one arm, she locked the front door and pulled down the gate. Outside, heavy, warm splashes of rain landed in her hair and dripped down her forehead. Effie ran to the car and Lena walked, protecting the Pants under her shirt. She liked rain.
The Olive Vine was less than two miles from the shop. Effie bounded into the restaurant in a couple of giant strides.
Lena drove on. The rain drummed and the windshield wipers squeaked. She liked being alone at the wheel when nobody was expecting her anyplace. Sometime in the last few months she had passed into the stage of driving where she didn’t have to think consciously about how to do it anymore. She didn’t have to think
Okay, blinker. Brakes. Turn.
She just drove. It left her mind free to wander.
She found herself driving past the mailbox where she used to mail the old letters, before she had stopped caring so much. Or before she had started pretending she had stopped caring so much.
She still held the Pants close to her body. She’d worn them when she and Kostos had kissed so exquisitely at the very end of the summer. She took a deep breath. Maybe a few of his cells still clung to them. Maybe.
Having the Pants with her now on this rainy night, far away from Kostos, gave her a deep, melancholic feeling of loss.
So that was how it was. Kostos had a new girlfriend. Lena had a mean sister and a job selling beige clothing.
Who, exactly, had come out on top?
At first Bridget thought she remembered nothing from Burgess. Then, as she ambled around town, a few little things jogged her memory. One was the peanut machine outside the hardware store. Even as a six-year-old, she’d thought it was weird and old-fashioned that the gumball machine dispensed peanuts. And yet, here it still was. She strongly suspected the peanuts were as old as she was.
Another thing was the rusted black cannon from the Civil War, in the grassy patch in front of the courthouse. A pyramid of stuck-together cannonballs stood by its base. She remembered clowning around—sticking her head in it as though she were a cartoon character and making Perry laugh.
She also remembered climbing on the high wall next to the bank, and her grandmother shrieking at her to get down. She’d been such a monkey as a little kid. She’d been the best tree climber in her neighborhood, even among boys and older kids. She’d felt so light and rubbery then compared to now.
Bridget let her feet guide her, because they seemed to have a better memory than her head. She walked farther along Market Street until the village stretched out a little. There were hydrangeas in bloom in front of every house—big purple balls.
Past the Methodist church, a wide field stretched out, green and lush. It went along for three blocks, bordered by giant, ancient oak trees and pretty iron benches. At the far end she noticed soccer goals marking a beautiful green regulation field. She felt breathless as she looked at it. There was a rumbling, creaking feeling in her brain as it searched its many dusty, unconsidered files.
She sat on a bench and closed her eyes. She remembered running and she remembered a soccer ball, and then she started remembering many, many things all in a rush. She remembered her grandfather teaching her and Perry how to kick the ball when they were only three or four. Perry had hated it and tripped over his feet, but Bridget had loved it. She remembered holding her hands behind her back to remind herself that soccer was only kicking.
She remembered dribbling past her grandpa and him shouting proudly after her, “Folks, I think we have a natural!” even though there was nobody else on the field.
The summer she was five, her grandpa had stuck her in the Limestone County Boys’ League, amid loud protests from the other parents. Bridget remembered forcing her grandmother to cut her hair short, like a boy’s, and she also remembered her mother crying when she saw Bridget at the end of the summer. Bridget led the
The Olive Vine was less than two miles from the shop. Effie bounded into the restaurant in a couple of giant strides.
Lena drove on. The rain drummed and the windshield wipers squeaked. She liked being alone at the wheel when nobody was expecting her anyplace. Sometime in the last few months she had passed into the stage of driving where she didn’t have to think consciously about how to do it anymore. She didn’t have to think
Okay, blinker. Brakes. Turn.
She just drove. It left her mind free to wander.
She found herself driving past the mailbox where she used to mail the old letters, before she had stopped caring so much. Or before she had started pretending she had stopped caring so much.
She still held the Pants close to her body. She’d worn them when she and Kostos had kissed so exquisitely at the very end of the summer. She took a deep breath. Maybe a few of his cells still clung to them. Maybe.
Having the Pants with her now on this rainy night, far away from Kostos, gave her a deep, melancholic feeling of loss.
So that was how it was. Kostos had a new girlfriend. Lena had a mean sister and a job selling beige clothing.
Who, exactly, had come out on top?
At first Bridget thought she remembered nothing from Burgess. Then, as she ambled around town, a few little things jogged her memory. One was the peanut machine outside the hardware store. Even as a six-year-old, she’d thought it was weird and old-fashioned that the gumball machine dispensed peanuts. And yet, here it still was. She strongly suspected the peanuts were as old as she was.
Another thing was the rusted black cannon from the Civil War, in the grassy patch in front of the courthouse. A pyramid of stuck-together cannonballs stood by its base. She remembered clowning around—sticking her head in it as though she were a cartoon character and making Perry laugh.
She also remembered climbing on the high wall next to the bank, and her grandmother shrieking at her to get down. She’d been such a monkey as a little kid. She’d been the best tree climber in her neighborhood, even among boys and older kids. She’d felt so light and rubbery then compared to now.
Bridget let her feet guide her, because they seemed to have a better memory than her head. She walked farther along Market Street until the village stretched out a little. There were hydrangeas in bloom in front of every house—big purple balls.
Past the Methodist church, a wide field stretched out, green and lush. It went along for three blocks, bordered by giant, ancient oak trees and pretty iron benches. At the far end she noticed soccer goals marking a beautiful green regulation field. She felt breathless as she looked at it. There was a rumbling, creaking feeling in her brain as it searched its many dusty, unconsidered files.
She sat on a bench and closed her eyes. She remembered running and she remembered a soccer ball, and then she started remembering many, many things all in a rush. She remembered her grandfather teaching her and Perry how to kick the ball when they were only three or four. Perry had hated it and tripped over his feet, but Bridget had loved it. She remembered holding her hands behind her back to remind herself that soccer was only kicking.
She remembered dribbling past her grandpa and him shouting proudly after her, “Folks, I think we have a natural!” even though there was nobody else on the field.
The summer she was five, her grandpa had stuck her in the Limestone County Boys’ League, amid loud protests from the other parents. Bridget remembered forcing her grandmother to cut her hair short, like a boy’s, and she also remembered her mother crying when she saw Bridget at the end of the summer. Bridget led the
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