Текст книги "Just Listen"

Автор книги: Sarah Dessen

Соавторы: Sarah Dessen
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Her mind, though, had clearly already been made up, at least judging by how the rest of the night went—all her typical slamming, sighing, and sulking tacked up a notch. The next day, after attending the group as scheduled, she'd come back in one of the worst moods yet. Now, she'd been back twice, and while she hadn't yet burned down the house, my mother was still nervous. I kind of was as well, since I was the one stuck behind with her.

My dad, though, felt it was time to trust Whitney with more responsibility. She'd never be independent if my mother kept hovering, he said, and they'd only be gone for two days. He'd even called Dr. Hammond, who signed off on the arrangement. Still, my mother wasn't convinced, which was why she was stalling now, going through her purse contents yet again as my father glanced at his watch.

"I just don't understand," she said, opening the purse wider. "I had them last night, and I can't imagine where they've gotten to…"

Just then, I heard the front door shut. A moment later, Whitney came around the corner, wearing yoga pants, a T-shirt, and sneakers, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. In one hand, she was carrying a bag from Home & Garden. In the other, my mother's keys.

"Ah," my father said, walking over to my mom. "Mystery solved." He picked up the purse, pushing everything on the counter back into it. "Let's go. Before we lose anything else."

They went, finally, and I watched from the kitchen table as they backed up the driveway. The last glimpse I got of my mom, she was turning her head to look back at the house as they drove away.

Once they were gone, I pushed out my chair, standing up, then looked over Whitney, who was messing with whatever she'd bought at Home & Garden, her brow furrowed as she studied the bag's contents. "Well," I said. "I guess it's just the two of us."

"What?" she said, not looking up at me.

All around me, the house felt empty. Quiet. It was going to be a long weekend. "Nothing," I told her. "Never mind."

Luckily, I had other things to do besides be ignored by my sister. Well, one thing.

The Lakeview Mall Fall Fashion Show was the next weekend, and that afternoon, I had to go to a meeting about the rehearsal schedule. When I got to Kopf's, it was in the midst of a typically hectic Saturday, complete with an in-store appearance by a pop singer named Jenny Reef, who was doing a promotion with, of all things, Mooshka Surfwear. The juniors department was packed with girls, a long line snaking all the way back to lingerie while a bouncy pop song played on a constant loop from a nearby boom box.

"Annabel!"

I turned around, and there was Mallory Armstrong. She was smiling big and coming toward me at a fast clip, her progress impeded somewhat by the poster, CD, and camera she was carrying. Following behind her at a more leisurely pace was her mom, whom I recognized from the day I'd dropped Owen at his house. "Hi!" Mallory said. "I can't believe it—are you a Jenny Reef fan, too?"

"Um," I said as another throng of girls rushed past us to get in line, "not really. I had to come in for a meeting…"

"For the Models?"

"Yeah," I said, "actually. We have this fashion show next weekend."

"The Fall Fashion Show. I know! I'm so excited, I'm totally coming," she said. "Can you believe Jenny Reef is, like, here? She signed my poster!"

She unrolled it so I could see. Sure enough, there was Jenny Reef, looking very surferesque and Californian, posing on a beach. There was a guitar stuck in the sand on one side of her, a surfboard on the other. Written beneath it, in black sharpie, it said: to mallery. hang ten with me and Mooshka Surfwear. love, jenny.

"Wow," I said as her mom walked up to us. "That's cool." ,

"And I got a free CD and a picture!" Mallory said, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. "I wanted to get a Mooshka T-shirt, too, but…"

"But you already have a thousand T-shirts," her mom finished for her. Looking at her, I could see where Owen got his height: She was taller than me, with dark hair pulled back at the neck, and was wearing jeans and a knitted pullover. I took a quick glance at her shoes, noting that they were not pointy, and wondered if they were vegan. "Hi," she said to me. "I'm Teresa Armstrong. And you are?"

