All weekend I sit around knowing that I’ve gotten away with something. My father’s so wrapped up in selling houses and preparing for his rodeo performance that he doesn’t even have time to notice that I look guilty. I like having this secret that nobody knows about, and my parents don’t know why I’m in such a good mood or why I volunteer to baby-sit for two hours while they go grocery shopping. It’s all because of the golf cart.
At work on Saturday night, I give random customers coupons for free specialty drinks and free muffins.
Charlotte drops by to visit me and drinks three vanilla lattes in an hour. When I introduce her to Denny, she says, “Did Fleming tell you what we did last night?”
“No,” he says slowly, glancing at me. “Wait, don’t tell me. Baby-sitting again?”
“No. We drove a golf cart through town,” Charlotte says.
Denny laughs, and seems instantaneously smitten with her. “No, really?”
“Really,” Charlotte says.
“Well, that’s nothing compared to some of the stuff Fleming’s done before,” Denny says. “Like how she smashed the window at the mall by propelling Santa into it—did she tell you about that?”
They keep joking around about me and my bad job experiences. I laugh, too. It is funny. And I can see that Denny is really into Charlotte. After she leaves, I don’t even tease him about it. Maybe she’s into him, too. Maybe Ray is out of the picture for good, and Denny is now in the picture. Who knows? Ever since Friday night I feel like anything is possible.
My father comes to pick me up at 11:20, late as usual, but I don’t point this out. Instead we talk about his new program on the way home. When we get there, I listen to the different musical numbers he’s considering and tell him none of them will work, but not in a negative way. I run upstairs, get all my CDs, and stay up until 2:00 a.m. trying to create a medley using his music and mine, combining his favorites from the Rolling Stones, Aerosmith, and the Beatles with the Foo Fighters, Lenny Kravitz, and Beck.
When he looks uneasy Sunday morning as I play the music for him, and tells me the rodeo organizers are pushing for something country—in fact insisting on it—I don’t take it personally. I tell him we’ll keep working on it and remind him that Elvis Stojko used nontraditional music and still scored 6.0s. Dad starts smiling and reminiscing about Elvis Stojko, for a second forgetting he’s not shooting for a world championship here.
My name is not P. F. Farrell anymore.
My name is definitely not Peggy.
I am Sunshine.
Sunday afternoon, after Lamaze class—during which I am so kind and helpful that even Monica takes notice and tells the other birth coaches to watch me, of all people—Mom tells me in the elevator that we need to pick up party supplies for the twins’ birthday on the way home, and then when we get home, that she and Dad are leaving for a friend’s barbecue, so I’ll need to watch the kids.
All this information doesn’t even bother me; I just absorb it like a thirsty paper towel and keep walking in the direction of the minivan.
We stop at Party Party Party, and as we walk in, I wonder whether Torvill started saying everything three times after a trip here. We have fifteen minutes to fill a cart with birthday decorations, and we’re on a budget. I summon my math skills and pick out cups, plates, hats, balloons, and party favors. All of them match the twins’ theme: Five.
Or, according to Torvill, “five, five, five.”
“Peggy, you’re good at this.” My mother compliments me on the drive home. “You can buy all the party decorations from now on.”
I think, As if I wasn’t going to be doing that, anyway, but I don’t say that. I just say, “Thanks.” That’s how good my mood is.
When Mom turns onto our street, she suddenly winces and reaches for her belly. “Oh. Wow. That was a strong one.”
“A kick?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “A contraction.”
“What? You’re going into labor? But you’re not ready. I’m not ready—”
“Relax, Peggy. It’s nothing like that,” she says as she pulls into the driveway. “I’m not in labor. However, I do think I should go inside and lie down for a while, because I’m feeling uncomfortable.” She calmly puts the car in park.
“Maybe the baby doesn’t like shopping,” I say as I help Mom out of the car. Then I see a strange figure sitting on our front steps. It’s wearing a black leather vest over a white T-shirt, and jeans, despite the fact that the afternoon heat is intolerable. What is Denny doing at my house?
“Wait a minute.” Mom’s eyes narrow as she spots him, too. “Who’s that?”
“He’s the guy I work with at Gas ’n Git,” I tell her. “I have no idea what he’s doing here, but that’s who he is.”
“Oh. Well, all right.” I quickly introduce Denny to Mom, and then she goes inside to lie down. She’s not feeling well enough to interrogate him.
“So what are you doing here?” I ask Denny as I get the shopping bags out of the car. “Why are you waiting outside?”
“Your dad said the kids were taking a nap, so.” Denny shrugs. “Anyway, could you give this to Charlotte? I thought you’d see her before I do, so . . .” He hands me a brown paper bag.
“That depends. What is it?” I ask.
“I made her a mix,” he says. “Of my favorite U2 songs. We were talking about it and she said she sort of liked them, but she didn’t have any of their songs, so . . . you know. I would have made a few mixes but I can’t afford more because I’m saving all my money for a trip to Ireland.”
I am so jealous that for a second I can’t speak. Everyone has plans to get out of Lindville. “You’re going to Ireland?” I ask. “When?”
“I don’t know. Soon, though,” he says.
I try not to hate him. “This feels heavier than just one CD.” I shake the bag and hear rattling cases inside.
“Yeah. Well, it was going to be one ninety-minute CD,” he says. Where his little mustache used to be, there’s now a red strip of skin that looks like sunburn. “But then I couldn’t fit them all on there, so . . . it’s actually three and a half CDs worth of songs.”
I don’t say anything for a minute, because I’m thinking how Charlotte has three hundred minutes of U2 and how nice it would be to have someone that devoted to either me or to my band.