She’s different from the girls I’m used to dating. She doesn’t get tired of my stories and jokes or expect me to start reading her mind. She doesn’t want me to dress better or put highlights in my hair or serious up. I’m not a lifestyle accessory to her. I’m a necessity. I’m the guy that’s going to crack open her cocoon. She doesn’t need to change me—she needs me to change her. At least until her little butterfly wings get strong enough to fly away.
And who would’ve guessed this five-foot-three-inch, small, bespectacled chick can drink like she can. Turns out whisky isn’t really her thing, but she can put away the wine coolers. Then I take the initiative and buy her a bottle of Grey Goose citrus vodka and mix it with cranapple juice, and she’s like, “Wow, this is the greatest drink ever!”
It’s so funny—we’re at the grocery store one afternoon after putting away some pretty serious alcohol, and who do we run into but Krystal Krittenbrink. We’re in the junk food aisle, a canyon of Twinkies and coconut snowballs, and Krystal’s like, “So, Aimee, didn’t you see the sign on the door out front? You’re not supposed to bring pets into the store.”
Of course, she means me. It’s an old joke, and nothing I’m likely to even think twice about, but Aimee steps right up and goes, “Hey, Krystal, didn’t anybody ever tell you that if you eat another box of Ding Dongs, your big fat butt’s going to explode?”
Okay, so that’s not the most original thing in the world either, but still it’s pretty awesome considering Aimee’s track record with Krystal.
“Are you drunk?” Krystal asks after getting over the surprise of seeing meek little Aimee with a backbone.
“Yes, I am,” Aimee says proudly. “I am spectacularly drunk.”
Krystal stares me in the eye. “That’s just great. I hope you’re proud. If you keep at it, maybe you can change her into as big an idiot as you are.”
She wheels around and stomps off, and Aimee starts laughing. “Look at that big old butt shake. I’ll bet it could hit about a seven-point-eight on the Richter scale. Probably a nine on the modified Mercalli intensity scale.”
She grabs my arm and leans into my side and just about folds in two from laughing. I laugh along with her, but the truth is I can’t help feeling a touch sorry for Krystal. Nobody likes seeing someone lose a friend. She’s wrong about me trying to change Aimee, though. If I was trying to change her, I’d talk her into trading in her glasses for a set of contacts or tell her to stop wearing those T-shirts with the horse faces on front.
For sure, I’ve never forced her to get drunk. Can I help it if she happens to like it? I mean, what’s not to like?
Chapter 42
Now just because I’m doing the dating thing with Aimee doesn’t mean I can’t hang out with other girls. You can always see me in the hall between classes talking to Angela Diaz or Mandy Stansberry or someone like that. And of course, there’s the usual mobster routine and fun and games with Shawnie. Nothing wrong with that. We’re buddies.
Aimee’s cool with it, but I’m not sure she’d be so cool with me having drinks with Cassidy on Thursday afternoons like we’ve been doing. There’s no fooling around going on, but I have to admit we do have a more complicated connection than I have with those other girls. The old feelings for each other are still right there beneath the surface.
Since all we’re doing is sitting around talking, you might think I should go ahead and tell Aimee about it, but I figure her confidence isn’t up to that just yet. No use getting things stirred up for nothing. I assume Cassidy hasn’t told Marcus either, but I guess with girls you should never rely too much on assuming.
One Friday afternoon after my last class, I’m just escaping out the front door when Derrick Ransom calls my name.
“Sutter. Hey, Sutter, Marcus is looking for you, man.”
“Marcus? What for?”
“I’ll let him tell you that.”
I don’t like the look on Derrick’s face. He seems a little bit too happy in a malicious kind of way.
“Well,” I say as I head toward the parking lot, “he’ll probably have a hard time finding me.”
“Why’s that?”
“I left for Lichtenstein yesterday.”
Now, I’m not usually one to dwell on the potential for evil to come swooping down on me with its dark, crooked talons, but later that evening at work, I can’t help thinking about what Marcus has in mind. Did he somehow happen to find out about my Thursday afternoon drinks with Cassidy? Or worse, did Cassidy have a brain malfunction and tell him about that time we made out and almost had sex? Neither option bodes well for the Sutterman.
I’ve seen what happens when jealousy poisons the bloodstream. Denver Quigley comes to mind. All he has to do is see some dude talking to Alisa Norman and he’s ready to kick ass. Before Alisa, when we were juniors, he practically murdered Curtis Fields for cruising Twelfth Street with Dawn Wamsley. Quigley hadn’t even been dating Dawn for a week. I mean, this girl discarded guys like used tampons. Still, there’s Quigley going all silverback gorilla on someone he used to be friends with.
As I fold shirts, I try running a movie through my head starring me as Sutter “Wild Man” Keely, World Kickboxing Champion. There I am dancing and dodging, moving with cheetah-like swiftness, laying Marcus out with one brutal, whirling kick to the chin—keeeraaaack!
But it doesn’t help much. I’ve never taken a kickboxing lesson in my life, and anyway, Marcus is so tall I’d probably strain my entire groin trying to kick him anywhere higher than his belt buckle.