"Mom!" Mallory shook her head. "This is Annabel Greene, I can't believe you don't recognize her."

"I'm sorry," Mrs. Armstrong said. "Should I?"

"No," I said.

"Yes," Mallory said, turning to her mom. "Annabel's from the Kopf's commercial, the one I'm, like, obsessed with?"

"Ah," her mom said, smiling politely. "Right."

"And she's friends with Owen. Good friends."

"Really," Mrs. Armstrong said, sounding surprised. She smiled at me. "Well. That's nice."

"Annabel's in the fashion show I was telling you about next weekend," Mallory explained. To me she said, "Mom isn't very into fashion. But I'm trying to educate her."

"And I," Mrs. Armstrong said with a sigh, "am trying to get Mallory more interested in issues, and less in pop stars and clothes."

"Hard to do," I said.

"Almost impossible." She pushed her purse farther up onto her shoulder. "But I'm doing my best."

"Hello Kopf's shoppers!" a voice suddenly boomed from a speaker overhead. "Thank you for coming out today for our exclusive in-store appearance by Jenny Reef, sponsored by Mooshka Surfwear! Please join us in a few minutes, at one o'clock, when Jenny will perform her newest single, 'Becalmed,' in the Kopf's Cafe, located adjacent to the men's department. We'll see you there!"

"Did you hear that? She's performing!" Mallory grabbed her mom's hand. "We have to stay."

"We can't," Mrs. Armstrong told her. "We have to be at the women's center at one thirty for group."

"Mom," Mallory groaned. "Please not today. Please?"

"We have a mother-daughter discussion group," Mrs. Armstrong explained to me. "Once a week, we get together, six moms and six girls, and discuss issues that are pertinent to our personal growth. The group is led by this wonderful women's studies professor from the university, Boo Connell? It's really—"

"So totally boring," Mallory finished for her. "Last week I fell asleep."

"Which was very unfortunate, because the topic was menstruation," Mrs. Armstrong said. "It's a manifestation of many changes and beginnings for women… The discussion was really fascinating."

Mallory gasped. "Mom! You are not talking about getting your period with Annabel Greene!"

"Menstruation is nothing to be embarrassed about, sweetie," her mom said as Mallory flushed a deeper shade of pink. "I'm sure even models get their periods."

Mallory put a hand to her face. "Oh," she said, "my God." Then she closed her eyes, as if she wanted to disappear, or maybe was pretending she already had.

"I should go," I said, the voice coming over the loudspeaker again. "It was, um, nice to meet you."

"You, too," Mrs. Armstrong said.

I smiled at Mallory, who was still standing there looking mortified. "See you later," I said.

She nodded. "Okay. Bye, Annabel."

I started back toward the conference room. I'd only taken a couple of steps, though, when I heard Mallory hiss, "Mom, I can't believe you did that to me."

"Did what?"

"Humiliated me like that," Mallory said. "You owe me an apology."

"Honey," Mrs. Armstrong said, sighing, "I'm really not clear on what the problem is. Maybe if you…"

I didn't get to hear the rest, as I was passing through the cosmetics department, where a mob of women were getting makeovers, and their voices drowned everything out. When I reached the conference room, though, I turned back to see Mallory and her mom were still where I'd left them. Mrs. Armstrong had squatted down in front of her daughter and was listening, nodding occasionally, as Mallory spoke.

Inside the conference room, I could hear Mrs. McMurty telling everyone to quiet down, that it was time to get started. Still, I stayed where I was a moment longer, watching as Mrs. Armstrong finally stood and she and Mallory started toward the exit. Mallory didn't look particularly happy, but when, after a few steps, her mom reached down for her fingers, she didn't pull away. Instead, she wrapped her hand around her mom's, quickening her pace, and they walked out the doors together.

