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Three Hard Misses To Fifteen Kisses Melody Johnson “Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable.” ~The Wizard of Oz One Monday The basement was a dustier version of the wreck I’d ignored nine months ago. I stood rooted at the bottom of our basement stairs, transfixed in horror and clutching the cold, chipped, metal banister as I absorbed the monstrosity of what used to be my father’s bedroom. I couldn’t sort through this crap with a hired search and rescue team, an unlimited supply of Aderoll, and with my sanity intact even if I made a deal with Al Pacino let alone by the end of the summer, I thought miserably. Frank could have labeled each box with his harsh, slashing handwriting, taped their flaps securely with clear packaging tape, and stashed them in his girlfriend’s basement when he moved in with her nine years ago. He could have at least stacked them neatly and covered them with a garbage bag in the corner of Mama Margoe’s basement instead of leaving them scattered randomly over the cement floor to collect dust— a couple on the rug next to the slanted planks he’d used for book shelves, five in a precarious pile near the bed, one on the desk— so when he died last fall, Margoe’s claim that the boxes were, “just fine as they are, for heaven’s sake Patricia,” could have been legitimate. I hadn’t rummaged through them when he left. While he’d been with Susan it had felt like an invasion of privacy, as if he might have returned for them or might have needed them or might have realized that he belonged back here with us. I didn’t know what else he left behind. It didn’t matter now except for the bothersome fact that Frank could still needle me with his absence even while dead. And, Margoe could use the floor space. 1 I turned my back on the basement, the boxes, Frank’s memory, and chaos, marched up the steps to the kitchen, chopped the rusted screen door open with the edge of my palm, and stomped across the yard to Maxine, my stubborn Jeep Wrangler. I was determined to delve into the mess Frank had left behind sometime in the near future no matter what Mama Margoe’s opinion was on the matter. I just wouldn’t be delving into said mess today. Today would be devoted to dragging Garrett Webber— my indulgent, witty, wheel-grubbing best guy friend— to work, returning the stereo system we’d stolen last summer before our good-natured boss turned on us, and kicking whoever’s ass had jammed a hastily folded harassment letter under Maxine’s windshield wiper this morning. Everything written in the letter was a ridiculous, bold-faced lie, unless I could catch an STD by kissing, but that would entail swallowing ungodly amounts of saliva. Although Trevor Lyons— my ex-best guy friend and wanna-be boyfriend— had never seduced me into a sexual frenzy, no one could accuse him of being a sloppy kisser. The obnoxiously blinding sun did a fine job of aggravating me without surprise harassment letters invading my morning. A couple raspberry-Pinnacle and pink lemonades to help numb our return to Dansbury had sounded like heaven when my college roomie and next door neighbor, Cecelia Dougherty, had called last night, but the temporary reprieve from facing my hometown and Mama Margoe hadn’t been worth the rays now penetrating my blue, leopard print Dolce&Gabbana knock offs and throbbing through my eyeballs and into my skull. I should have known it wouldn’t be “just a couple,” especially with Garrett on the rebound and Trev mixing the drinks. That boy had perfected liquor and carbonated drink ratios— not nearly as precise as his drinks to willing women ratio— one of the many things that still hadn’t changed in Dansbury since I’d left for Carnegie Mellon four years ago. 2 I jimmied the key in Maxine’s ignition— Strawberry Shortcake dangled from the keychain, her baby doll smile glinting under her red, yarn hair— and after a healthy minute of hushed coaxing and cursing, which culminated in fervent ultimatums, Maxine relented and sputtered to life. Even Maxine, the obstinate, doorless Jeep Wrangler that she was, persevered under the delusion that problems ignored were problems resolved, but that’s where the similarities between her and Mama Margoe ended. I’d vowed my undying loyalty to Maxine despite our minor disagreements— sporadic gas level readings, squeaky brakes, and rust— because although she might keel over from any one of her daily ailments, she could probably plow over anything