Down and Out in Bugtussle (25 page)

“Hey, just ride with me!” she says. “I could put on some good background music. I was thinking of a theme on the way over. Like some Bad Company. Maybe some Metallica if things get hairy.”

“I don’t think things are going to get hairy,” I say. I look at her Iroc, gleaming in the afternoon sun. “But that car is so cool.”

“All you have to do is tell me where to go,” Stacey says. “And a hillbilly with a spotlight can’t see through that tint, so we’d be incognito to the max.”

“Would you mind?” I ask.

“If I minded, I wouldn’t have volunteered, silly. Get in.”

Ten minutes later, I ask her to turn down the music so she can hear me when I tell her where to turn. Then she misses the turn anyway and we end up riding around the Bugtussle Country Club. As we get closer to the golf course, I notice a big plume of smoke coming from somewhere behind the tree line.

“Look at that,” I tell Stacey.

“Aw, man, I hope that Emerson man’s house isn’t on fire.” She looks at me. “You wanna go check it out?”

“I can’t really tell where it’s coming from,” I say.

“Well, it looks to me like it’s coming from that way,” she says, pointing to a narrow county road that splits off to the right. “Do you know where that road goes?”

“Of course, I’ve lived here all my life.”

“You wanna go check it out?”

“Sure,” I say. “Why not?”

Stacey takes a quick right and drives down the road a tad bit faster than I expected. I tug on my seat belt and start to wonder if this car has air bags. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t. We haven’t gotten too far when smoke starts to roll across the road like fog. Then I hear the sirens. When Stacey turns the next curve, we come upon a massive wall of fire.

“Holy shit wads!” Stacey yells as she slams on her brakes. “We gotta get outta here! Which way do I need to go?”

I look around, but I can’t really see because the smoke has gotten thicker, it’s almost dark, and the tint on the windows isn’t helping. All I can see is the glorious orange flame burning the brush on the side of the road.

“There’s really nowhere to go!” I tell her. “There’s nowhere to turn for another couple of miles.” She puts the car in reverse. “What are you doing?”

“I’m turning around right here!” she says, and starts backing up.

“Can you see?”

“No, can you?” She begins what turns into a seventeen-point turn and just as she gets the car sideways across the road, a fire truck rounds the bend. We both scream as it slides to a stop inches from Stacey’s front bumper. She puts the car in reverse and guns it.
I hear a loud thump as the back of the Iroc rolls into the ditch. When I look up, I see the firemen glaring down at us like we’re the stupidest people alive. Which we obviously are. With Stacey’s car backed off in the ditch, the fire truck is able to get past and we both breathe a sigh of relief after they get by. I’m sitting there wondering where Ethan Allen is because I’m certain it’ll take a four-wheel drive and a tow cable to get out of this ditch, when Stacey grabs the gear shift and jerks it down in low.

“It’s time to go,” she says. She reaches for the volume button and Metallica screams, “It’s sad but true” as Stacey Dewberry mashes the accelerator to the floor. The Iroc fishtails, spins out, and stalls. Stacey puts the car in reverse and then guns the engine again. I look over and see her spinning that steering wheel around like a woman possessed. She throws it back in low gear, stomps the accelerator, and that Iroc jumps out of the ditch and onto the road with the tires squalling. We’re barreling down the road in the opposite direction of the fire when we meet another fire truck. The Angel of Ignorance must’ve been watching over us that very moment, because I don’t know how a fire truck and a late-model sports car ran past each other that fast on a road that narrow without crashing.

When Stacey pulls back out on the road by the golf course, I am truly amazed that I haven’t shit all over her black leather bucket seats. As soon as she gets on the main road, I hear another siren. This one is behind us. And it’s not a fire truck.

Stacey flips off the stereo and then pulls over to the side of the road. She presses the buttons that roll down both windows.

“What are you doing?” I ask. “That smoke—”

“My tint is illegal,” she whispers. A moment later, J. J. Jackson appears on the driver’s side of the car. When he leans down and looks in the window, I smile despite myself.

“Ace Jones,” he says. “Why am I not surprised to see you in this car?”