When I got home later that afternoon, Whitney was out on the front steps. There was a row of four small flowerpots lined up in front of her, a bag of potting soil beside them, and she was sitting there, a small shovel in one hand, with an annoyed expression on her face.

"Hi," I said as I headed up the walk toward her. "What are you doing?"

She didn't answer me at first, instead just ripping open the potting-soil bag and plunging the shovel in. But then, as I stepped around her, toward the door, she said, "I have to plant herbs."

I stopped walking. "Herbs?"

"Yeah." She scooped some thick soil out of the bag, dropping it into one of the tiny pots with a thunk, some spilling over the sides. "For my stupid therapy group."

"Why herbs?"

"Who knows?" She filled another pot, just as messily, then reached up, wiping her face. "This is what Mom and Dad are paying Moira Bell one fifty an hour for, to tell me to grow some freaking rosemary." She picked up a stack of seed packets from beside her foot, flipping through them. "And basil. And oregano. And thyme. Money well spent, right?"

"It does seem kind of weird," I said.

"Because it is," she replied, scooping out more dirt for the third pot. "It's also stupid and a waste of time and not going to work. It's almost winter. You can't grow stuff in winter."

"Did you tell her that?"

"I tried to. But she doesn't care. She doesn't care about anything except making sure she makes you look like an ass." She dumped dirt into the last pot, making it wobble, but it didn't fall over. "'You can grow them inside,' she said, all chirpy. 'Just find a sunny window.' Yeah, right. I'll kill these things in days. And even if I don't, what the hell am I supposed to do with a bunch of herbs?"

I watched as she picked up the basil packet, ripping it open, and dumped out some seeds into her hand. "Well," I said, "you can use them to cook, or something."

She'd been about to plant the seeds, but now she looked up at me, her expression flat, unreadable. "Cook," she repeated. "Right."

I felt my face flush. Again, I'd managed to say something wrong, even when I hadn't really thought I'd said anything at all. Thankfully, the phone began to ring inside, and I headed to get it, grateful for a reason to shut a door between us.

By the time I reached the kitchen, the machine had already picked up. There was a beep, and then Kirsten came on.

"Hello?" she said, her voice loud, as always. "Anybody there? It's me, pick up if you are… God, where is everyone? And I had good news, too…"

I picked up the receiver. "What good news?"

"Annabel! Hi!" Her voice jumped a couple of octaves, a marked contrast to Whitney's flat monotone. I sat down, getting comfortable—if Kirsten's messages were long, actually being on the phone with her could kill an entire afternoon. "I'm so glad you're home, how are you?"

"Okay," I said, sliding my chair a bit to the right. Looking across the dining room, I could see Whitney shaking seeds into a flowerpots, her brow wrinkled as she concentrated. "How are you?"

"Fabulous." Of course she was. "You know that filmmaking class I was telling you about? The one I'm taking this semester?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Well," she continued, "we had to do a five-minute short for our midterm grade, right? They only pick two to be shown for this, like, showcase night that everyone goes to. And mine got picked!"

"That's great," I said. "Congratulations."

"Thank you." She laughed. "I have to tell you, I know it's just this school thing but I am so psyched. This class, and the communications one I'm taking… I mean, they've just really changed the way I look at things. Like Brian says, I'm learning to tell, but also to show. And I—"

"Wait," I said. "Who's Brian?"

"The TA in my communications course. He helps the professor run the class, and handles the smaller discussion group I'm in on Fridays. He's amazing, just so smart. God! Anyway, I'm really proud of this piece I did, but now I have to get up and introduce it next weekend in front of everyone. I am so nervous I can't even tell you."

"Nervous?" Of all the adjectives I would have used to describe my sister, this would never have been one of them. "You?"

"Well, yeah," she said. "Annabel, I have to get up and talk about my film in front of total strangers."

"You used to get up and walk in front of strangers," I pointed out. "In bathing suits, even."

"Oh, that's different," she said.

"How?"

"Because that's just…" She trailed off, sighing. "This is personal. Real. You know?"

