The Witch by Jean Thompson Page B

thought he saw a different girl wearing the sweater he’d had on earlier. He had to wonder about that, but there was no time, because now here he was in this whole new situation.
    The back porch was where they piled up beer cans for recycling. There was also a dried-out sponge mop, the sponge worndown to a husk, and the parts for a hot tub that Dave D. had acquired in a burst of entrepreneurial activity but had never managed to assemble. It was not a romantic place, but the girl declared herself enraptured by the stubby moon, which was rising, or perhaps setting, above the roof of the detached garage. She perched herself on the porch railing and let her bare legs swing. She was wearing one of those shorty skirts, which Royboy appreciated, though her shoes were on the disappointing, casual side. She said, “Tell me more about your accident.”
    Oh shit. Had he been going on about that? Sweat percolated up from a deep, anxious well. The girl took notice. “Hey, never mind, I can understand if it’s a bad memory.”
    â€œNo, see, I don’t remember it. People had to tell me about it.”
    The girl nodded. She was one of those encouraging nodders. “Uh-huh.” He was meant to keep talking.
    â€œI was riding my bike and a car hit me.” He didn’t want to get into the rest of it because it was stupid and it made him sound stupid, like he couldn’t get himself run over in some normal fashion. “How much did I tell you already?”
    â€œYou said the guy who hit you lost control of the car for some embarrassing reason but you wouldn’t tell me what it was.”
    â€œYeah, it’s a little . . .”
    â€œYeah?” she echoed. More of the nodding. It was like her neck was coming loose.
    â€œHe was putting on deodorant.”
    Once she got it, the girl started laughing. Everybody did. “Sorry,” she managed. She was trying to stop laughing by inhaling, but it only made her snort. “I mean, you couldn’t exactly drive, I mean, how awful.”
    â€œUh-huh.” He didn’t feel like telling her the rest of it, whichwas hospital hospital hospital, and having to wear a helmet to cover the soft places in his head, and how he’d been put back together like a meat robot. He’d had to learn fourth grade all over again. That wasn’t so bad, because he liked fourth grade, where they’d played dodgeball and made a battery out of lemon juice, pennies, and zinc washers.
    The girl got it together and stopped making nose noises. “Sorry. Sorry. Wow. But I guess you’re okay now, right?”
    â€œPretty much.” He disliked this part, because if he told people he was not entirely okay, it was like he was disappointing them. “I take medicine for these, ah, seizure events I have. Most of the time I don’t even know they’re happening. But it’s a lot better than it used to be.” He shrugged.
    The girl looked at him, recalibrating. Royboy knew that look. It would be followed by either disengagement or a fresh wave of goopy sympathy. Instead, she hopped down from the porch rail, steadied herself by gripping his T-shirt in both hands, and started kissing him. Which was all right. He kissed back. He was trying to remember if he already knew her name, and if he didn’t, if it would be necessary to know it.
    The girl said, “Maybe we could, ah . . .”
    â€œOh yeah, sure,” Royboy said, detaching himself, dragging his attention away from all the interesting, bodily things going on. They grinned at each other in the low-wattage moonlight, then made their way through the back door. The party opened around them like a mouth. Who were all these people? He hoped that nobody had made themselves at home in his bedroom for the purpose of having sex, as sometimes happened at parties. Behind him, the girl lifted his T-shirt and licked his spine, which he guessed meant she liked him.
    Getting