“Hello, Sheriff Jackson,” I say. “I can explain.”

“I bet you can,” he says. Stacey is speed-digging through the console and throwing junk everywhere.

“Stacey,” I whisper, “don’t worry about it.”

“Why? Are we going straight to jail?” She looks at me and then at the sheriff.

“Do you want to go to jail?” he asks. “I’ll take you if you really want to go.”

“Oh God,” she says. “That’s him. That’s the guy. Oh my stars!”

“Stacey Dewberry, is it?” the sheriff says.

“Yes, s-sir,” she stutters. “Stacey Lynn Dewberry. Do I need to get out of the car, sir? I’m sorry for my dangerous vehicular maneuvering. I was just trying to save me and my friend here from certain death gettin’ burned to a crisp. And while I’m at it, I’d like to apologize for blurting out about your wife, I mean, your girlfriend, no! Your fiancée’s condition at the party the other night.”

“Ms. Dewberry,” J.J. says in the kindest tone I’ve ever heard him use, “I’d like to thank you clearing that up for us.” He winks at me and pats Stacey on the shoulder. “We were having what some might call a failure to communicate. Your outlaw friend over there tried to drop some hints, but she didn’t do such a good job. I’m actually glad you did that. Saved me a lot of trouble.”

“And also, I can’t find my registration.”

“I don’t need to see your registration,” he tells her. “I’ll take your word it’s in there somewhere.” He tips his hat and smiles. “Y’all just keep one thing in mind for me.”

“What’s that, Sheriff?” Stacey asks.

“Where there’s smoke there could be fire.” He looks at Stacey, then nods toward me. “Now take her home before she gets you into any more trouble.”

“Yes, sir,” Stacey says.

“Thanks, J.J.,” I say. “See you later.”

“Ace Jones, it better be a lot later.”

Stacey doesn’t say much on the drive home and when she pulls into my driveway, I ask if she’s okay. Turns out she’s worried about her car. I run up to the porch, open the door, and flip on the floodlights. Then I go unroll my water hose. Buster Loo comes outside to inspect the goings-on and immediately takes up with Stacey. She holds him while I hose down her car. I feel bad about what happened and I’m going to feel worse if her fenders are all scratched up. I think I’m just as relieved as she is to see that there’s no major damage. Just one scratch that Stacey tells me she can buff right out with a buffer she scored for a buck at a yard sale. She offers to buff my car for me. I politely decline. I invite her in the house, but she says she has to go home and get ready for school tomorrow.

“It takes me a while to pick out my clothes,” she says. “See you tomorrow, Ace. Bye-bye, little doggie.” Buster Loo starts whining when she gets in her car and doesn’t stop until I take him inside and give him a treat.

Thursday, Freddie finally makes eye contact. I smile but decide not to push my luck. I’ve had days when I just wanted to be left
alone—I guess everyone has—so I try not to worry about it. I finish up another hard day on the job, the only relief being lunch with Stacey Dewberry who is still pumped up about yesterday’s adventure into what we now know was a burning field. The rest of the day creeps by at a snail’s pace and then the buses take ten minutes longer than usual to leave. When it’s finally okay to go, I think about sprinting to my car because I’m so ready to get out of there. But I don’t; I’m not much of a runner.

As soon as I walk into the house, I hear a faint buzzing sound coming from the bottom of my gigant-o-bag. It takes me nearly five minutes to dig out my phone. My first thought is Lilly, my second is Logan Hatter, and my third is the dreaded unknown number, which, of course, it is.

“‘Hi, this is Bo Hammond,’” I read aloud to Buster Loo. “‘We still on for tomorrow night?’”

I think about texting back all kinds of mean stuff in hopes of making him leave me alone, but then I remember that I don’t even know this guy. Maybe I should just give him a chance. Ha! Yeah, right! I get worried when I realize I seem to be developing a character trait that I truly despise in others: being overly judgmental—or maybe just mental.

“Hello,” I text back, resisting the urge to make any cracks about his being Birdie’s yard man because he could very well make ten—if not twenty times—what I make as a permanent substitute teacher. “Yes, thank you.”

“Pick you up at seven?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

“Thank you.”