"Yeah," I said, although I wasn't sure I did, really. "I guess."

"Anyway, it's a week from today. So you'll have to think good thoughts for me. Okay?"

"Sure," I said. "So… what's it about?"

"My short?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Well, it's kind of hard to explain…" she said before, of course, commencing to do just that. "Basically, though, it's about me. And Whitney."

I looked outside again at Whitney, who was ripping open another seed packet, wondering how she'd react to this. "Really," I said.

"I mean, it's a fictional thing, of course," she said. "But it's based on that time when we were kids, out on our bikes, and she broke her arm. Remember? I had to ride her home on my handlebars?"

I thought for a second. "Yeah," I said. "Wasn't that…"

"Your birthday," she said. "Your ninth birthday. Dad missed the party to take her to the hospital. She got back with her cast just in time for cake."

"Right." It was coming back to me. "I do remember that, actually."

"Well, it's basically about that. But different. It's hard to explain. I can e-mail it to you, if you want. I mean, I'm still tinkering with it, but you could get the general idea."

"I'd love to see it," I said.

"You'll have to tell me if it's terrible, though."

"I'm sure it isn't."

"I guess I'll find out on Saturday." She sighed. "Anyway, look, I better go. I just wanted to tell you guys about it. Everything okay there?"

I looked out at Whitney again. She'd put another layer of soil into the pots and had now picked up a hose to water them, her eyes narrowed as the drops sputtered out. "Yeah," I said. "Everything's fine."

As I hung up the phone, I heard the front door open. A moment later, when I crossed through the foyer, Whitney was lining her flowerpots up in the dining-room window. I stood in the archway, watching her arrange them on the sill in a neat row, brushing off their rims with her fingers. When she was done, she stood up, planting her hands on her hips. "Oh, well," she said. "Here goes nothing."

"Or not," I said.

She glanced over at me, and I wondered if she was going to snap at me or make a typically sarcastic remark. "We'll see," she said, then dropped her hands and started toward the kitchen.

As she turned on the faucet and began washing her hands, I walked over to the window to look at the flowerpots. The dirt in them was black and fragrant, spotted with fertilizer, and I could see beads of water here and there, glinting in the sunlight. Maybe it was a stupid exercise, and you couldn't grow things in winter. But there was something I liked about the idea of those seeds, buried so deep, having at least a chance to emerge. Even if you couldn't see it beneath the surface, molecules were bonding, energy pushing up slowly, as something worked so hard, all alone, to grow.

Chapter Ten

By that afternoon, my mother had already left two messages: one letting us know they'd arrived at their hotel, and the other reminding me where she'd left the pizza money, a subtle hint to make sure that we (i.e., Whitney) ate dinner. Message received, I thought as I walked down to the kitchen. The money was on the counter with a list of several places that delivered. My mother was nothing if not prepared.

"Whitney?" I called up the stairs. No answer. Which didn't mean she wasn't there, just that she probably didn't feel like responding. "I'm ordering the pizza. Is cheese okay?"

Another silence. Fine, I thought. Cheese it is. I picked a number at random and dialed.

After ordering, I headed up to my room and settled in to listen to the discs Owen had made me, beginning with one entitled protest songs (acoustic and world) . I made it through three tracks about unions before nodding off, only to wake up with a start when I heard the doorbell ring.

I sat up just as Whitney passed my room and padded down the stairs to answer it. After brushing my teeth, I followed her.

When I got to the foyer, she was standing at the door, which was open, blocking my view of both her and whoever was on the other side. Still, I could hear their voices.

"… not so much their newer stuff, but the earlier albums," she was saying. "I have a couple of imports I got from a friend that are awesome."

"Really," another, deeper voice—a guy—replied. "UK imports, or somewhere else?"

"UK, I think. I'd have to check."

Maybe it was because I'd just woken up, but there was something familiar about some part of this scene, although I couldn't put my finger on exactly what it was.

