We Won't Feel a Thing (24 page)

His SmartClings agitated. Step Five called. He sought out his girl-for-the-night.

As Trick and Laurie traversed the long ramp to the gazebo, Riley scanned the crowd. He wouldn’t be picky. That was his problem. He always thought no one would measure up to Rachel, when really, how would he know? They’d grown in the same pot for too long, like the miniature roses on their windowsill. Once he planted himself somewhere else, he’d grow wild and crooked and strong; he’d tangle around everything pretty and then keep on rambling.

There were girls here. Mystery girls. Red curls, blond waves; sturdy legs and skinny legs; dresses like shiny candy wrappers and pastel cupcake liners. He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. This would be easy. Fun, even.

“What a joyous day,” said the minister, “for family and friends to celebrate love!”

“I’m
standing right here,”
Mrs. Woodlawn hissed to the side of her husband’s face. “In case you’ve forgotten.”

***

Rachel studied the sky and recited rules of difference.
Who
vs.
whom
,
lay
vs.
lie
. If she stopped, there’d be trouble. She’d listen to Trick and Laurie’s vows and her heart would start thudding the “Bleed My Love” drum loop. She’d dream of summer kites and canoes. She’d recall all their stories about Bob and Athena visiting Beechwood Lake, hunting minnows and dodging the legendary giant goldfish that lurked in the murky water.

“…not the
time
for this, Anne,” Mr. Woodlawn whispered. The back of his neck was red.

“We can get through this if we’re honest!”

“Shh!”
He ducked his head. “People are starting to look.”

Rachel glanced around. It was true: several guests were doing half-turns with their heads, that first mild warning that says
I hear you, disrupter, and this is not okay.
Rachel looked away, annoyed. She scanned the crowd for potential boys to activate her SmartClings, but no candidates jumped out. They were too young, too old, too blonde, too freckled. Their dress shirts were pitstained and their cowlicks were unfamiliar, and most of them looked depressingly prone to double negatives and subject–verb disagreement.

She sighed a queenly sigh. No boy would do, and this couldn’t wait. She would just have to make up her own.

Rachel concentrated hard on the thicket of spindly pines to the right of the wedding chairs. After a stretch of creation and revision, she could see the young man clearly. His arms were crossed and his foot was up on an overturned canoe. His slick black hair was combed straight back, but one rebel hank fell across his left eye like a sickle. In tall buckled boots and a black high-collared coat, he didn’t belong to this day or this place.
He’s like the evil prince in Winterthorne, Book 5.
Rachel’s clings gave a preliminary shimmy; she flushed with pride.
He’s perfect.

“You may kiss each other,” said the minister, raising her arms and beaming at Trick and Laurie Semper. “Today—tomorrow—always!”

Mrs. Woodlawn hooked Mr. Woodlawn’s arm and yanked him close.

A cold light rain began to fall.

***

The Semper reception was fifty yards back from the shore, on the fourth floor of the abandoned Beechwood Lake Recreation & Wildlife Center. The rickety wooden steps and landings were all outside and unsheltered. Riley climbed with the crowd, in back of his parents, trying to hold the umbrella over Rachel without appearing to care.

“I’ve got mine for tonight,” she said. She ducked away from the umbrella.

“Good for you.” He shrugged.

“Did you pick out yours?”

“Keeping my options open.” He mounted the third flight of steps, his eyes on his father’s weird elbow patches. “Never realized how many cute girls lived in Puckatoe.”

The statement landed with a satisfying
whomp
. He twirled the umbrella as they climbed the last staircase, picturing her narrowed eyes. He carefully avoided her face.

On the fourth-floor landing, her hand jutted into view.

“What?” He stopped short.

The hand unfurled and showed him a bullet.

“What’s that?”

“For Step Six.” Rachel’s hand dropped the bullet in his breast pocket. “We’ll do them both tonight. Get this over with.”

“Fine with me,” he said.

They stalked through the doors together.

If Riley had been himself at that moment and not Apostle Kane in the warehouse shootout at the end of
Maximum Payback,
he would have appreciated the transformation of the disused fourth-floor Wildlife Center. Laurie’s decorations covered all the disrepair. The grimy floorboards and chipped poles and cracked glass display cases were in deep disguise; the guests walked on fluffy carpet like white sand, touched the satiny bark of forged palm trees, oohed and aahed at buffet tables dressed in tropical garlands and twinkling white lights. Riley stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Well,” said Mrs. Woodlawn, still clutching Mr. Woodlawn’s arm. “Isn’t this festive.”

