Carolyn smells like grape gum. Always. She leans in close during library study hall while I do her math homework and works the purple wad between her teeth. Blowing bubbles the size of tennis balls, she inserts a tiny golf ball bubble inside the bigger one. She’s only in Algebra 1, so it doesn’t take me very long to do her work and I don’t mind doing it. She hates school, and school is all I have. We’re a perfect match.

Carolyn’s a junior. An old junior, she likes to tell me. Already seventeen in the first month of school. And I am a young sophomore, just fourteen, because I skipped second grade. Carolyn lives in the apartment building next to mine, a constant fixture in my life since last May when she begged my mother to color her hair at the last minute for a prom. Knocking on our door, tears streaking her face, she stood with a home color kit in hand.

“Your mother does hair, right?” I’d nodded and let her inside.

Today, Carolyn kneels on the chair across from me, her boots hooked on the back of the chair, her elbows leaning on the table. I am hit with a tiny whoosh of grape scented air each time she pops a bubble.

“I got kicked out of French again.” She drawls, winding a lock of toffee colored hair around her finger. My mother does her hair every six weeks now. “Michael?”

“What?”

“Did you hear what I said?”

Nodding, I focus on the problems and try not to notice how low her shirt is; I don’t want to be just another loser in her life. “What’d you do this time?”

She pouts. “I didn’t do anything. Don’t be mean.”

“I’m hardly mean.”

“Just kidding, little man.” Carolyn is the only person who can make this pejorative credit sound affectionate. I am intensely sensitive about my size. Carolyn knows it, doesn’t care, and doesn’t make me feel bad about it. “I slapped Tyler Murray for making a crack about my boobs and Monsieur Frederick threw me out.”

I look up at her. “You are the only person who wouldn’t get suspended for that. You’re lucky.”

She unhooks her boots and arches her back like a cat. At the rim of her pants, I can see one side of her thong underwear, the thin crescent moon of white skin under it. “I can see your underwear.”

“Are you enjoying the view?”

“Not particularly.”

She sticks out her tongue, then pops another bubble, this time inside her mouth. “Are you almost done?”

“Don’t rush an artist.” I finish the last problem, and then smear a napkin over the pencil, so it looks like it’s been in her binder. I hand it over.

“Thanks, Michaelangelo,” she emphasizes, impressed with her own cleverness. Blowing me a kiss, she leaves. At our school, where hall passes are sold on the black market everyday for higher and higher rates, Carolyn roams the halls at will with no hall pass and no explanation necessary.

≈≈

After first period, I stand in the front hall, watching through the window as she gets out of a sharp Happy Days looking Chevy the color of a storm. She walks around to the driver’s side and leans in through the window to kiss a boy with short black hair. Tossing her hair, she stands. His hand slips out and grabs her wrist. I see her laugh and pull away, waggling her fingers at him over her shoulder. Backing the car onto the street, he honks twice, the white striped fin of the car gleaming.

She sees me watching her through the window, smiles coyly, and heads towards the front doors.

“Who’s the Fonz?” I inquire.

“The Fonz rode a motorcycle,” she informs me, heading toward her math class. I fall into step beside her. The shadow of a smile on her mouth, she stares ahead, blowing a layered purple bubble.

“What happened to the other guy?”

She inhales the bubble. “What other guy?”

She knows what other guy I mean, but I humor her. “The one with the Mustang.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m over Mustangs.” Glancing sideways, she adds, “I like bow tie boys. You know that.”

“Who?”

“Guys who drive Chevys.” She stops and grabs both of my hands, staring straight at me with wide eyes. “You’ll never believe it! Kent’s dad has a Yenko. Can you believe it?”

I stare at her blankly. “Is that like cancer?”

She laughs. “It’s a car, Michael. A Camaro. 1969. It’s like the Holy Grail of Camaros.”

I need to back up. “Who’s Kent?”

She smiles wryly. “The Fonz.”

“And he drives a Chevy?”

She squeezes my hands. “You saw it! A 1957 Bel Air. Such a sweet car for cruising.” She pauses, then adds slyly, “and other things.”

I pull my hands away, feeling my face redden. “Too much information,” I mumble at the floor.

“Sorry.” She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “Anyway. His dad has a Hugger Orange Yenko. Mint. Low miles. He says it’s been totally garaged and babied. I’m going over this afternoon to see it.” Her voice is high and tight with excitement. “Well,” she pauses, “hopefully Kent won’t have to work. But I can’t wait to see it! He promised me.”

I don’t really understand anything she’s saying, and feel slightly annoyed by her energy. “If you focused on Algebra as much as you do on boys with cars, you wouldn’t need me to do your homework.” This sounds stupid and petty before I even finish my statement.