"What do I owe you again?" Whitney asked.

"Eleven eighty-seven," the guy replied.

"Here's a twenty. Just give me five back."

"Thanks." I took another step. Now, I was sure I knew that voice. "The thing about Ebb Tide," it continued, "is that they're really an acquired taste."

"Totally," Whitney said.

"I mean, most people don't even…"

I stepped around the door, and sure enough, it was Owen. Standing there on the mat in front of my door, earphones dangling around his neck, counting out dollar bills into my sister's hand She was nodding as he spoke and looking at him with a much warmer expression than she'd given me in, oh, a year. When he saw me, he smiled.

"See," he said to Whitney, "case in point. Annabel is not an Ebb Tide fan. She hates techno, in fact."

Whitney looked at me, then back at Owen again, clearly confused. "She does?"

"Yup. Despite my best efforts to convince her otherwise," he said. "She's very stubborn, once she's made up her mind. Totally honest, totally opinionated. But I guess you already know that."

Whitney just looked at me as he said this, and I knew what she was thinking: that this was not me at all, not by a long shot. It didn't sound exactly right to me either, but for some reason, her incredulousness bothered me.

"Anyway," he said now, bending down to the plastic carrier at his feet and unzipping it to pull out a pizza box. "Here you go. Enjoy it."

Whitney nodded, still looking at me, and took it from him. "Thanks," she said. "Have a good night."

"You, too," Owen replied as Whitney turned, walking into the dining room toward the kitchen.

I stepped into the center of the open doorway, watching Owen as he shoved the wad of money in his hand into his pocket, then picked up the carrier. He had on jeans and a red T-shirt that said slice o'cheese! Of all the numbers for pizza places my mom left me, I'd called this one. Who knew? But I had to admit, I was happy to see him.

"Your sister," he said to me now, "is an Ebb Tide fan. She has imports."

"And that's good?"

"Very good," he replied. "It's almost enlightened. Imports take effort."

"Do you talk about music with every single person you meet?"

"No," he said. I just looked at him. Behind me, I heard Whitney cut on the TV.

"Well, not always. In this case, I had on my earphones, and she asked me what I was listening to."

"And it just so happened to be a band she knows and loves."

"That's the universality of music," he said cheerfully, switching the carrier to his other arm. "It's a bonding thing. It brings people together. Friend and foe. Old and young. Me and your sister. And—"

"Me and your sister," I finished for him. "And your mom."

"My mom?" he asked.

"I met her today, at the mall. At the Jenny Reef thing."

His face fell. "You went to see Jenny Reef?"

"I love Jenny Reef," I said, and he winced. "She's much better than Ebb Tide."

"That," he said, his voice serious, "is not even funny."

"What's wrong with Jenny Reef?" I said.

"Everything is wrong with Jenny Reef!" he shot back. Here we go, I thought. "Did you even see the poster she signed for Mallory? With the product plug in her autograph? I mean, it's so abhorrent rhat anyone could consider themselves an artist and then sell out so completely to the corporate machine, in the name of—"

"Okay, okay, calm down," I said, figuring I should fess up before he popped a vein. "I didn't go to see Jenny Reef. I had a meeting for the Models at Kopf's."

He sighed, shaking his head. "Thank God. You had me worried there for a second."

"What happened to there being no right and wrong in music?" I asked him. "Or does that not apply to teenage pop stars?"

"It applies," he said flatly. "You're entitled to an opinion about Jenny Reef. It would just dismay me if you were really a fan."

"But have you really given her a chance? Remember," I said, holding up my hand, "don't think or judge. Just listen."

He made a face at me. "I have listened to Jenny Reef. Not necessarily by choice, but I have. And my opinion is that she's a publicity whore who has allowed her music, if that's even what you want to call it, to be hijacked and compromised in the name of materialism and big business."

