Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,50
as close as we did in the river when we’d kissed. I slide one finger behind the waistband of his shorts, snaring him, while I slide my other hand down into his pocket. He stares at me, eyes like a cornered raccoon’s, while I fish for the compass he always carries, liking the feel of being so close to his skin, not wanting to pull away too soon.
I finally pull my hand out, dragging the compass into the light. “Look,” I say, staring down at the dial, which is pointing right at him. “This thing knows which way I’m supposed to go.” I feel as exposed as a sweatshirt worn wrong-side-out, or like pocket linings dangling outside of a pair of jeans. My heart, my hope, hang in the afternoon sun.
“Hey, guys,” Brandon shouts, bounding down the steps of the tackle shop. “What’s up?” He scratches the back of his neck nervously as he hurries toward us.
“Just give us a chance to see where it goes,” I say. My eyes are wide with fear, my tongue so dry my words stick against the roof of my mouth. “It doesn’t have to be all serious, right?”
“Guys?” Brandon calls. “Got my flyers hung—did you see, Chelsea?”
No, I didn’t. My eyes are pinned to Clint. His face is chiseled with the kind of concentration I’ve only seen on my own face, flashing across the screen on the TV in my bedroom.
Clint opens his mouth, like he’s about to say something, finally, but Brandon is on top of us now. He’ll hear everything.
“Tomorrow night,” Clint whispers as he takes his compass back, his words coming out so quickly I’m not quite sure he’s actually said anything. Maybe, I think, it’s just me playing out a fantasy. I follow him to the truck in a kind of daze.
“Come on, time to get you guys back to the resort,” Clint tells Brandon, swinging open the passenger side door of his GMC.
As I climb inside, he places his warm hand in the small of my back, as if to let me know I haven’t just dreamed the whole thing up.
Clint
restart
The Twilight Drive-In has been in business since the 1950s, and everything about it is original. Everything—including the concession stand selling popcorn with real butter, not that oily junk they squirt over the kernels at the city cineplexes.
“When’s this thing start?” Chelsea asks, eyeing the glistening tub of popcorn I’ve just bought.
“When it gets dark,” I tell her, pointing at the sunset hues that have only just started to spill across the sky. “Haven’t you ever been to a drive-in before?”
“Too high-tech for me,” she teases.
“‘Bout as high-tech as I ever want to get,” I say, hoping she can’t hear the clicking sound of my tongue against my dry mouth. I’d buy an extra-large Coke to get me through the night, except then I’d have to go to the bathroom fifteen times before the stupid movie was over … and … am I really worried about how many bathroom breaks I might take? You’ve lost it, Morgan, I scold myself.
We make our way back toward the truck, parked in the back row even though there were plenty of spaces closer to the screen when we arrived. But I have a whole laundry list of reasons why I don’t want the two of us to be seen together, reasons that involve word getting back to Earl about me having a fling with one of the girls at his resort, after he trusted me enough to tell her dad about my boot camp idea. And reasons that involve the hurt that found me two years ago. Hurt that would split me in two if I had to live through it again.
Am I really doing this?
We settle into the cab. Chelsea crunches away on the popcorn while I stare through the windshield, watch the sun use the distant mountains as a staircase down to the bottom of the nearby lake.
This entire night is balanced on a stack of lies. Her folks, who are taking it easy at the resort, think she’s at Pike’s. Brandon, who’s playing yet another gig for Pop’s summer crowd, thinks she’s on a moonlight bicycle ride with fifteen other vacationers. My folks think I’m at the resort, helping the kitchen with inventory (of all the lame excuses). Kenzie thinks I’m on a stargazing hike. If something is right, should it really involve this much sneaking around?
“I don’t even know what’s playing tonight,” I mumble, just to have