Still, it slides from her like Teflon. She raises her eyebrows. “Jealous?” Her voice teases me, which only annoys me more.

“You wish.” The tardy bell rings. We are the only two left in the hallway. Damn it. She has made me late way too many times. “I have to go to class.” I turn, beginning to walk away.

“Michael!” she calls after me. She rummages through her purse, extracting a slip of yellow paper. “Here.” The paper has ATTENDANCE OFFICE written across the top. “It’ll clear your tardy.” I take the offering without meeting her gaze, and don’t say thank you.

≈≈

Carolyn’s El Camino smells like cigarettes and grape gum, accurately preserving the two separate signature smells of her mother and of her. Like mother and daughter, they are not a pleasant mix. I shift in the seat, the car hot in the sun. The passenger seat is held together with peeling duck tape that sticks to my jeans with the heat. I roll the gummy residue into tiny balls between my thumb and forefinger and flick them one by one out the window that doesn’t roll up all of the way. I can’t complain, though. I don’t even drive, and I’m lucky that Carolyn is giving me a ride home today so I don’t have to take the bus. Still, she is taking eons in the gas station bathroom. Does she remember that she has a math test tomorrow? I am certain I will not be home in time for dinner. My mom will be pissed.

Leaning down, I dig through the pile of crap Carolyn keeps on the floor. She is an amateur compared to the pile of crap her mom keeps behind the front seat, but it is still a significant pile. No wonder she doesn’t need a locker. I fish through several math assignments I’ve done for her, noting with some satisfaction the + circled at the top of the page in green ink. (Teachers don’t use red ink anymore – now they bleed less offensive multi-colors onto the products of our labor.) I continue to dig. Somewhere, Carolyn has a battered old CD player under her wash of schoolwork – a gift from the Mustang - and I have some CDs in my backpack. A little music will help pass the time. What the hell is she doing in there anyway?

“Michael!”

Looking up from the stack of CDs I’m perusing, I glance around. The gas station is fairly empty. At another pump, a bored looking man fills up a red Mercedes the color of Kool-Aid. I could have sworn someone just called my name.

“Michael!” I look toward the bathrooms. Carolyn has her head poked out of the mostly closed door. She makes eye contact with me. “Come. Here.” After over-enunciating each word, she slams the door shut. Setting the stack of CDs on the floor, I open the door of her car, and cross through the pumps to the bathrooms.

Hesitating a moment, I knock on the door. “Carolyn?”

Her head reappears. “Mike, I just got my period. You have to go get me some tampons.”

Is she serious? “Um. That’s unlikely.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be lame. This isn’t optional for you.” She slams the door shut again.

Her insanity has clearly reached new levels. I am not going into that mini-mart and buying her a box of tampons. I wouldn’t even know what kind to buy. I don’t have sisters. And my mother is really private about that kind of stuff.

I tell her this.

“Just don’t buy anything scented,” she says through the door. “It’s not brain surgery.”

“No. I’ll look ridiculous.”

“You read Kafka for fun, and you’re worried buying me a box of tampons will make you look ridiculous?” She sounds really angry. “Come on, Michael. Do it. Or you’re walking home. Hurry up. I’m a mess in here.”

I’m not sure which disturbs me more – the blackmail, or the last image she’s left me with. No matter, I concede, and find myself inside the mini-mart staring at a section devoted to things that I never really wanted to know about in the first place.

The store is empty, except for the guy working at the counter. It’s worse that he’s a guy. An elderly woman, I could have handled. I scan the boxes, pink and pale blue little squares, saying things like “light days” and “heavy.” Frowning, I pick up a small box of Tampax labeled “regular absorbency” (gross), and then, for no reason at all, grab a bag of the Doritos hanging on clips at the edge of the aisle. I pass a rack of magazines and decide on a copy of Sports Illustrated. Guys who have girlfriends read things like Sports Illustrated. And I’m just a guy, buying some Tampax for my girlfriend. Only she isn’t. And I feel like an idiot. I dump the three items on the counter.

“They’re for my girlfriend,” I explain to the guy’s raised eyebrows as he rings up the Tampax.

“Damn. Your whipped, dude.” His eyebrows return to normal. “My lady never makes me do that.”

I shrug, and give him a ten dollar bill. He slides my change across the scratched surface of the counter, passing me a brown bag with the chips and Tampax. The magazine, he hands me.

“There’s a cool article on page sixteen if your waiting around.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, keeping my eyes down. I tuck the magazine under my arm, and quickly push through the door. I take a right around the building to the bathrooms.

I knock. “Carolyn?”