"Well," I said. "As long you don't feel too strongly about it."

Suddenly I heard a low buzz, and he reached around to his back pocket, pulling out a cell phone, glancing at the screen. "Pie up, gotta go," he said, stuffing the carrier under his arm. "You know, as much as you might want me to, I can't just stand here and argue with you about music all night."

"No?" I said.

"No." He stepped back from the door. "However, if you want to continue this discussion some other time, I'd be more than happy to do so."

"Like Tuesday?"

"Sounds good." He started down the steps. "I'll see you then, okay?"

I nodded. "Bye, Owen."

"And don't forget the show tomorrow!" he called out over his shoulder as he headed for his truck. "We're doing all techno. A full hour of dripping faucets."

"Are you joking?"

"Maybe. You'll have to listen to find out, though."

I smiled, then stood there, watching him as he climbed inside the Land Cruiser. He turned the stereo on first, then put the car in gear. Of course.

When I got to the living room, Whitney was settled on the couch, drinking a bottled water. The pizza was on the counter. She didn't say anything, her eyes on the TV—which was showing something about a sitcom actress who'd had a cocaine problem—as I helped myself to a plate and a slice and sat down at the table in the kitchen.

"Are you…" I began, then stopped myself. "Aren't you hungry?"

She kept her eyes on the TV as she said, "I'll eat in a minute."

Fine, I thought. My mother wouldn't be happy, but then again she wasn't here. And I was starving. As I began to take a bite, though, Whitney muted the TV and said, "So how do you know that guy?"

"He goes to my school," I said, then swallowed. She was watching me, so I added, "We're friends."

"Friends," she repeated.

I thought of Mrs. Armstrong's surprised smile as she reacted to this same word, hours earlier. "Yeah," I said. "We sometimes hang out at lunch."

She nodded. "Is he friends with Sophie, too?"

"No," I said. I didn't know why, but instantly, my guard was up, and I wondered why she was asking this. Or, actually, why we were even talking at all, when she'd been the one who'd been so resistant to my attempts at conversation all day long. But then I remembered her face when Owen had described me as honest, how clear it was this surprised her, so I added, "I'm not really friends with Sophie these days."

"You're not?"

"No."

"What happened?"

Why do you care? I wanted to ask. Instead, I said, "We had a fight last spring. It got kind of ugly… We don't really talk."

"Oh," she said.

I looked back down at my plate, wondering why I had suddenly decided to share this with Whitney, of all people. It seemed like a mistake, and I sat there, waiting for her to say something snarky or mean, but she didn't. Instead, she just turned back to the TV, and a moment later, I heard the volume come on.

On the screen, the actress was now telling her story, dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex as she did so. I looked from her to Whitney, who was sitting in my father's chair. Who knew she was an Ebb Tide fan, that she had imports, that she was possibly, in Owen's view anyway, enlightened? On the other hand, though, it wasn't like she knew that much about me, either. Maybe we could have remedied this over a long weekend, but we weren't. Instead, we just sat there, together but really apart, watching a show about a stranger and all her secrets, while keeping our own to ourselves, as always.

The next morning, Owen kicked off his show with a techno song that went on, no joke, for a full eight and a half minutes. All of which I spent telling myself that I was fully entitled to go back to sleep, and yet somehow not able to do so.

"That was Prickle with 'Velveteen,'" he said, when it was finally over. "Off of their second disc, The Burning, which is probably one of the best techno records ever released. Hard to believe some people don't even like that kind of music, isn't it? You're listening to Anger Management. Got a request? Call us at 555-WRUS. Here's Snakeplant."

I rolled my eyes, but didn't roll over. Instead, I listened to the entire show, as was my habit now, while Owen played some rockabilly, some Gregorian chants, and a song in Spanish he described as "like Astrid Gilberto, and yet not." Whatever that meant. Finally, in the last few moments before eight o'clock, I heard the beginning of notes of a song that sounded familiar. Although why I wasn't sure until he came on again.

