Wild Streak

I finish loading the dishwasher as fast as I can on Tuesday night.

“Peggy, don’t break the dishes,” Mom says critically, as she sits at the kitchen table, watching me. “Just put them in.”

“Mom, don’t call me Peggy,” I say. “All right?” I drop forks and spoons into the silverware basket.

“Well, you’re touchy,” Mom says, which is a funny comment coming from someone who’s so cranky she swore at the stove earlier for burning the kids’ mac and cheese.

“Ray and Charlotte are picking me up in two minutes,” I say. They’re back together again, so I have a ride tonight. I wash the saucepans and drop them into the drainer, while Mom goes into the living room to monitor Dean and Torvill, who are building a fort out of the sofa pillows.

“You’re going out with Charlotte again?” my father asks as he holds Dorothy in the air above his head, preparing her for her career as either an air force pilot or a pairs skater doing a lift. “It’s a Tuesday night.”

“Dad, I’m not on a school schedule.”

“I know. It’s just that you work at the store tomorrow morning. You’ve got French. And I’m not exactly sure how I feel about you spending so much time with Charlotte.”

“What do you mean by that?” I ask. “Don’t you like her?”

“Sure. Of course. But she has quite a wild streak, doesn’t she?” Dad says. “I could tell, when I met her outside French class that day. She just has that look. Or maybe it’s an attitude.”

“Wild streak? No, not really,” I say, thinking, Unless she really does streak. “I mean, she’s creative. She has a lot of creative energy.” And creative ideas about driving nontraditional vehicles on town streets. But that hasn’t gotten back to my parents yet, so I don’t think it’s going to.

“Translation: wild streak,” my father says as he twirls Dorothy upside down. “P. F., I wasn’t born yesterday, okay? I had friends like that. I was sort of like that.”

I wipe my hands on the dishtowel. “You? Come on, Dad. Be serious.”

My father glances at me with a wounded expression. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because!” I peer out the window over the sink to see if Ray and Charlotte are here yet. “You’ve told me a thousand times how you got up at four to skate before school and how your schedule was so grueling and all that.” And I can’t exactly picture the male-figure-skating clique being known for its wildness.

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t occasionally do stupid things,” my father says. “So. What do you two do exactly, when you go out?”

“Nothing, really. I mean, just hang out with people.” I shrug.

“By people, I assume you mean . . . boys?” my father asks. “Anyone in particular I should know about?”

Fortunately, I see Ray’s truck pull up outside just then, so I grab my Rollerblade bag just in case I need to skate home later. “I’ll be home by eleven,” I say.

“Be careful!” my father calls to me. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Two hours later I am making out with Mike Kyle in a do-it-yourself car wash.

I don’t know how this happened, but it did. We met up with him at the Lot. Mike wouldn’t stop talking about how cool I looked when he saw me skating across town the other day while he was out delivering pizzas in his Geo. He says I should audition for some kind of roller demolition derby they’re supposed to be having at Rodeo Days this year.

“I think there’s a roller-skating exhibition for kids, and a demolition derby for cars,” I told him. “It’s not combined.”

“Oh. Well, have you seen Rollerball? You could do that. You’d pulverize the competition.”

So he thinks of me as a bruiser, I thought. Not exactly the sort of girl anyone wants to go out with. It wasn’t exactly shaping up to be a date night, which was fine, because I really didn’t feel like yet another gruesome foursome evening, spent staring at Steve—and Jacqui.

I sat on the tailgate of Ray’s truck while Mike tried on my Rollerblades. Everyone said they would be too small for him, but the skates fit Mike exactly. He’d never been on Rollerblades before, so I offered to help him out. We went to a corner of the Lot and he held on to my arm as he tried to steady himself. We kept laughing because whenever he got going too fast he’d sort of panic and I had to jog over and keep him from falling. There were all these pieces of broken glass he had to step over.

All of a sudden we heard shouting, and looked back over toward the pickup. “They’re just CDs!” Charlotte was screaming. “If you’re so mad, then take me home!” She got in and slammed the door. Ray slammed the door, too, and they took off.

“My shoes were in that truck,” Mike said, and we started laughing.

So I drove Mike’s car, because he was still wearing my skates. I didn’t tell him my parents keep my license in a locked box so I can’t drive. I figured I wouldn’t get pulled over on the way to the Cone Zone, for ice cream.

Afterward he wanted to take me home, and he was driving in his bare feet. It was sort of sexy, because he has really nice toes, which is a very weird thing to notice about a guy when you are hung up on that guy’s best friend.