“Do you have them?” she asks through the door.

“Yes.”

Her hand reaches out, and I hand her the bag, not thinking to grab the Doritos before she takes it. I don’t think I’ll be eating those Doritos.

She takes another year in the bathroom, so I wait, kicking at a piece of the cement curb that is crumbling away. I flip casually through the magazine, my eyes falling on an article about Pop Warner football. I am momentarily horrified by the miniature figures looking ferocious, engulfed by their uniforms. I read half the article before I hear the latch click on the bathroom door. She appears, looking red faced and smelling of cheap soap. “That was totally disgusting.” She marches past me toward the car.

“I’ll bet,” I say quietly, following her. She doesn’t have the Doritos and I decide not to ask about them. Through the window of the mini-mart, the guy at the register looks Carolyn up and down, surprise exaggerating his features; then he winks at me and gives a thumbs up. I pretend not to notice.

“Why’d you buy that?” She points at the magazine in my hand. “You couldn’t tell the difference between a football and a baseball if one hit you in the face.” She slides into the car from the passenger side because the driver’s side door doesn’t open. Closing the primer gray door, I say nothing to Carolyn as I fasten my seat belt. Instead, I pointedly return to the article. She starts the car, owing me one in a serious way, and knowing it.

≈≈

At this moment I know only two things. One: I am not supposed to be seeing what I am seeing. And two: I can’t get away fast enough before Tim Walters sees me seeing what I am not supposed to be seeing.

I try anyway. Quickly, I cram myself into a space between two sets of lockers at the far end of the hall. Clattering against the metal, the wooden hall pass gives me away.

“Hey, kid. Kid!”

My heart sinks. He’s talking to me. Stepping out from behind the lockers, my eyes go first to Tim and then to the kid who is dangling at the end of Tim’s arm, his nose oozing blood down across the gash of his mouth to his chin. Jeremy Macintosh. My lab partner in the third period Advanced Biology class wehere both of us are supposed to be right now. Damn the coke I drank for breakfast. I almost never ask to use the hall pass. We only get two each semester.

“I was just going to the bathroom.”

Tim eyes me, tilting his head uncertainly. Tim Walters is stupid. Not in the clichéd high school bully sort of way, but in a low-grade fever, hallucinogenic this-guy-is-nuts sort of way. He will beat up anyone at any moment for no particular reason. He always looks furious, jumpy, and everyone is afraid of him. I am very afraid right now, certain my nose is going to end up looking like Jeremy’s if I don’t learn how to vaporize instantly in the next few minutes. I’ve made him feel cornered, and nobody wants Tim Walters to feel cornered.

“How do I know you’re not going to rat me out?” He loosens his hold on Jeremy, who just hangs there like laundry.

“Why would I do that?” I don’t think reasoning with Tim will help, as he seems devoid of reason, but I attempt to anyway. “What would I possibly have to attain?”

“Don’t try your big words on me, nerd boy,” Tim growls, his eyes flicking between me and Jeremy. “I’ll kick your ass, too.”

‘Attain’ is a big word? “Sorry. I won’t rat you out.” I feel my body grow warm with panic. It hurts to get hit in the face, as much as Hollywood tries to convince us otherwise.

“Tim Walters.” A syrupy voice comes up behind me, rippling goose bumps across my back and arms. “Does picking on someone your own size just not sit well with you? Or is it simply because there just aren’t any other lugs as big as you around campus?”

I turn, watching Carolyn walk confidently down the hall towards us. She smiles at Tim.

“Hi, Carrie.” He dips his head shyly. I gawk. For a moment he is transformed, looking lucid, almost sweet. Then I remember Jeremy. Tim, however, does not. Staring at Carolyn, (and clearly unable to do two things at once), Tim drops Jeremy, who hits the floor with a thump, and slowly crawls away. He takes one more look at me, picks himself up, and runs the length of the hall, disappearing around the corner. Tim stares after him. His look reminds me of my dog, Kodiak, staring after the rabbit he caught last week. When I stumbled upon him in the meadow behind our apartment, he had the little gray thing caught under his paw. I distracted him by calling his name, and the rabbit had hopped away in a spastic streak.

Carolyn slowly places her arm across my shoulder. “This one’s with me. You don’t mind, do you, Tim?” She smiles widely at Tim.

Carolyn’s smile is a headlight and he is caught in her beam. “If he’s cool with you, Carrie, he’s cool with me.”

Blowing him a kiss, she steers me away down the hall.

“Thanks,” I whisper, her arm a safe blanket around me. “I think he might have killed me.”

Smiling, she pops a purple bubble. “No sweat.”

