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“Seriously…this bullshit cost you a scholarship?” My head bobbed off Kid’s shoulder as he pushed away from me and shot up from the table. I felt a pain stab through my head as I winced and replied mournfully.
“That’s what the letter said.”
“What letter?” Kid started pacing in front of me.
“The one that came from St. Mary’s today that was filled with words like unfortunately and no longer qualified.”
“Now, I feel like a total asshole, Liddy.”
“Nah, don’t. I still can’t read worth shit, Kid.” I admitted. “They would have found out sooner or later, and I would have had to drop out. That would have been ten times worse.”
Then, because he looked miserable, and I was feeling the love of a medium-priced Zinfandel, I felt the need to cheer him up. “You’re a damn good kisser, Kid. Maybe that kiss wasn’t worth a scholarship, but it was close.”
Despite it all, we smiled at each other. A few minutes passed before either one of us spoke again. Then I asked Kid the question that I had been dying to know for years.
“How’d ya do it, Kid?”
“Jesus, Liddy, what the hell kind of question is that?” He looked at me like I was insane. “I don’t know. I just puckered up and went for it.”
I hesitated for a moment…then I released all the tension I had been holding on to for days and let out a full belly laugh. I laughed and laughed until it hurt. Kid glared at me the whole time, which made it seem all the funnier.
“Who you laughing at?” Kid growled.
I made myself stop snorting and rubbed the tears away from my eyes.
“You. I’m laughing at you, Kid Harding.”
“You think I’m a joke, Liddy?” He scowled.
“No.” I waved at him dismissively. “I didn’t mean the kiss, dummy.”
“Okay, then what?” He narrowed his eyes.
“The painting.”
“What painting?”
“Don’t even pretend that you don’t remember.”
“You talking about that blue ribbon painting?”
“You know I am.” I glanced down at the half-moon scar on Kid’s hand and frowned. But then I smiled slightly as I remembered how by some miracle that painting had ended up clean and fresh on the prize wall of the Liberty Museum Art Festival even though I know I had thrown it away in the Silver Sinners’ trash can.
“Oh, that.” Kid’s voice was nonchalant, but his eyes were guilty as hell. “I had one of my uncles repair it, that’s all.”
“And, by uncle, you mean Freddy the Forger?” I took a long hit off the joint he had just handed me.
“How do you know about Freddy?” Kid raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“Seriously?” Now it was my turn to be surprised. “Hell, because of Freddy, half the folks in the park are surviving off the pensions, social security, or insurance policies of dead relatives. And they all have Freddy’s talents to thank for that.”
He rubbed a nervous hand through his hair. “The most important thing is that your painting got fixed in time to be put on that wall. That’s what you wanted right? I said I would find a way to make things right and I did.”
“Calling bullshit on that one, Kid. An artist knows her stuff.” I lifted my nose in the air and paused for a minute for dramatic effect. Then I reasoned it out for him. “Plus, it was pretty hard to miss you polishing up Freddy’s bike every Saturday all summer long. He didn’t just repair it, did he, Kid? He repainted the whole damn thing and passed it off as mine. Did a real good job too. Even got the paper right.”
There was that admiring glance again. I felt my toes tingle and butterflies take flight deep in my belly.
“I had to do something to make it right. I didn’t grab at that painting to make you mad, Liddy.” He said softly.
