body into mine.
And I, barely aware that I had thrown my arm around him in the first place, decide to follow through with my own spontaneity, turning the maneuver into a cuddling half-hug, holding my Bobby against my side like a proper movie date.
I plant a kiss right on the top of his head, then face the silver screen with renewed confidence.
Maybe this can work after all.
18
BOBBY
Sunday afternoon spent in the movie theater snuggled up to Jimmy Strong is an absolute dream.
And I’ve had many dreams.
When we meet up with our parents at Biggie’s afterwards, the pair of us are in such blissful moods, we don’t even care about our mothers talking our ears off about nothing important. I just keep shooting Jimmy these knowing looks, and he shoots them right back at me, his eyes full of mischief.
We need to take it slow, I had insisted.
Yet from the looks in our eyes, it seems like we already can’t wait until our next sleepover.
The whole rest of the evening and night, I text a storm back and forth with Jimmy. He was invited over to his brother’s for dinner, then discovered it was an ambush attempt by Billy to find out if his ankle was going to be healed for the big Spruce Ball—and also whether his dance would be a sexy solo or romantic duet.
“I guess I need to keep off my foot,” Jimmy tells me a bit later when texting is too slow and I suggest we talk on the phone. “The fate of the whole town of Spruce depends on it, according to Mr. Billy Tucker-Strong, unofficial dance coordinator.”
I laugh and shake my head, clutching my pillow tightly on my bed while peering out the window, wondering if he can see the same half-moon I’m looking at. “So which is it, then?”
Jimmy grunts. “Hmm?”
“Solo? … Or duet?”
He hears the innuendo in my voice. “Well, I guess it depends how daring-as-fuck a certain someone wants to be.”
“You mean me? Seriously?” I snort. “These legs aren’t meant for dancing. At least not like yours are.”
“All legs are meant for dancing. You don’t even have to learn how. Just put on the right music and start movin’ your tush.”
That makes me smile.
I guess he’s got a point there.
“The second you pull me up there to dance with you, Jimmy, there won’t be a question anymore whether there’s something going on between us.”
“So?” Jimmy snorts. “Haven’t they been thinkin’ that ever since I took you to prom? Let them think what they want.”
I can imagine Jimmy getting quite a thrill out of making all the folk of Spruce whisper and gasp, then talk about it for days on end after the big dance is long over. What a totally Jimmy Strong way to end the summer: leaving your hometown talking about you for weeks after you’ve run off back to college.
“Hey, Bobby?”
We’ve been talking awhile. It’s almost one in the morning. My TV is shut off, the house is silent, and I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open.
“Yeah, Jimmy?”
“Do you ever wonder …” His voice is croaky and low, sleep’s heavy fingers having a hold on him, too. “… what your life would be like if you, like … made different choices?”
