Lunch-Box Dream by Tony Abbott Page B

notched his glasses up his nose as he looked past Bobby at the girl, his brow crinkling to make him look older. His sudden appearance reminded Bobby of the time he had spotted a quarter frozen in the sidewalk on his way home from school. He had exclaimed at it, then was amazed when an older boy pushed him out of the way, kicked the quarter free of the ice with the heel of his boot, and went off with it. He remembered how he told Ricky, who said he deserved to lose the quarter because he had said anything about it in the first place. Or maybe he only imagined Ricky would say that, but he had never actually mentioned the quarter to him.
    â€œI remember her from the restaurant.”
    â€œThe pool,” Bobby said.
    Ricky hooked one thumb in his pants pocket and shifted his feet.
    Could a year make such a difference? What was Ricky thinking about the girl? Bobby thought about the girl. Of course he did. He had thought about her from the moment he had seen her at the pool, only he didn’t know her hair was that long because she had worn a bathing cap to match her suit. Still, Ricky was taller, a year older, knew things about girls, and his thoughts were different and meant more.
    â€œLet’s get some ice,” Ricky said, stepping in front of him.
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œTo get some ice.”
    They walked across the parking lot to the machines. The girl stayed there, holding a soda bottle in one hand while unwrapping a candy bar with her teeth. She took a bite, looking at Ricky.
    â€œMy parents drove me here because we’re going to a horse farm to buy me a horse,” she said, chewing.
    â€œThat must be fun,” Ricky said. “What kind of horse?”
    â€œDoesn’t matter. I have two horses already,” she said. “But one’s getting old. I ride all the time.”
    â€œI’ve ridden a few times,” said Ricky.
    â€œYou have not!” Bobby said.
    â€œShut up,” said Ricky. “We’re here to see the battlefields.”
    â€œYou talk funny,” the girl said. “You from up north?”
    â€œOhio,” said Ricky.
    â€œThat’s far away from here,” she said. “I’m from Atlanta. My daddy works for Coca-Cola.” She tapped one of the vending machines and laughed.
    â€œWhat?” said Ricky.
    â€œCoke bottles,” she said. “You know. Glasses?”
    â€œOh, no,” he said. “I always drink from the bottle.”
    â€œWe’ll see Chattanooga,” said Bobby. “Lookout Mountain. That’s where we’re going tomorrow morning. Lots of guys died up there. Union and Confederate. Both sides.”
    â€œOh,” she said, tearing a strip of wrapper idly from her candy bar. She didn’t say any more, except another “Oh.” Then she walked back along the sidewalk to her room, trailing the scent of chocolate behind her.

Seventeen
    â€œYou like her?” Bobby asked.
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œYou don’t?”
    â€œMaybe. What difference does it make to you?”
    They were back in the room, whispering in the semidarkness. Grandma was asleep on the cot. Their mother was in the bathroom, its door cracked open, and a sliver of light shone vertically across the beds.
    â€œQuiet now, boys,” she said through the door. The edge was no longer in her voice. “Go to sleep. I want to get on the road early tomorrow. We can visit Chickamauga, then be up at Lookout Mountain before lunch.”
    Bobby turned on the couch to face his brother’s bed.
    â€œSo what if you were rolled up in a rug?” he whispered.
    â€œWhat?” Ricky said. Bobby couldn’t see his face in the dark. “A rug? Rolled up in a rug? What are you talking about?”
    â€œYou know what I’m talking about,” Bobby said. “With her.”
    â€œBoys,” from the bathroom.
    Bobby leaned closer to the shadow of his brother. “And it was a hundred and fifty degrees