≈≈

Inside the Laundromat smells like soap and heat. Sitting on a washing machine, I watch Carolyn open the dryer for the fourth time.

“It won’t dry if you keep opening it,” I inform her, mostly just to annoy her. Carolyn’s face is red and she swears under her breath. “I thought your landlord was going to fix your washer yesterday.”

“Lester’s a moron,” she tells me, and slams the dryer shut, pushing the high heat button over and over.

“What’s the hurry?” I ask.

She looks at her watch. “Kent is picking me up in ten minutes. We’re going to finally see the Yenko, and then we’re going to a club in the city. That’s why I need my pink shirt.”

Frowning, I watch the pink shirt tumble around the dryer. “Wait. You’re supposed to take me to the movies,” I remind her. “You promised my mom, remember?” My mom has a big date tonight, and she’s attempting to cook for him. She needs me out of the house, and doesn’t want me roaming the streets. Not that I would.

“Damn.” Hands on hips, Carolyn glowers at me. “That’s not tonight.”
“In fact, it is.”

“But I’m finally going to see the Yenko tonight!”

I shrug.

“Why don’t you have friends!” Yanking open the dryer, she feels the pink shirt, swears, and slams the door.

“You’re my friend.” This is starting to be fun as Carolyn is turning the color of her gum.

Hands on hips again, she appraises me. “You’ll have to come with us.”

I laugh out loud. “Are you crazy? I’ll never get into a club in the city. I look like I’m ten.”

“Then you can sit in the car.”

“No way. I’ll get killed.”

“Jeez, Michael.” She yanks the pink shirt from the dryer, strips off her T-shirt, and pulls on the pink shirt. I am momentarily blinded by the black lace bra and her bare skin. The pink shirt is threaded with silvery lines, her bra pressing through it.

“Are you wearing that?” I ask, my eyes wide.

She looks into a crooked mirror on the Laundromat wall. “Yeah. It’s hot. Don’t you think?”

“I think it’s kinda slutty.”

She applies pink lipstick. “Good.” She smacks her lips together.

The Chevy pulls into a space in front of the Laundromat. Carolyn runs out to meet him. I look away from their embrace, flushing. Carolyn has no modesty. Why does she take the time to apply lipstick if she’s just going to smear it all over his face.

“Michael!” She waves me over through the window.

“Who’s the peapod?” Kent leans a leather clad back against the car, his black hair slick and the cuffs of his jeans rolled up, grazing black Converse. His hands are half in his front pockets, cool and casual. I hate him. With the dark glasses, I can’t see his eyes, but I sense him looking me up and down. What was with the peapod comment, anyway? What a jerk.

Carolyn tucks her hair behind her ears. “Um. He kinda needs to come with us.” She looks at him from under her lashes. I assume the coy gesture has worked in the past.

“What?” He stands up straight, removing his hands from his pockets. “No way.”

“Kent. I promised his mom.”

“We’ll never get in with a kid.”

She looks quickly at me, biting her lower lip. “I can’t just leave him.”

He holds up his hands. His palms are pale and smooth – not the kind to work on cars – and it strikes me that he’s a fraud. “I’m not spending my Friday night babysitting.”

I’ve had enough. “I’m out of here.” Walking away, I hear them arguing.

“Michael, wait!” she yells after me. Turning, I see that Carolyn has a hand on Kent’s arm, who is shaking his head vigorously.

I wait, watching Kent morph out of his cool cat image into a bratty post-teen tantrum thrower. He stomps his foot, and his glasses capsize on his nose, settling at a haphazard angle. “Carolyn, damn it. Him or me, babe!”

Carolyn takes a step back, startled, her face astonished. Then she laughs. “You’re making me choose?”

He crosses his arms, throwing a quick, almost nervous glance my way. “Yes.”

Carolyn shakes her head, her hands back on her hips. “Then I pick Michael.”

The crooked dark glasses only add to the look of his shock. “What?”

“You’re just a car. And he’s my friend.” As she leads me, stunned, away, Carolyn never looks back.

The squeal of his tires sounds like a cat screaming.

≈≈

“Do you know what street it’s on?” My voice is too loud in the empty air. I stop, looking down the avenue, dark and spotted with street lamps. Their light is thin and yellow. I can’t believe I’m standing in the middle of Bridgeway Estates at three in the morning on a school night.

Carolyn bites her lip, looks both ways. “It’s one of these big ones,” she whispers, stopping in front of a sprawling white monstrosity that can’t decide if it’s a Tudor or a southern plantation. My mom told me architects call a design like this “eclectic.” I call it crap.

“They’re all big.”

