years, but she had not changed one whit. Laverna Flood was on the short side, mousy-brown hair permed and cut close to her head. Laverna’s mouth was a severe line, the perfect accessory for the expectant look on her face. She owned the Dirty Shame, one of two bars in Quinn, and she had the face of a bartender, impatiently waiting for customers to make up their mind about what kind of beer they wanted, even though there were only three options, and they always ended up ordering the same thing anyway.
Rachel waved and tried—unsuccessfully—to catch her mother’s eye, but Laverna was at least twenty feet away, and Rachel no longer threw lit cigarettes at people to get their attention. So she stared until her mother turned and regarded her with heavy, weary eyes. Rachel raised her diet soda in salute. Laverna turned back to her cabal of friends, one of whom was pushing the keg pump up and down so ferociously that her breast threatened to fall out of her dirty tank top. Judging by the size of the breast and the lack of bra, Rachel knew it was Red Mabel. This meant that Black Mabel was lurking somewhere else, and if nothing had changed in the last nine years, she was most likely selling painkillers in the darkest corners of the room.
A young fireman materialized before her. He was probably a senior in high school, because the QVFD recruited early, indoctrinated them as soon as their delighted parents signed the waiver, rolling their eyes at the very thought of liability. People in this town were immune to danger. There was always a bear or a drunk driver or food poisoning from salads made with mayonnaise.
This fireman had a squirrely disposition, and buckteeth to match. He twitched, rocked back and forth on his boots, but remained standing silently before her. He had probably been dared to do this, possibly by Laverna.
She took a sip of her diet soda. He remained silent.
“What?” She wanted this to be over as soon as possible.
“Dance?” His voice was deeper than expected. His face was bare of any whiskers or stubble, his sloe eyes lashed heavily, and for a split second, she wondered if she was being propositioned by a lesbian.
“Absolutely not,” she said, and stared at him. He looked frightened, and then he extended his hand.
“My name’s Bucky,” he said.
“Of course it is.” She looked past him, toward her mother’s cabal, to see if they were watching all this unfold. She was reminded of the piles of mousetraps, rotting in every corner of the room. If this kid was bait, they could have done better.
“I’m a Petersen. I think you went to school with my older sister.”
“Jesus Christ,” she said. Rachel did remember her. The Petersen girl had been a chain-smoking cheerleader who got knocked up their sophomore year. She had been unfortunate looking, a giant head and a moon-shaped face, legs like stumps, the unshakable base of every cheerleading pyramid. This bucktoothed creature did not mention his cousin Billy, and Rachel was thankful.
“My sister warned me. She said you were a real piece of work. She didn’t tell me you were hot as hell.” He winked. She shuddered.
“Stop,” she commanded. She considered lecturing him about feminism, or sexual harassment. “Stop, or I’m going to kick you.”
“Can I get you a drink?” He gestured to the kegs, bobbing like buoys in the melting ice water. “You need to loosen up, lady.”
“How old are you?” Rachel didn’t really want to know the answer; she just wanted to steer the conversation away from alcohol.
“Nineteen,” he said proudly. He was so eager. “So can I get you a drink?”
“No,” she said. “But you can bring my mother a message.” She pointed at Laverna, just as her mother belched and leaned into the softer parts of Red Mabel. “Go tell her to come talk to me, or I’m leaving.”
“Why don’t you go tell her yourself?”
“Red Mabel wants to kill me,” she said.
“Oh,” he said. “She wants to kill a lot of people. She’s a real angry person.”
“Go,” she commanded, and he did.
She watched as he skulked away, clearly terrified, and she turned her attention to a red-faced couple attempting a lazy jitterbug, moving at half time, because the song was a ballad. They were the only dancers, although there was some movement from a few drunkards leaning up against the wall, slightly swooning, heads bobbing like sloppy metronomes, eyes closed.
Rachel closed her own eyes but opened them