“Maybe your mind is on other things?”
“Will you just stop,” I said, feeling myself getting more and more upset as we drove down Broadway toward the freeway.
Mickie said, “I didn’t take you for a guy that liked fat chicks.”
“I don’t . . . She’s not . . .”
“You’re a tit man.”
“Can we just drop it, please?”
“What, are you afraid she’ll think I’m your girlfriend?”
“I’m not afraid of anything. You’re not my girlfriend.”
“You can bet your ass I’m not; I expect my boyfriends to treat me a hell of a lot better than you’re treating me.”
I’d lost it by this point. “What, do you want me to unbutton your shirt and grab your tits, then not call you?” I regretted the words as they were leaving my mouth, and if I could have I would have snatched them back.
“Stop the car.”
“Mickie, I didn’t mean it.”
She punched me on the arm. “Stop the fucking car or I swear to God I’ll jump out.” She started to stand on the seat.
“Okay. Okay.” I turned the corner and pulled over. Mickie got out of the car and slammed the door shut behind her, storming down the sidewalk. I got out of the driver’s seat and chased her down. When I caught up to her, I grabbed her arm, but she spun from my grasp and punched me in the chest.
“Don’t fucking touch me.” She hurried away from me. People now stood on the sidewalk, watching the two of us.
I ran to catch up and lowered my voice. “Will you just stop? I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”
Mickie brooded and continued walking.
“I’m sorry,” I said for at least the fifth time.
She whirled on me. “How am I supposed to know you’re having a wet dream over some fat girl?”
A couple with a baby stroller slowed their approach, looking wary.
“Will you stop yelling and just let me say something?”
She crossed her arms. “Fine. What?”
I waited for the couple to walk on. “I’m sorry.”
“You said that.” Mickie started up the street, and I gave chase.
“Wait. What I mean is I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you . . .” She stopped, hands on her hips. “Okay. Maybe I have a crush on her.”
“Then why didn’t you just admit it?”
“Because she’s eighteen! She’s a senior. I’d look . . . you’d laugh at me.”
She shook her head. “I’m not one of your stupid guy friends, Sam. I wouldn’t laugh at you. But what you said really hurt me. I don’t expect that from you.”
“I know and I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot. Sometimes you just act like one. Is that what you think of me?”
“What?” I asked.
“That I let every guy grab me? You don’t believe those morons, do you?”
“No, Mickie. I don’t think anything. That’s my problem—I don’t think.”
She wiped her eyes, and I realized she was fighting back tears. “Because I don’t, okay? I know what people say about me, but I’m not like that. Look, sometimes I just like to feel like . . .” She turned her head, but I saw a tear escape, rolling down her cheek. “My house . . . it’s not great, Sam. My dad is working all the time, and he and my mother fight a lot when he’s home. I usually have to take Joanna away,” she said, meaning her little sister, who was eight years younger than Mickie. “And then I can’t get my homework done.” Her chest heaved. “I’m failing two classes. It’s a real mess.”