"This has been Anger Management, here on your community radio station, WRUS, 89.9. We'll wrap up today with a longdistance dedication to a regular listener, to whom we say: Look, don't be ashamed of the music you love. Even if, in our humble opinion, it's not really music at all. We know why you really went to the mall yesterday. See you next week!"

Only then did it hit me: It was the Jenny Reef song, the one they'd been playing nonstop at the mall the day before. As it began, I sat up, grabbing for my phone.

"WRUS, Community Radio."

"I did not go to the mall to see Jenny Reef," I said. "I told you that yesterday."

"Are you not enjoying the song?"

"Actually," I said, "I am. It's better than just about everything else you played."

"Funny."

"I'm not joking."

"I'm sure you aren't," he said. "Which, frankly, is just plain sad."

"Almost as sad as you playing Jenny Reef on your show. What is this, all the hits with none of the lip?"

"It was meant to be ironic!"

I smiled, reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. "Just keep telling yourself that."

He sighed loudly, the noise filling the receiver. "Enough about Jenny Reef. Answer me this. How do you feel about bacon?"

"Bacon?" I repeated. "Which song was that?"

"It's not a song. It's a food. You know, bacon? Pork product? Sizzles in a frying pan?"

I actually pulled the phone away from my ear, looked at it, then put it back.

"What do you say? You up for it?" he was saying.

"Up for what?" I asked.

"Breakfast."

"Now?" I said, glancing at the clock.

"What, you have plans already?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Cool. Pick you up in twenty minutes."

And then he just hung up. I put the phone back on its base, then turned, looking at myself in the mirror over my bureau. Twenty minutes, I thought. Okay.

In nineteen and a half, I'd managed to shower, throw on some clothes, and get out to my front stoop, where I was waiting when Owen pulled into the driveway. Whitney was still asleep, allowing me to forgo an explanation, which was handy since I didn't exactly have one. As I walked over to the car, Rolly, who was in the front passenger seat, pushed open his door and got out, leaving it open for me.

"You remember Rolly, right?" Owen said.

"Yeah," I said, as he nodded at me. "But you don't have to move. I can sit in back."

"It's no problem," he told me, climbing into the backseat. "Besides, I have to make sure I have all my gear for later."

"Gear?" I said as I got in, shutting the door behind me. Owen gestured for me to put on my seat belt, which I did, letting him work the hammer to get it buckled.

"For work. I've got to do a class today," Rolly explained. As I turned around, I saw he was holding the same red helmet he'd been wearing the first time I saw him. Also on the seat were several pads of all sizes: a large one that looked like something an umpire would wear, several that were tube-shaped, and some thick gloves. "It's an intermediate level. Gotta make sure I'm well covered."

"Right," I said as Owen shifted into reverse, backing out of my driveway. "So, how do you end up with a job like that?"

"Same way as most," he replied, putting the pad down. "I

answered an ad. Initially, I was just helping out answering phones and enrolling people for classes. But then one guy got a groin injury and quit, so I got promoted to attacker."

"Or demoted," Owen said. "Depending on how you look at it."

"Oh, no," Rolly told him, shaking his head. He had a really sweet face, I was noticing. Where Owen was big and broad, more the attacker style, Rolly was smaller and wiry, with bright blue eyes. "Attacking is much better than clerical work."

"It is?" I asked.

"Sure. I mean, for one, it's exciting," he said. "And another, you really get to meet people on such a personal level. There's a real bonding in someone beating the crap out of you."

I glanced over at Owen, who was switching gears with one hand and adjusting the stereo with the other. "You can look at me all you want," he said, keeping his eyes on the road. "I am not commenting on that."

"Fighting brings people together," Rolly said. "In fact, a lot of the women who take my classes come up and hug me afterwards. People connect with me. It's happened tons of times."

"But only once," Owen added, "that really mattered."