Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 116177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Amber smirks. “Looks like he isn’t just your man.”
I shoot her a look. “The hell you mean by that?”
“Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy …” She flips her curtain of thin brown hair and lets out a wistful sigh. “If only you knew what the girls say about you. C’mon, Rhea and Lena. This one’s a lost cause.” And with that, the three of them turn and strut away.
I stare after them, annoyed. “The hell you mean?” I shout at their backs, even long after they’ve gone. “What do the girls say about me? What do you mean??”
“Jimmy, didn’t expect to see ya here,” comes another voice at my back.
I whip around to find Joel and Robby at the other end of the table by the breadsticks.
I shift gears at once. “Yeah, wouldn’t dare to miss CJ’s big ol’ birthday bang. His papa would cut all my hair off if I did.”
Joel—with his slightly acne-pocked cheeks and a permanently dumbfounded expression—gives my comment a squeaky laugh.
Robby shakes his head, then nods toward the direction where the girls went. “You being harassed by your past?”
I shrug it off. “I just can’t seem to get a summer to myself.”
“Dude, you should enjoy the attention!” boasts Robby.
Joel nods. “Yeah, man. Wait a few more years when you’ve got yourself a wife and kids. I mean, Mindy’s not due for, uh, another six months or so, but I look at how much Kirk’s changed since Kirkland Junior was born, and … phew, I’m petrified, to be honest. Perfectly, rightly petrified. Bonnie’s got him whipped. And their little Kirkland Junior? He isn’t so little anymore.”
“Joel and I got seven or so years on you,” Robby points out. “So, y’know, take our damned advice, boy. Let the girls chase after you. Get some tail. You aren’t gonna stay pretty all your life.”
I chortle and shake my head. “Yes, sir,” I mock him right back, saluting him with my free hand.
An explosion of laughter pulls my attention back to Bobby at his table, where his soccer buddies are in the middle of telling him a very animated story involving a lot of hand gestures and facial expressions and obnoxious cackling. I stare at them awhile, lost in a thought or two, my plate of pizza slowly growing limp.
Another hour later, I’m standing by my boy Bobby, and we’re watching CJ stare, starry-eyed, at the candle-filled cake his papa ordered special from T&S’s Sweet Shoppe. Bobby and I have had about three seconds each to chat with CJ before he was whisked away by someone else, but neither of us seem to mind; Bobby has been more invested in reconnecting with his soccer buds anyway, and I couldn’t care less about the bigmouthed barber’s kid.
Or the table of dancers in the corner who won’t stop sneaking smirking glances my way, then whispering amongst themselves.
It’s nearly sunset by the time my tires are kicking up dirt off the long country road on our way to the east suburbs. Bobby keeps complaining about how full he feels, mumbling, “Can’t remember the last time I ate so much cake in a three-hour period.” It felt a lot more like eight hours to me, but I chuckle at him and sing out, “That’s Billy’s confections for ya!”
It’s another night at the Parkers when we come through the back patio door (it’s basically the front door at Bobby’s house) and drop like a pair of slugs in front of the living room TV, slumped against one another on his old turquoise tweed couch. His gray cat Delilah stares resentfully at us from her perch in the corner of the room while we laugh our asses off at some dumb sitcom Bobby got me hooked on last semester.
Then Mrs. Parker emerges from the hall. “Bobby, hon?”
I grab the remote and turn the volume way down. “Sorry, Patricia, ma’am. Were we too loud?”
“No, no, Jimmy, you’re fine. I just need to pull my son aside to speak to him. It’ll only take a little nothin’ second.”
Bobby shrugs at me, then pries himself off the couch where we were pretty much glued to each other’s sides, since the middle cushion sinks in a lot. He goes with his mom into the hall.
Despite the volume on the TV being low, I can’t eavesdrop, so I just whip out my phone and start playing games, ignoring the show. I glance at the digital clock beneath the TV and realize all the dance girls should be hanging at Amber’s by now.
Nah, I’m still not going. Not even thinking about it.
Even if it’s just a six-minute drive away.
No desire to spend time with them tonight, anyway.
Except for maybe a mild and stinging curiosity about what Camille is up to. I can’t help but think back to that first summer, the one just before I went off to my first year at South Wood with Bobby, and how she always seemed to be around to laugh at a joke I just made. She had this way of “being one of the guys” whenever she hung out with me and my friends. Even Bobby liked her, especially since she didn’t make any deal out of him being gay. Most girls want to turn Bobby into their new shopping buddy, or “talk cute boys” with him, or do a number of other gay-bestie-pigeonholing bull crap that annoys poor Bobby to no end.