Wicked Restless

“Right, well…as long as you’re having fun,” she smirks, reaching over the counter to hand Emma a folder of assignments. “That’s what I tell Robbie. Lord knows that man better be having fun, considering how little he can walk the day after one of your games.”

I chuckle as I tap the tabletop and offer a small wave when we leave. I feel Emma’s eyes on me as I hold the door open for her and lead her out to the parking lot. I open up the trunk of Dwayne’s car, a decade-old Buick, and slide my skates and stick to the back to make room for our bags. I could have thrown our things in the back seat—there’s plenty of room—but I wanted her to see the skates, because I kind of like the sideways glances she gave me when she found out I play hockey. And if she thinks that’s even remotely hot, I’m going to run with it.

I slam the trunk closed and look up to meet her eyes.

“Why do you have holes in your ears?” she asks, swiftly deflating my miniscule ego. She could care less about the skates and stick in the back of the car.

I chew at the side of my mouth, smiling through it, then turn from her and walk to the driver’s side while she moves to the passenger door. We both climb in at the same time, and before I put the keys in the ignition, I slide my hat back enough to see my ears as I look at them in the rearview mirror. I have small gauges in my ears. I got them because my brother’s friend House talked me into them a year ago. I thought they were cool…all the way up until now.

“I mean, what happens when you don’t want a hole in your ear anymore?” I let out a short laugh and run my hand over my face before turning to look at her.

“Did my mom send you here? Is that why you’ve come? Because, I swear to god, you sound just like her,” I laugh.

“Hmmmmm,” she says, her lips in a tight line, her eyes focused on my right ear for several seconds before they slide over to meet my gaze. We’re maybe a foot away from each other, and when she looks at me, the gray around her pupils is all I see. “I guess I’m curious how you can make such a huge decision about your body at sixteen.”

“It’s just an ear. Now, putting a hole in other parts?” She blushes at my innuendo and turns from me to face the front again. I let her off the hook and start the car, but just before the motor kicks in, she speaks.

“I like them…the holes, that is,” she says, blush growing and her lip back in her teeth.

“Thanks,” I say with a shake of my head as I shift the gear and back out from the parking space. “Where do you live?”

“Fireside and Barrel…do you know where that is?”

I know where it is. It’s the house—the big one everyone in town knows. There’s really only one. When I was a kid, Owen had me convinced it was haunted. For a while, I thought it was a museum. Then, one day, it went up for sale. It’s been for sale for about six years. I guess it’s not for sale anymore.

“Yeah, I know where that is,” I say, not looking at her or making a big deal out of it. I can tell she’s embarrassed about living in the town landmark. It’s not a mansion or anything, but it is incredibly old, one of those big houses that could be for rich people if only it hadn’t been forgotten. Now, it’s falling apart.

It’s silent for the first few blocks we travel—the only sounds, her shuffling her feet along the floor and messing with the heater vents, trying to make the air come out stronger.

“That’s as high as it goes,” I say after watching her shift her vent and flick the button a few more times. “Dwayne’s car…it’s pretty crappy.”

“It’s okay,” she says, slouching back in her seat. She fidgets for a few minutes, running fingers through her hair a few times, then scratching at her nose and arms while she looks out her window. “So…you play hockey?” she finally asks.

Finally.

I grin.

“Yeah, I play,” I say, once again glad I opened the trunk. Pretty sad when your big pick-up move is showing off your used hockey equipment.

“That’s cool. I always wanted to skate,” she says.

I make the turn on Fireside and the large bay windows and red brick of her house come into view. An older car—a lot like the one I’m driving—sits parked in the street, and a newer compact car is in the driveway. A little boy is kicking a ball in the front yard, and a woman sits on the front steps watching him. She stands as I slow along the curb.

“That’s my mom,” Emma says softly.

“Little brother?” I nod out the window toward the toddler rushing back and forth around the front yard.