“Cool band,” said Mr. Woodlawn.

The steel drum band from the ceremony had set up shop in the corner, under swags of rope netting and starfish. Four barefoot men of middle age, all in matching white linen shirts and pants. They’d added a singer: a glassy-eyed brunette in a long red sequined gown. She wore a choker of white shells and a stargazer lily behind one ear, and her sad voice swirled and coiled like a lost silk scarf in an undercurrent. As Riley admired her shimmering curves and her tasteful dejection, the SmartClings quivered agreeably.

The dropcloth behind the band said TAMMIE & THE TIDALS.

She sang “I Only Have Eyes for You.”

***

I Have Eyes for Only You,
Rachel silently corrected.

Tammie and the ukulele player exchanged baleful glances as they harmonized.
There’s a story there,
thought Rachel. She and Riley would be three sentences into it, if they were speaking to each other. She put it out of mind, calculated how many minutes she’d have to stay at the reception until she could slip outside, huddle alone in the woods, imagine herself with the boy in black.

“And where do
you
guys belong?”

A young blonde in a blue sarong approached, tapping a white clipboard.

“You would be…?” she said.

“We would be the Woodlawns,” said Mrs. Woodlawn.

“Ah! Okay, you’re at…Table Four, then. Yay!” She handed them placecards and gestured with a flower-tipped pen.

Rachel peered across the room. Table Four was occupied by a family of three: a thin, bespectacled man in a navy jacket, a curvaceous woman in green with frosted hair in a French twist, and a girl—maybe college-age—with the posture of someone praying for spontaneous combustion.

“Z
ut alors!”
Mrs. Woodlawn sighed at the woman in green. “Not
her
.”

“Who’s she?” grumped Mr. Woodlawn.

“The
belle dame sans merci
of the old teacher’s lounge.” She accepted a champagne flute from a passing tray and steered Mr. Woodlawn toward the table. “It’s fine. That was eighteen years ago.”

Rachel followed Mr. and Mrs. Woodlawn to the table, Riley’s shadow looming over her shoulder. Message-in-bottle favors marked every place setting. White plates of pretty appetizers waited: bacon-wrapped scallops, mini lobster rolls.

“Hi-iii, table neighbors!” said the woman in green. Rachel glanced at the placecards: GUSSIE-LYNN GARRETT, BRYAN GARRETT. The girl was MEDORA GARRETT.

Awkward hellos went around. Rachel sized up the girl, who was clearly not Riley’s type. She had heart-shaped lips, the kind stamped on doll faces by factory machines. Her hair was similarly implausible, a waist-length fall of blonde curls that looked useful for hiding behind. She wore a green and pink striped skirt and a fuzzy pink sweater with pearl buttons. She scribbled tiny words on the back of a receipt with a monogrammed silver pen.

“Earth to Medora!” her mother said.

“Hi,” said the girl. She looked up and flashed a quick grin, her shy glance flicking from face to face.

“Med just made the second audition round of
Sing for Your Life,”
said Gussie-Lynn Garrett. “She’s always working on a new song!”

Medora toyed with her top button, her eyes fixed on one person in particular.

“You can sit here,” she said to Riley, scanning him up and down. She nodded at the chair next to her.

Rachel’s peripheral vision caught Riley’s cheerful seat-taking. She plopped down across the table, performed the best slouch she could manage on a small folding chair, and developed a sudden fascination with a book of TRICK & LAURIE matches.

“Wait wait wait,” Gussie-Lynn Garrett was saying to Mrs. Woodlawn. “We know each other, don’t we?”

“I believe we do.”

“I knew it! I was saying to Bryan, I know that face!” She squinted and tilted her head with excessive consternation. “—Anna, is it?”

“Anne.”

“With an
e.
That’s right!” She turned to Bryan Garrett. “Anne was
la French teach-air
at Puckatoe High when I worked there.”

“Ah,
oui
?” said Bryan Garrett.

“Oui.”
Mrs. Woodlawn’s lips tightened.

“I almost didn’t recognize you with that hair! Oh, and look at your beautiful children. That’s so funny, I never pictured you as a mom.” Gussie-Lynn Garrett elbowed her husband. “Anne was so mysteeeerious…always off by herself, or standing in stairwells with that English teacher—what was his name?”

“Arthur Seton.” Mr. Woodlawn stuffed a lobster roll in his mouth. “She was in love with him.”