All of a sudden Mike pulled into the car wash. I knew this was a place people went to make out because it’s on a side street, and because it’s private since it has walls on two sides. But it didn’t feel very private to me. There were other couples and cars in the next few bays, and people kept cruising by to see who was there.

Not sure what else to do, I got out of the car, and Mike did, too. I was joking around with the foaming brush and pretending to scrub the rust off Mike’s car, which is practically all rust, when Mike just took my arms and sort of gently pushed me back a little toward the concrete wall. He was about my height in his bare feet, and his lips were soft and matched up with mine perfectly, like they were the matching half of a puzzle piece. I knew I was getting carried away, thinking things like this, and I just sort of gave in to it. There was cold water dripping from the rinse wand onto my feet and it was so cool and oasislike. I didn’t even care that it smelled like wet metal and bad cleaning agents. Lindville seemed about a million miles away.

“So.” Mike smoothes my cheek with his thumb, then kisses me again.

“Wait. Wait!” I push him away. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” I say. I stare at this yellow caution sign on the wall that shows a person falling down. WARNING: ICE MAY FORM ON WET SURFACES DURING COLD WEATHER.

“Why not?” He lifts a strand of hair off my forehead and starts kissing me again.

I should protest again, a little more forcefully, but I don’t. Kissing Mike isn’t like kissing Steve, but it’s better than nothing. It feels good to be kissed, to have someone want to kiss me.

I shouldn’t be doing this, though, because I still want Mike to be Steve. I’ve spent months obsessing about him. I can’t just drop my Steve fantasy in a car wash because of someone’s nice toes. Really, really nice toes. And lips.

“I—I should go,” I say as I pull away. “I have this really strict curfew, so . . .”

“So we’ll just start earlier tomorrow night,” he says.

“Right. Exactly. That’s exactly what I was thinking,” I lie.

I’m jamming my feet into my Rollerblades and telling Mike how I’m going to skate home instead of catching a ride with him, when this single bright headlight shines right on me, like a police flashlight. Then I hear an engine cut off, and the light goes out.

My eyes adjust to the dark again and I see Denny sitting on his motorcycle. He flips up the visor of his helmet and glares at me, as if I’ve just set fire to a stack of U2 CDs. “What are you doing here?” he asks, making this not-so-sly head gesture toward Mike, who’s standing by his car. “People only come here for one thing.”

“In that case, what are you doing here? Unless your date fell off the back of your bike and you didn’t notice?” I reply. “Or did you plan on washing your motorcycle?”

He leans back on his bike. “For your information, I was sort of looking around,” he says. “I thought maybe Charlotte would be around here somewhere. You said you guys were planning to hang around at the Lot tonight, so when you weren’t there, I thought I’d drive around and look. So, is she around?”

I shook my head. “She left.”

“Where did she go?”

I shrug.

“Did you give her the CDs?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“Miss Talkative strikes again,” Denny says in disgust, as if I’m deliberately withholding information. Which I am.

Mike pulls out of the car wash, giving me a little wave over his shoulder. He honks the horn a couple of times, then peels out.

“I can’t believe you were here with him,” Denny says disparagingly. “That’s the guy who came into the store, talking about trading in his Camaro. Right?”

“Did you come here just to ruin my night?” I ask.

“Why? Was it really special?” Denny asks.

I glare at him. “At least I’m not driving around aimlessly looking for someone. You know, you could always go work at Shady Prairies so you can be close to her,” I say. “Jamie would miss you at Gas ’n Git, but she’d get over it.”

“Hey, you couldn’t even hold a job before you came to Gas ’n Git,” Denny scoffs as he starts up his motor again. “And at least I’M not making out with an IDIOT in a CAR WASH!” Denny flips down his visor, revs the engine, and then turns out onto the street. He pulls away from me, going faster and faster, until he has to stop for a red light about two blocks away, which sort of ruins his dramatic exit.

I sit down on the pavement to finish fastening my skates. It wasn’t such a horrible thing being with Mike, no matter what Denny said. So he likes me. So . . . okay, good. Someone should.

Suddenly there’s a loud sound approaching. I look up and see Denny circling back. He pulls up beside me. “So do you want a ride? Because it’s not safe, skating after dark. By yourself.”

“No, thanks,” I say, getting to my feet.

“Come on.” He scoots forward on his seat. “Fleming, come on. I’m not leaving here without you.”

I consider my options. Neither one is all that great. “Do you have an extra helmet?” I ask.

