“I’m nineteen. You’re sixteen.”
“Seventeen.”
“I’m not one of your little friends. People would know right away you were fucking me.”
“Because we went to a movie?”
“Come on, Sam—why else would I be with you?”
I took a step back, feeling the blow of her words. Goddamn Mickie. She was always right.
I left the gift on the counter and backed the Falcon down the driveway. Despite what Donna had just said, I still half hoped she would come running out the door, chasing after me like in the movies, telling me it was her anger talking and she was sorry. But this wasn’t the movies. And I was no movie star worth chasing after. The back door never opened.
“Goddamn Mickie,” I said, repeatedly slapping the steering wheel.
I drove down the El Camino past the entrance to Burlingame High School, where I would normally turn to reach the place behind the backstop, and it dawned on me that during all our encounters Donna and I rarely ever spoke. It was always the same, Donna discarding clothes quickly, then hurrying to get dressed so that I could drive her home. I thought maybe I’d found a girl who liked me despite my eyes, but it turned out Mickie was right. I was Donna’s personal vibrator. And as I continued driving, I had another realization.
I couldn’t go home.
I’d told my parents I was going to a movie with friends. I contemplated calling Mickie, but I was mad at her for being right, again. So I went to the movies by myself and sat through something called The Longest Yard with Burt Reynolds, but my heart wasn’t into it. Halfway through I began to have second thoughts. Donna had been honest about things from the start, and I had promised not to say anything to anyone. Telling Mickie had broken that promise, and it had been a mistake. Things had been going fine with Donna. Besides, she was right—it wouldn’t have looked appropriate for the two of us to be seen together, not under the circumstances, not with our age differences, not to mention her working for my dad. And my parents never would have approved. And I liked doing it. And what was so wrong with that? Mickie was a hypocrite. Why was it fine for her but not for me? Amazing what we can talk ourselves into when we want to, and I talked myself into believing Donna hadn’t meant what she said, and Mickie didn’t always have to be right.
I hurried from the theater, doing everything in my power not to press the gas pedal to the floor as I drove back to Donna’s house. When I turned up her street, I was apprehensive about what to say and what she might say. I decided that I would apologize right away and tell her I was sorry and that I hoped I hadn’t hurt her. I knew she cared about me. Mickie wasn’t always right. She should have just kept her big mouth shut.
As I turned in Donna’s driveway, I shut off the headlights, deciding I’d surprise her. The windows in the house were dark. I feared Donna had left and gone out with friends. I drove past the house, turned toward the garage, and braked hard, nearly rear-ending the car parked beside the Porsche 911.
A red Camaro.
21
I spent the rest of the weekend moping around the house and dreading the thought of having to face Donna Monday afternoon. She had one more week of work before she left for college, but barring an illness, my father depended on me to stock the shelves and run the deliveries. The chain pharmacies didn’t offer free deliveries, another perk he was using to try to keep his customers loyal, despite the chain stores’ persistent price squeeze.
“I broke up with her,” I told Mickie when she came over Sunday. “She’s leaving for college anyway, so there’s no point.”
“How’d she take it?” Mickie asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t doubt she’ll rebound quickly.”
“I’m sorry, Sam.” Mickie stepped forward to give me a consoling hug, but I wasn’t in the mood to be consoled.