Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,47

beyond the passenger side door, some enormous black roll under one arm. Kenzie’s standing beside him, cradling a stack of paper.

They’re both looking into the cab with identical horrified expressions. Like they’re afraid to find out what they’ve just interrupted.

“You can drive Brandon out to Pike’s, right, Clint?” Kenzie says. “I told him you wouldn’t mind.”

“What do you need to go to Pike’s for?” Chelsea asks.

Brandon shifts his weight, points to the roll in his arm. “Kenzie helped me print up a giant banner. For the Dwellers. And flyers, too,” he says, nodding at the sheets in her hands. “Up in the office at the lodge. And Earl was there—he said Clint didn’t have anything booked this afternoon. And you’re—done—canoeing, right?”

The word canoeing hangs in the air. I can feel my soaked shorts sticking to my legs. Chelsea still smells like the river. My sneakers have lakes in them. Canoeing—I just hope that to Brandon and Kenzie, that’s exactly what it looks like we’ve been doing.

“I thought—we could hang the banner in the front window, and put some more flyers up in town,” Brandon says.

“Brand, did the thought ever occur to you that his parents might not want you to mess up their place with your junk?” Chelsea asks.

“Only way to find out is to ask,” Brandon says. “But they have to see the banner before they can refuse it.” A squeaky groan erupts as he opens the passenger side door. He pushes Chelsea across the bench seat, closer to my side. Stupid Brandon …

“I—don’t have anything else going on right now—I could help hang some of these,” Kenzie offers, holding up her flyers.

“We’ll get them. It’s fine,” Chelsea says.

They’re not going to fight over me, are they? I shake my head. The whole thing’s just so stupid. How many times does a guy have to tell these girls no?

“Thanks, Kenz,” I say. “We got it, right, Brand?”

Kenzie’s face falls a little. But what am I supposed to do? There’s no room for her in the cab—three’s pushing it as it is. And if I kick Chelsea out, it would look bad—wouldn’t it? It’s not that I want Chelsea to come with us. Right?

Kenzie hands Brandon the stack of flyers. “Come on, already,” Brandon says, his voice bouncing against the dash. “Let’s go.”

Chelsea

pivot

Clint,” I say, as we all pile out of the cab. Brandon flashes me a look as he rushes toward Pike’s. I flash him a nasty one right back. The silence that filled the truck all the way to Baudette was unbearable—he had to notice that. And I’m going to burst if I don’t get to the bottom of this, find out why Clint keeps pushing me away.

Brandon shakes his head at me the moment before he disappears through the door. I hurry after him, trying to catch up with Clint.

“Come on. Clint. Talk to me,” I plead, following him inside.

The lunch rush has left every table in the entire restaurant decorated with wadded-up napkins, and plates empty except for the stray French fry and uneaten tomato slice. Ice-filled glasses have created random patterns of watery circles on tabletops. The air hangs heavy with the smells of cooking oil and sunscreen, lake water and Noxzema.

My tears are like a whole pack of dogs on leashes; no matter how I try to tug them back, they just keep barreling forward. I tilt my head toward the ground while Brandon attacks Gene, flopping his banner out onto the floor. Cecilia smiles at him as her hair hangs down over her tired face.

But when she looks back our way, at me and Clint, still river-soggy and awkward, her eyes hang on awhile. She stares at Clint’s angry, clenched jaw, and at my face, hot with embarrassment, until Brandon finishes his breathless sales pitch to Clint’s dad.

“Brandon,” she says, tossing a long brown strand of hair away from her eye as she pinches two empty glasses between her fingers, “we’d be happy to hang the banner in the window. In the meantime, why don’t you let Clint walk you around town? He can show you all the best places to post your signs. Chelsea can stay with us until you guys get back.”

Brandon sprints toward the door, grabbing Clint’s arm on the way out. He races onto the sidewalk, dragging Clint, so happy he’s half-skipping. He starts joyfully singing Paul Simon’s “Cecilia.”

I’m still shaking my head at him when Cecilia calls, “Come back here, Chelsea,” nodding once toward the kitchen.

I follow her