Ford Focus-sized and under, including police barriers if necessary. As long as she could slog her way up and down Buckbur Mountain five days a week so I could lifeguard at Lakeside— the last summer this time, I swear— I wouldn’t take drastic action, only complain about what a run-down, scrap metal, death-trap she was. No point in getting a new car when Maxine was still barely running; we girls had to stick together. I glanced right and left at the houses next door to ours before pulling away from the curb and wondered who’d had the balls to touch Maxine besides Cecilia. Now that I’d found the STD harassment letter fluttering on Maxine’s windshield, I felt particularly protective toward her and uncommonly wary toward the neighborhood in general and Cecilia in particular. The engine didn’t stall when I eased up off the clutch— miracle of all miracles— and I gassed it to Garrett’s house. Lakeside was ten minutes from my house, figuring in unlikely traffic and getting red at both lights. I was leaving early because Garrett was bumming a ride to work. He was late everywhere he went, but if I showed up early, he would rush, and we’d make it up the mountain on time. 3 Maxine swung a right after Jeremy Snyder’s deranged forsythias, passed Mrs. Dougherty’s seasonal goose, and finally parked in front of the Webber household. I honked twice and waved at Presley as he barked furiously from his doggie door. Garrett’s mom was big on holidays. Even the pretend holidays that schools, churches, and the federal government forget to recognize had a home in Mrs. Webber’s heart, so Garrett’s house usually matched Mrs. Dougherty’s goose. Unfortunately, Mrs. Webber hadn’t yet redecorated for Memorial Day. Her wreaths and Australian flags were still hanging in honor of Anzac Day, while the goose was sporting a lacy red bonnet and an American flag-embroidered apron. I frowned at my watch; we were cutting it close, even for us. Maxine beeped again, sending Presley into another fit of yapping. A moment passed, and Garrett’s head poked out his upstairs bedroom window. “Hey, Patty-Cake,” Garret shouted. “No need to beep. I could hear you coming down the block.” His golden hair was fanned out like a dandelion on one side and smushed flat on the other as he squinted down at me. “I think Maxine’s muffler is on its death throws.” “Hey yourself. What gives? We’ve got pools to watch, people to save, and skin to tan, and you’re lollygagging as usual,” I yelled back. “You know that Jerr-the-Gummy-Bear sets his watch five minutes fast.” “Ah, but the punch-in clock is always on time, and that’s the one that counts.” He slipped on a pair of gold rimmed aviators. “My God, it’s bright out! What were we thinking last night?” “We prayed for thunder, but the weather man heard us and God didn’t.” Garrett nodded slowly. “Are you ready or what?” “Sorry, I just woke up,” he said, yawning. 4 I rolled my eyes. “Geez Louise, Garrett, could you boost it to ramming speed sometime soon? We’re almost late.” “Late is a matter of perspective, my dear.” “Garrett!” He smiled a little lopsidedly, and those devastating dimples made me smile back even though I wanted to rip his hair out. “Alright, I’m coming down. Just tell Maxine to lay off the horn; Presley can only take so much excitement in the morning.” Garrett leaned back and shut his window. I turned on the radio to tune in the latest weather report. Presley gave a few more barks, distinctly more pleasant than the machine gun yaps he’d been dishing out to me, and Garrett ambled out of his house, down the rickety porch steps, and after a brief dispute with Maxine’s over-enthusiastic shocks, he sat on her passenger seat. “Hola, Chica,” he said, kissing my cheek. He boinged one of my thick, reddish-brown, sausage curls and watched as it bobbed and trembled. “Your hair is looking exceptionally wild today.” “Don’t bother trying to butter me up; you were already on my shit list even before you were late. Only massive thunderstorms could cheer me up now.” “What’s the prognosis?” “Uber hot with a seventy-five percent chance of torrential downpour.” Garrett glanced at the clear, blue sky. “So we lifeguard all day with our fingers crossed. Nothing we haven’t done before.” I didn’t respond. Instead, I let him sweat out the engine-rasping silence as I pulled away from the curb and drove toward Buckbur Mountain. He broke before we reached the first light. 5 “I’m sorry, Patty-Cake, but J.

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