“It’s this one!” Grabbing my sweatshirt, she pulls me toward the gate of a stark modern house, all glass and angles. “I think the garage is in the back.”

We snake the fence line, looking for an entrance. When we don’t find one, Carolyn starts to hoist herself up and over the fence.

“Carolyn,” I hiss. “It’s gated. We could get in serious trouble for this!”

She straddles the fence, looking down at me, her face in shadow. “Chicken,” she hisses back. “You promised.”

“You didn’t say anything about climbing a fence!” But I am already climbing up next to her. She swings her legs over, and drops quietly to the lawn on the other side. I try to follow her, twisting my ankle on the landing. “Damn!”

“Shh!” She glares at me.

I glare back. “I think we’ve officially broken a few laws.” I bend down to rub my ankle.

“Why do you have to be so lame?” She crouches down beside me.

“Why do we have to risk getting arrested just so you can look at a stupid car?” My ankle really hurts. Maybe I’ve done more than twist it.

She digs through her bag and produces a flashlight that she holds like a club. “I wouldn’t have to break in to see it if you hadn’t been such a problem last night.”

“That was not my fault. You’re the idiot who double-booked yourself.”

She frowns, her face flushing with anger even in the darkness. “Kent and I broke up because of you.”

“Kent’s an idiot!”

“Shhh!” She stands, tilting her head, listening. “That’s not the point.”

“Do you have a point?”

In the silence punctuated by crickets, in the wake of an uncertain wind that has tumbled into this dark place on Bridgeway Estates, Carolyn cries. The wind catches her off guard and she, who is never caught off guard, stumbles slightly. I’ve never seen her cry before. Or stumble. “What’s wrong? Shhh.” The windows in the house are dark squares. If a light came on, I would have a heart attack.

She wipes angrily at the tears. “It’s so stupid,” she gasps. “Never mind.”

“Is it Kent?” I immediately know that the tears have nothing to do with Kent, and she shakes her head to confirm this impulse.

Taking a breath, she looks at the sky. I follow her gaze. No stars tonight. The moon’s light is dim, clogged behind clouds. “It’s my dad.”

“Your dad? What about him?” I only know that he died when Carolyn was eight. She doesn’t talk about him much; when she does, her mom starts screaming.

She takes another breath. “He had a Yenko. Hugger Orange with a black racing stripe. I used to work on it with him. Every Sunday.” She sighs, staring up at the dark windows. “Have to see it.”

“Okay.” I look toward the dark, low row of garages at the back of the house, each a separate, square box. “It’s probably in one of those,” I point.

Nodding, she begins to walk toward the garages. I hobble after her, my ankle sending shooting pains up my leg.

The door to the closest garage is ajar. “I thought it would be alarmed,” Carolyn whispers, looking annoyed.

Shrugging, I push it open, thankful when it doesn’t creak or whine. “Maybe it’s in the garage closest to the house.”

But we’ve found it. The moon has come out of hiding; its light spills through the squat windows at the top of the garage, illuminating the car. Carolyn’s face instantly brightens, then falls. Even in the shadows, the car is a wreck. Obviously, Kent’s father doesn’t work on his Yenko on Sundays.

“Jeez,” Carolyn whispers, running her hands over the rough, chipping paint of the hood. Once clearly orange, the car looks like a pumpkin left in the patch too long, withered and browning. “Who would do this?” I know she doesn’t expect an answer, so I stay quiet just inside the doorway. She circles the car twice. “Tragic.” She pauses. “Bastard!” I am unsure if her face has paled or if it’s just bleached with moonlight. “Let’s get out of here.” She starts to leave, inflated with her indignation.

“Carolyn, wait.”

She hovers in the shadows of the doorway, her hand on the jam. I see that tears have started again, slipping like assassins down her cheeks. Turning, she sits in the doorway, on the little step there, deflated. “It doesn’t matter.”

Awkward standing there, watching her forehead dipping to her knees, I sit down beside her. “What doesn’t matter?” Maybe I should take her home.

“This.” She waves at the car, her eyelashes thick with crying. “All of them. All these stupid boys. Their stupid cars. What a jerk I’ve been.”

“Not a jerk.”

She wipes her nose on the sleeve of her shirt, looking at me. “My dad would’ve hated each and every one of them.” Her eyes question me.

“Yeah. He would have.” I never knew the man, but I know this is true. I put my hand on her knee, wanting her to keep looking at me. “But he would’ve loved you.”

With mottled wet face, with the grass stain on her jeans under my small hand, in the moonlight that won its fight with the clustered clouds, Carolyn smiles and kisses me. Once. A kiss both hurried and softly thankful. On my mouth. And her breath is that familiar purple gum.

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