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Chapter Two Britney and Ricky had begun fighting at Troy's party after he'd found her alone in the basement. Even though she was the only one down there, he'd accused her of flirting with other guys.
Now, nearly an hour later, idling the car in front of her father's big house in the Green Pastures housing development, Ricky still wouldn't let it go. His anger seemed to have more to do with the teasing he'd had to put up with from Jeremy and Digger than with anything that Britney herself had done. They'd used her absence as an excuse to pummel his shoulder and say things like, "You better watch out for her, man. You should have seen the way she was looking at Lawson," and, "I bet she's run off for some nasty with him," and -- poking two fingers under his ribs -- "Ricky P. can't even keep track of his own girlfriend."
She listened silently and hoped he'd talk himself out, but this tactic didn't seem to be working well. The longer she was quiet, the more paranoid Ricky became.
"Don't you understand, Britney?" he said, his green eyes wide and pleading. "I love you."
She liked that he loved her, she loved that he loved her, but she didn't like hearing it in this horrible begging way.
"You're drunk," she said.
"That doesn't mean I don't love you."
She tried to tune him out. They'd been sitting in front of her father's house for half an hour, and she was starting to become afraid that they'd never stop fighting. She gazed at the street. The city had re-paved it last summer, and it was such a glimmering shade of black that it looked slick even when it was dry.
Despite the fact that the heat was running full blast, Ricky's car was icy cold. It was an old green Honda with over a hundred thousand miles on it. In warm weather, it smelled like mildew, but now it just smelled like cold. The cracks in the plastic on the dashboard seemed to grow in this weather. She didn't understand why he couldn't get a new one. Anything would be better than this junker.
She shivered and tugged Ricky's giant letter jacket, its sleeves hanging down past her fingertips, tighter around her, afraid that she might have to give it back soon. Nuzzling her nose in the collar, she picked up faint whiffs of Obsession for Men and hair gel. Quintessential Ricky smells.
She stared out the window of the old car and thought about how nice it would be to finally be allowed to get out of the car and go inside the house, where it was warm.
"I love you too," she whispered, her mouth tight, her lips thin, the skin of her cheeks taut and tense.
The house, with its white shutters and the pale gray stonework around the doorway, reminded her, as always, of a great old cottage plopped down in the middle of a wide empty plain. Green Pastures was a newish development on the west side of town, and though there were trees, they were all still so small that they had to be supported by stakes. In the winter, the snowdrifts nearly covered them over. The spindly tips of the trees' trunks poked out of the center of weird moonscape craters.
"So...so...so why can't we..."
And now he sounded like he was going to cry. Hockey players aren't supposed to cry, she thought. He hadn't cried when his pit bull, Spur, died. He hadn't cried when he'd almost failed trigonometry and been put on academic probation -- and he'd had to miss most of last year's season for that. Why was he crying now? Did getting her answer immediately really matter that much to him?
"Just...w-w-w-why can't...I mean, Britney...Britney...it just seems like..."
He was blubbering. His face, usually so chiseled, was puffy. His lips curled like those of a fish gasping for air.
"Listen, Ricky, I'll have to think about it. But I'm not mad at you, 'kay? And you, don't be mad at me either. Please?" she asked. She was mad at him, but if she could just get out of the car, she'd get over it.
She liked being his girlfriend. She'd dreamed about it for years, ever since the two of them were in eighth grade and she was a full foot taller than him. He'd looked so cute playing for the JV team. She'd been such a nerd then. She'd played French horn in the band and said things like "gosh darn it" and "fudge" when she thought she was going to curse.
Smoothing his hand between her two palms, she said, "Let's talk about it tomorrow."
The look he gave her -- she couldn't tell if he was going to scream at her or try to kiss her. He did neither, just stared at her forlornly, and she slowly pulled her hands back to her lap.
"Okay?" she said. "Just...don't be mad?"
He laughed bitterly.
"No, I mean it, okay?" she said, trying to look deep into his eyes. But as soon as her eyes caught his, he turned away to stare at his own reflection in the windshield.
"So, good night," she said, opening the door.
His tousled hair, frosted blond with brown roots, sparkled in the strong moonlight. Shadows accentuated his cheekbone, which pulsed as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. She wanted to reach across and touch his face one more time, but she didn't.
Instead, she stepped out onto the curb and slammed the door -- maybe a little too hard. The sound rattled like a gunshot across the empty street.
Ricky didn't seem to notice. He kept staring at the windshield, his cheek pulsing like it did when he was trying to keep his emotions from bursting out.
Just as she was about to turn to go, he rolled down the window, reached across, and grabbed her wrist. "Wait...Britney, I -- "
"Tomorrow, okay?" she said, pulling her arm away. "Bye." She crouched down and waved at him. But he didn't move.
"Goodbye," she said again.
He nodded stiffly, and that was enough for her. She turned, her blond hair flying behind her, and marched toward the front door. She heard him turn the ignition over.
"Oh, hold on," she said. She turned and ran toward the car. "I need my CD."
He pressed the eject button and handed it to her -- the rock classic Led Zeppelin IV, the one with "Stairway to Heaven" on it. They'd listened to the song about two hundred times that first night in her bedroom when her father had been away meeting with a client in Milwaukee.
"Thank you!" she said, surprising herself with the sickly sweet voice she usually reserved for Mr. Massey when she wanted him to give her an extension on her English paper.
Resisting the urge to turn around, she walked slowly away, lingering until she heard him pump the gas. His tires buzzed like chain saws as they spun on the ice, and then he caught traction on a dry spot and the car jerked forward, squealing. He fishtailed for a moment and then he was off down the street.
With Ricky gone, Britney's emotions came flooding to the surface. She was more upset than she'd realized. Enraged, really. And sad.
Even though she was cold, she didn't want to go inside. The chilly air made her more alert, cleared her mind. She'd lived with cold weather her entire life and she didn't mind it. Instead, she stood on the front stoop and stared out at the snowdrifts. She needed to talk to someone who might understand. Shivering, Britney pulled out her cell phone and scanned through the names in her address book.
Her heart was racing. After two twirls through the list, she found the name she could trust. She hit send and waited for the voice that would come to her rescue.
"Hi," she whispered. "It's me."
Copyright © 2005 by Alloy Entertainment and Sean Olin