He pulls one out of the black leather bag on the back of the bike. I put it on and climb on behind him. I’m trying to hang on by touching him as little as possible. I start to give him directions, but he reminds me he already knows where I live. I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before. I like the way Denny leans the motorcycle down toward the street when he turns corners. It reminds me of the death spiral in pairs skating, where the woman’s entire body skims just above the ice.

We’re about four blocks from my house when I see the Doberman leap the fence and race toward us.

I’m convinced the dog has some sixth sense that screams “Rollerblade Girl” whenever I’m within leaping range. He sprints out toward the bike, but we blow past him, leaving him stunned and gazing forlornly after us.

Denny drops me off at the end of the block. He must know my parents wouldn’t want me showing up on his motorcycle.

“That was the Doberman,” I say as I hand him the helmet.

He nods. “I figured.”

“So thanks a lot for the ride,” I tell him. “And just so you know, Charlotte left tonight because she got into a fight with the guy she’s been seeing. A fight over your CDs. Okay?”

“Really?” Denny smiles.

“See you tomorrow morning,” I say.

“Yeah, okay. Be careful, Fleming.”

“It’s only a block.”

“All right, don’t be careful then,” he says. He pushes off with his feet and takes off down the street.

When I walk into the house, my father’s sitting at the kitchen table with a sketch pad. There are wavy lines all over the paper, and little figures shaped like animals—or people, I can’t tell. “Hey, Dad.”

“P. F. You scared me half to death,” he says when I speak, catching him off guard.

If you only knew what I did tonight, I think. You’d be really scared. “What are you drawing?” I ask. “Your new long program?”

“Um, no,” he says, covering the sketch pad with his right hand. “It’s my short program. Very short. For the rodeo.”

“I thought you were finished with that,” I say.

He shakes his head. “I met with the rodeo people tonight. And Mr. Stinson. I did my program for them.”

“Did they love it?” I ask.

“Not exactly. They told me I need to make some changes.”

“Oh. Well, do you think it’ll be okay?”

He chews his thumbnail. “Sure. Of course. It’s going to be great.” Then he puts his head on the table, doing a face plant on the sketch pad. “Who am I trying to kid? P. F., it’s awful. It’s going to be the worst program in the history of figure skating.” He sits up, and I notice dark circles under his eyes. “I haven’t told you this yet, but it has to have an animal theme. Sheep, cattle, horses—the things that draw people to the rodeo,” he says. “P. F., I don’t know a thing about handling livestock. How am I going to do this? Costumes are one thing, but since when do actual animals factor into figure skating? They want animals on the ice with me.”

I stare at him. I don’t want to say anything, but isn’t this sort of his problem? He’s the one who agreed to skate at a rodeo. I warned him not to.

“I can’t even broach the subject with Ludmila. She’d have my head on a platter. I’ve called a couple of skating friends, and they all think I’m crazy to even attempt this. I still can’t think of the right music. Tchaikovsky didn’t write about bucking broncos much.” He is still scowling as he starts laughing in despair. “Why did I say I’d do this? Am I insane?”

Yes, I think. But he has so much invested in this that I can’t say that. “Is it too late to say you’re not going to do it?” I ask.

He nods. “Way too late. They’ve already booked me for three shows a night, starting on the tenth—opening night. I’ve signed a contract. They’ve even advanced me some money.”

“Oh. Three a night? Really?” That seems like a lot. “Okay. So we’ll figure it out,” I tell him. “You need a song with animals . . . is that what you said?”

“Yes, but not ‘Old McDonald,’” he says. “Something sophisticated. Something I won’t be embarrassed to skate to.”

I decide not to point out that the entire fact he’s skating with livestock is going to be embarrassing enough. “Hey, I’ll ask Denny tomorrow,” I say. “He knows a lot about music.”

My father frowns. “Okay, but I don’t want any heavy metal. Make a note of that.”

“Don’t worry, that’s not what he likes.”

I’m about to leave the room, when my father says, “So what did you and Charlotte do tonight?”

“Oh, um, not much,” I say. “Nothing, really.”

“Uh-huh. Well, you’re only half an hour late, so that’s an improvement, I guess.” He taps his pencil against the table, then runs his hand through his thinning hair.

I quietly go upstairs to my room and close the door behind me. I stand at my dresser and look at myself in the mirror. My hair’s slightly flattened from the motorcycle helmet, and my cheeks are extra pink. I can’t believe my dad didn’t notice that.

I also can’t believe I was making out with Mike. What was I thinking? He’s the wrong guy. And if he tells Steve about it, would that be a good thing or a bad thing?

I can’t figure it out, but I stare at myself in the mirror, wondering what I’m up to.