Free Downers Grove by Michael Hornburg Page B

to worry about AIDS and herpes and crabs and all the other nightmares of health class. I started thinking about my mom’s early pregnancy. When Mom and I had our little talk she warned me about this trick. “Guys have about as much control over their sperm as God does with a tornado,” she said.
    â€œAre we or aren’t we?” he asked.
    â€œLet me check my bag.” I cracked open my bottomless purse. Under all the wadded-up dollars and loose change was a stick of gum, my lip gloss, and “I’m not so stupid after all,” one priceless prophylactic. “Here.” I handed it to him.
    And then a strange beeping sound started ringing in his pants.
    â€œWhat the hell is that?” I asked.
    â€œMy beeper.” He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the number. “C’mon,” he said, grabbing my arm. “We gotta go.”

    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œIt’s the garage … it’s part of my gig. There must be a wreck on the highway.”
    His mood changed with the speed of a light switch from red-hot lover boy to distant repairman. He got up and went to pee in the woods. I looked down at myself briefly, then scrambled to pick up the pieces. My eyes slowly refocused, my ears lost their buzz, my heart drained of intensity. Bobby was already somewhere else, but I was still shaking from his first visit.
    He took my hand and walked me out of the woods, then drove me home in one of the heaviest emotional silences I’ve ever experienced. I tried to reignite some passion in the car, but that was about as useful as the fire hoses downstream. I lay my head on his shoulder, but our distance could be measured in miles.
    â€œDo you ever see the dead bodies?” I asked.
    â€œSometimes,” he said.
    â€œWhat do they look like?” I looked over at him.
    â€œSometimes they look like the morning after in hell.” He stared into the oncoming headlights. “And sometimes they just look like they’re sleeping.”
    His cool detachment made me pine for him even more. I wanted to cuddle up into his arms and tell him my life story, to listen to the soft gurgle in his voice explain how a carburetor works, but there was only an unbearable silence.
    When he dropped me off in front of my house, he kissed me good-bye and promised to call tomorrow, but his voice already sounded like a long-distance telephone call.
    I walked up the driveway, pushed my key into the slot, wentinto the kitchen, and poured a glass of water, then slithered upstairs to my room. Comforted in the familiar scent of my dirty bedsheets, I burned with the afterthoughts of a dream date, wishing he were pressed against my backside, his arm curled over my tummy, his heartbeat thumping against mine.

SUNDAY MORNING
    M Y mouth was pasty, my eyes were fuzzy, I looked like total shit. Anxious about tomorrow and regretful of the past, Sundays are like New Year’s Day once a week. I strapped on my body armor, then slipped an old lace dress over my head, squeezed into last year’s prom shoes, found some jewelry in the Cinderella box—a fake diamond necklace from Grandma and a silver bracelet from what’s-his-name.
    Mom was dressed, and I must say, looked stunning for eight o’clock in the morning. I was still reeling in from my date, and Mom was already casting her line. She wore white, so I wore black. Staring into the mirror I tried to arrange my hair, but it was too matted and tangled, so I settled for a wide-brimmed hat and a hairbrush to work the split ends in the car.
    â€œWe’re not going to a funeral,” Mom said, giving me the once-over as I came down the stairs. Her makeup was socarefully drawn she looked airbrushed, and I could tell she had a push-up bra under her dress.
    â€œJust say the word and I’ll stay home and read the paper.” I wanted her to back off and remember who was doing who a favor.
    â€œThere’s oatmeal on the