Free Now Playing by Ron Koertge Page B

We can talk about this later if you want.”
    A.J. and Rane get out and wave. I can see Grandma peering through the blinds and maybe even nodding a little: this is not a date with a tattooed stoner but with sun-tanned young people who floss regularly.
    Except that Colleen and I didn’t really date. She drove me places, and we did things that scared me and made me glad to be alive.
    I lead the way down the sidewalk, open the door, and in we go. I do the honors. Rane shakes Grandma’s hand.
    A.J. says, “I’m really happy to meet you, Mrs. Bancroft. My mom thinks so highly of you.”
    I look for the teleprompter. Did she actually say that?
    Rane throws one arm across my shoulders like we’re chums at camp. “And I promise we’ll keep our eyes on this bad boy.”
    Grandma frowns. “This is not a laughing matter, young man.”
    A.J. says, “When I got picked up, my mom was just as upset as you were. In a way it was a real learning experience, and what I learned was, I never want that to happen again as long as I live.”
    “I can only hope,” Grandma says, “that Ben learned that same lesson.”
    She shakes A.J.’s hand again, then Rane’s. She smooths the collar of my hand-pressed shirt. Not her hands, of course. Or mine. Rane, A.J., and I make our way to the car.
    “Thanks, you guys,” I say when I’m sure the door is closed and Grandma can’t hear.
    “Well,” A.J. says, “it was either bullshit your grandma or send over a cake with a file.”
    I look at her. “You mean the cops never picked you up?”
    “Are you kidding? My mom’d kill me.” She digs in her purse for keys. “I know it’s not very far, but let’s drive. These shoes are cute, but they’re not real practical.”
    Her shoes are plenty practical. She’s just coddling the handicapped. Colleen hated to walk anywhere, but she was usually wearing totally impractical four-inch heels, so her already killer legs could stop traffic. And if we did walk from the car to some club, she’d outpace me, then taunt me: “C’mon. What are you, crippled?” Then she’d saunter back and kiss me so hard, my teeth hurt.
    A.J. opens the back door for me. Holds it open. Hovers slightly. What does she think I’m going to do, fall down?
    But her Honda is way different from Colleen’s beater. That, I fell into; this I have to climb toward. So I struggle a little. A.J. starts to reach for the seat belt and buckle me in like I’m a sack of flour or Stephen Hawking, but I give her a look and she backs off.
    Rane asks, “So were you and Colleen really smoking a joint when the cops showed up?”
    “How do you know about that?”
    “It’s the electronic age,” he says, holding up his phone. “Everybody knows everything.”
    “She was smoking. But she threw it away before they got to the car. I don’t know why they took us in. Basically we were just sitting there, talking about the party.” What I was also doing with my camera and my hands is none of their business.
    A.J. says, “The twins are still talking about that night. How did you remember all that movie lore, anyway? That was very cool.”
    “Conrad didn’t think so.”
    “He doesn’t lose at anything very often. And, anyway, he was in a snit from arguing with his father.”
    “All he does,” says Rane, “is argue with his father.”
    I tell them, “Well, as far as remembering stuff goes, Conrad was right. All I used to do was sit in my room and watch Turner Classics or DVDs from the video store or go to the Rialto. That was pretty much my so-called life.”
    We get lucky and park almost under the marquee. A.J. and Rane wave away my offer to buy the tickets, so we all pay for ourselves because this is a field trip.
    A.J. shakes her head when I ask her if she wants any snacks. Rane pats one of his many pockets and whispers, “I’ve got gorp.”
    I know everybody who works in the Rialto, and when Sonia, who’s scooping popcorn today, asks where I’ve been, I tell her, “Jail.”
    She