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After they made me rest and warned me not to meditate alone—as if I was crazy—I leave The Tank and head home in a daze.
I’ve almost made it there, driving my bike through busy roads, when I remember the fight with Mom and the way Luke seems to pop in and out when I least expect it. My day has been bad enough as it is. Right now, after being brought back from the dead, I feel too vulnerable and in need of comfort and a bit more of that tenderness Kristen bestowed upon me as she laid a hand on my forehead and soothed me. For years, there’s been only one person who’s offered me that.
I turn the bike around, knowing where to find him.
As I drive, I can’t help but think of how, over time, I’ve pushed everyone away, friends, family, teachers—all those who ever tried to get close, including Xave. Especially Xave.
Something tightens in my chest as, for the first time, I look inwardly and recognize the way I’ve driven him away. He’s supposed to be my best friend and half the time he doesn’t even talk to me about what he’s thinking and feeling. And it’s not all him being from Mars and me from Andromeda or wherever. No, it’s my fault. I’m an idiot. How didn’t I see that before? How did I expect him to have the warm-fuzzies about our friendship when I’ve given him so little? The more I think about it, the more I wonder how he has endured the way I’ve treated him all these years. It’s amazing we’re still friends. I really need to change that, especially now that we’re in this mess together.
I turn on my blinker and take a right. After a few blocks, Millennium’s neon sign comes into view. The pinball travels around the edge of the sign’s frame and its colorful pool balls light on and off, one at a time.
Leaving my helmet hooked to the handle bars, I walk toward the front door, feeling unexpectedly lighter. A few steps past the front door, I stop and look around, assessing the crowd. Regulars mostly, including the one I’m looking for. A smile touches my lips.
The smell of junk food hits me like a heavenly slap. Rolo’s manning the food counter tonight. Unusually ravenous—a meditation side-effect, I suspect—the idea of a greasy dinner at Millennium Arcade seems like a good excuse to be here while I search out Xave’s company.
“Heya, Rolo,” I say, slapping my palm on the counter.
He takes his eyes away from the deep fryer. “Marciiii, what’up girl?” He tips the baseball cap that sits on his bald head.
“Not much. Hey, you got something good cooking back there?”
“Nah, not tonight. Just the regular stuff,” he says, giving the fries a good shake before setting them back down in the hot oil. He wipes large hands on his white apron. He’s so tall and wide, he makes all the appliances look like toys.
“No Cajun fish tacos? Crawfish etouffee? Gumbo?” I plead. His Louisiana-inspired concoctions are the best. I really was in the mood for one of them.
“Nope, can’t get a hold of any cheap seafood lately,” he explains.
“Cheap, huh?” Cheap seafood can’t be good by any stretch of the imagination. It’s a wonder I haven’t suffered from food poisoning yet.
Rolo grins in response.
“All right then, I guess I’ll just have my regular regular.”
“Regular regular coming up,” he says as he sets to work on the grill to fix me a jalapeño ranch cheeseburger.
As I wait, I lean back on the counter, elbows propped up. Xave’s playing pool, watching the table and his contender, Cameron, with his usual intensity. Trent and Henry occupy the table to their right. George and Twitchy the one to the left. A couple of twelve-year-olds are shooting away at the Paradise Lost machine, imparting a level of carnage too high for their age.
To the opposite end, and to my surprise, someone’s actually using the Dance Dance machine, and really rocking it with well-coordinated moves, making it look like total fun. Who knew? I watch with interest. The girl’s feet move at staggering speed, crisscrossing and jumping back apart without missing a beat. She wears black skinny jeans, pink Chuck Taylors and a matching polka-dot top. I groan inwardly. You’d never catch me dead in that getup, especially the cute ponytail that bobs up and down as she shakes her petite goods. To each her own.
The girl’s back is turned, so I can’t tell who she is. Yet I have a vague feeling of recognition. I’m thinking hard when suddenly, she jumps and twirls. Her feet press opposite corner pads, then leap again as she twirls to hit a mirror pose. The quick second she faced my way was enough to help me identify her.
Judy Pratt.
No wonder she looks like a dang choreographer, dancing on top of that torture contraption. She’s been doing ballet since she was in her mom’s womb. I’ve heard the doctors freaked when a tutu and satin ballet slippers were the first things to pop out.
“Ranch cheeseburger. Jalapeño sauce on the side. Fries sprinkled with chili powder,” Rolo announces, sliding two red and white cardboard plates across the counter.
My mouth waters at the sight of the glistening fries. After paying, I carry my food to a small two-seater booth that offers a clear view of the pool tables. It looks like Xave’s game is almost over, so I want to be able to wave him over before he starts a new one.
I eat a fry. It’s crisp and spicy. Perfect. After licking my fingers, I unwrap a plastic knife to cut my huge burger in half. As I finish, I notice Xave shaking hands and bumping shoulders with Cameron. From the crestfallen look of his opponent, it looks like Xave won. Again.
I put a hand up and wave, but Xave turns and walks toward the exit. I’m about to call his name when he veers toward the Dance Dance machine. As he approaches, Judy hops off, quitting mid-dance, and joins him. My arm freezes mid-air, plastic knife in hand.
Xave gives her a small smile and stuffs his hands inside his pockets, towering over her petite frame. She looks up at him, beaming like a pocket-sized flashlight. As she talks, her lips move slowly, forming each word in a suggestive manner easy to spot even from where I’m sitting. She pulls out a small red packet from her pocket and offers it to Xave. Cinnamon gum, his favorite. He takes a stick and pops it in his mouth.
Something Judy says makes Xave laugh out loud, a sound I’ve not heard in the past few weeks. I put the knife down. The grilled meat taste turns acrid in my mouth.
Is Xave on a date with Judy Pratt?! The same girl he and I have shredded to pieces in vicious conversations since I can remember? Has hell frozen over? It must have. There’s no other explanation.
Has he forgotten her ever-present elementary-school pigtails? The massive middle-school bows that used to decorate the top of her head, making her look like a birthday gift? How about her snobbish attitude about our torn sneakers? And her haughty comments about our peanut-butter sandwiches, as opposed to her organic carrots, Greek yogurt and homemade entrées?
I’ve always told Xave she fixated on us, criticizing and gossiping, because she was attracted to him. He never believed me, or so he said. Now, from the idiotic look on his face, it seems he’s totally bought into it.
My appetite disappears. I push the food aside, wrinkling my nose, and stare at it, as if it could explain why the world has gone inside-out.
Xave, the skater/biker boy, is hanging out with Judy, the color-coordinated, sickeningly popular ballet diva. Next thing the president of the United States will deliver his State of the Union Address sporting multi-colored scales all over his face.
“Hey,” a voice says.
I flinch and tear my eyes away from the nauseating food.
Bizarro. Xave has decided to honor me with his presence.