Then he gave them what they wanted, and sang “Kennedys in the River.”
The night ended when Oscar refused to sign on the dotted line for a new fleet of printing suites, even at the deep discount Arlo offered. “We tightened our belts this year, so I can’t. But I think you’re sexy. You’ve got that rugged thing going for you. Maybe we could get together sometime, when it’s not about work?”
Arlo handed the prick his business card, shook his clammy hand, and said, “You told me you needed new printers. I’m a salesman. I sell printers. That’s what I do to put food on the table for my family. My wife’s knocked up and I’m late on my mortgage. When you want to buy some fucking printers, you let me know.”
He waited an hour at Penn Station with the rest of the late-night punks and sad-sack businessmen for the 3:06 a.m. train to Garden City, then walked the mile home from his stop, listening to the echo of his footsteps on eerily empty suburban streets.
Less than five hours later, Arlo jammed his shoulder inside the open door of his freezer, rubbed his face against a cheap Western Beef frozen steak, and thought about how nice it would be to have a win. He didn’t want to go back in time. He wasn’t that same guy, and he didn’t think it would be all that fun anymore, staying out with the band, shooting white gold up his arms in Horseshoe Bar’s grimy toilet room, eating runny eggs, staggering along Avenue D.
No, he didn’t want to run away. He just wanted a decent commission, or a pat on the back from his regional sales director, who didn’t seem to notice that he’d never called in sick or missed a meeting. He wanted his music agent at Gersh to get back to him about the new demo he’d sent. Mostly, he wanted somebody to notice how hard all this had been, and that he’d done it, nonetheless.
None of these things would happen for Arlo Wilde. Not today, at least. Today, the children of Maple Street were skittering over the surface of something dangerous. One of them was about to fall in.
Sterling Park
A rational person would have stayed home. Hidden in her room until Monday, when her mom drove her to coding camp or Girl Empowerment Engineering Club or whatever. A rational kid would have waited until the period thing blew over.
It became clear to Julia Wilde right then, that her former best friend forever Shelly Schroeder wasn’t rational.
Even from an acre out, Julia could see that Shelly’s intense line of vision was fixed on just one target. She ran at top speed, dirt and sand oil kicking up all around. She tripped once, but even then, her eyes stayed on Julia.
“We should run,” Charlie said.
They didn’t run. Shelly halved the distance. Quartered it. She looked wrong.
“What happened to her?” Dave asked.
Shelly was really close now, and they could see what she’d done. Her hair was gone. It looked like she’d hacked off each braid near the scalp, because the black that remained had unwound in thick, uneven tufts.
“Whoa,” Julia said.
Without slowing down, Shelly burst between Julia and Larry, who were holding hands. Then she was standing on the giant wood slab. Right in the center, her feet over the knothole.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Dave Harrison shouted.
She didn’t look at him, only at Julia. Her face was a mask of scrunched fury. It was scary, like the real Shelly, the Shelly who’d been her friend, didn’t live inside her anymore. “Bck! Bck! Bck!” she hollered, wrists tucked under her armpits so that her elbows appeared like the tips of hollow wings. “You came all the way out and you didn’t even walk the plank. You’re all chicken—I knew it!”
“Get off,” Charlie said. “It’ll fall.”
Still glaring at Julia, Shelly grinned through clenched teeth. Talked through those clenched teeth, too. “I’m the bravest.”
“Fuck this,” Dave Harrison said. He leaped for the compact excavator’s hook and caught it with both hands. He swung, ramming Shelly right in the boobs with the soles of his flip-flops, then dropping almost clear to the other side. But he still landed on wood, and that wood made a disquieting groan.
“Go home, Shelly,” he announced as he walked to safety.
Shelly stayed on the board, legs akimbo. She’d changed into a clean, pink skort so there wasn’t any blood to see. Looking only at Julia, like everyone else was furniture, she announced, “You and me. We fight right here. To the death.”
“You’re crazy,” Julia said.
“Bck-bck-bck!” Shelly rage-shrieked.