Rachel snapped a look at him. Mrs. Woodlawn’s brows shot up.

“Ohh, I don’t doubt it!” said Gussie-Lynn. “What a silver fox! We lost some eye candy when
he
disappeared—Annie, where did he go to, anyway? So many rumors—”

“Family business in Chicago,” Mrs. Woodlawn said. She glanced at Rachel. “His prodigal daughter got pregnant.”

Rachel glared and struck a match under the table. She liked to pretend she’d sprung fully formed from the head of a god; when her mother was mentioned, she had useless sentimental jolts of the two things she remembered, freesia perfume and tall brown boots clacking away. A look of sympathy wafted from Riley’s side of the table. She ignored it and struck another match.
Go back to your girl.

“How do y’all know the Sempers?” Gussie-Lynn said. “Bryan and Trick work together at the radio station.”

“Ed went to school with Laurie,” said Mrs. Woodlawn. “He took her to senior prom and never got over it.”

Mr. Woodlawn stared at his plate.

“Oh. My. God.” Gussie-Lynn dropped her voice to a stage whisper. She gawked at Mr. Woodlawn. “Are you…
The Flash?”

“He is, Gus,” said Bryan Garrett. “Look at his eyes!”

Rachel appraised Mr. Woodlawn’s eyes. They looked the same: like dull brown marbles you’d try to trade for better ones.

“Laurie broke out the photo albums at a dinner party,” Gussie-Lynn explained. “We were all in tears—it was so romantic! Dumped by your boyfriend, night before prom, and then this white knight shows up on your doorstep—” She winked at Mr. Woodlawn, chin in hand. “Ed, was it your idea to dress as superheroes?”

Mr. Woodlawn watched Laurie across the room, laughing with her head thrown back as Trick Semper whirled her on the dance floor.

“Yeah,” murmured Mr. Woodlawn. He poked at his last lobster roll. “Best night ever.”

“Oh, that Wonder Woman costume you brought her—va-va-VOOM!”

Mrs. Woodlawn slammed down her water glass, so loudly Rachel jumped. Mr. Woodlawn stabbed a scallop with his fork. The table fell silent. Rachel held her breath for a DERT explosion. Medora and Riley didn’t react; her silken head bent close to his as she scribbled a note clearly meant for him.

Onstage, Tammie and the Tidals sang a harrowing rendition of “Dancing in the Moonlight.” Tammie and Mr. Ukulele hurled eye-daggers at each other.

“I—I’m sorry.” Gussie-Lynn cringed with her mouth. “I didn’t mean to stir up trouble.”

“I don’t believe that,” Mrs. Woodlawn said. “I believe you did mean to stir up trouble, but it’s all right. Ed and I confront trouble head-on now. We’ll have a terrible fight, I’m sure, but we’ll be much stronger for it. Isn’t that right?”

She reached over and grasped Mr. Woodlawn’s hand. He paused, then pulled his away. He wriggled out of his tweed jacket, let it fall to the floor. He bunched his hands in his lap.

Riley’s chair screeched back.

“I need some air,” Rachel heard him announce. To Medora, he said: “You want to come.”

It wasn’t a question. Rachel held her breath. She heard another chair scrape back, saw the strap of a tiny sparkly purse pulled onto a fuzzy pink shoulder.

Riley paused by Rachel’s chair.

Go,
she thought.
Just go.

She listened to their footsteps disappear.

“Anne,” Mr. Woodlawn said. “I need to see you. In private.”

His jaw hardened and his lips vanished, replaced by a tight dark line. Rachel had never seen him make this face before. She fingered the clings hidden under her sweater. For the first time in her life, she had a distinct Bad Riley Feeling.

Something terrible is going to happen tonight.

Chapter Fifteen

Two crossed strips of yellow caution tape barred the glass door to the deck. The handwritten sign said DANGER: UNSTABLE.

The rickety observation deck wrapped around the whole fourth floor of the recreation center. The wood was gray and mossy with age and neglect. Binoculars were still bolted to the guardrail posts, but they were grimy now, the lenses like old cloudy eyes.

Riley glanced down at the strange little doll of a girl who had written him notes at the table:
I like your hair
and
You smell like leather.
He scoffed at the DANGER sign.

“I will if you will.”

Medora’s eyebrows perked. “Okay.”

She undid the tape. He held the door for her. Should he take her hand? It felt too soon for that, but how would he know? In California, girls probably kissed you before they spoke to you, just to make sure you knew how. He should get used to it now.