I look down at Buster Loo. “How did I get reduced to this?” I ask my little dog. He twists his head to the side and flops one ear over. Buster Loo starts running around in circles, then makes a beeline for the front door. “Why, yes, Buster Loo,” I say. “I’d love to go for a walk.”

F
riday morning, I walk into the lounge during second period to find Freddie Dublin with his feet propped on the table. His shoes are on the floor next to the couch. His socks are navy blue with tiny white flowers.

“Good morning,” he says, like he hasn’t been ignoring me all week.

“Good morning,” I say as I walk over to the drink machine.

“Sorry I’ve been snobby this week,” he begins. “I don’t want you to think—” He stops. I decide to let him off easy.

“No worries, Freddie. You don’t have to explain anything to me.” I reach and get my Diet Mountain Dew from the dispenser. “You know, I should start stocking these in the fridge like you do your Vitaminwater. It would save me a tub of money.” He nods his head, looking at his socks. “I thought you had class this period,” I say.

“Some kind of sophomore meeting in the gym,” he replies. “Thank God.”

“Well, I hope you have a good day,” I say.

“You, too.”

At lunch, Stacey pesters me about barhopping until I finally give in and agree to go.

“But it’ll have to be tomorrow night,” I say. “I have a blind date tonight.”

She heckles me about that for a minute, then rewards me with a tidbit of gossip: Freddie and his friend are considering reconciliation.

“That’s good to hear,” I tell her. “I hope that all works out because I’ve really missed talking to him.”

“He’s got some family problems, too,” Stacey says. “His parents are splitting up and it’s getting ugly. Everyone’s taking sides. They’re fighting over the cats. It’s crazy.”

“That’s terrible,” I say, and wonder again how Stacey Dewberry, Mouth of the South, scored the role of number one confidant for Freddie Dublin. I’m embarrassed by how jealous that makes me.

“Do you think your friend Ms. Lane might like to go out with us?” Stacey asks. “Of course, we wouldn’t have a chance of talking to any men with her around.”

“Why not?” I ask. Not because I don’t know, but I want to see how Stacey phrases her response.

“Because she looks like freakin’ Bo Derek in that movie
10
! That’s why not!”

I smile as I imagine Lilly’s blond hair braided in cornrows. “Much like our pal, Freddie,” I say, “she’s taking some time right now. Which is perfectly normal; I mean, who can blame her? I’ll let
her go on like this for another week, but then you may have to go with me to her house and manhandle her out the door.”

“Are you serious, Ace?”

“About which part?” I ask, laughing.

“The manhandling part,” she says, and she’s completely serious.

“Oh no, of course not. But we might go see her if she doesn’t come around soon. If you want to.”

“I’d like that.”

*   *   *

Friday night, I’m sitting on the couch in yet another one of my uncomfortable dresses—one of those scratchy numbers made up of ninety-nine percent slimming fabric and one percent dress—when I notice my date is fifteen minutes late. I stare at the clock, trying not to get my hopes up. At thirty minutes after, I go in the bedroom to change into some normal clothes. At eight p.m., my phone buzzes and it’s my not-a-date-after-all. He’s so sorry, but he had to work late, and his phone battery died and blah blah blah.

“Thank you, Jesus!” I exclaim, quickly texting him back to assure him that’s fine by me. He doesn’t mention rescheduling and I certainly don’t bring it up. “Dodged the bullet tonight!” I tell Buster Loo, who is in the middle of the living room floor doing the worm squirm. “And the shirtless yard man is probably just as relieved as I am.” At ten p.m., my phone beeps and it’s Logan Hatter. I promptly invite him over. Then I call Pier Six Pizza.

When I wake up Saturday morning, Logan is halfway through making breakfast. He’s also made a fantastic mess, which he promises to clean up after we eat. He pours me a cup of superstout coffee and then instructs me to sit down and relax.

“I’m so happy you’re back at school, Ace,” he says, and I think again about how much I love him. Like I love my UPS guy and my friend Cynthia who cuts my hair. “I missed you while you were gone, and that Cameron Becker may be the smokin’ hotness, but I’m getting sick of her. She needs to go.”