Barry didn’t know Emilee knew about his past-midnight

wandering. But he had more than enough on Emilee to

know she’d never tell on him (like she skipped school and

wrote her own sick notes a lot). It wasn’t a big deal

anyway, walking to town—two miles plus a quarter, if you

counted the driveway. He would get to thinking and a breeze

blew by every once in a while to remind him where he was, so

time felt like nothing. Most nights it seemed like he’d only just

started out and he’d be crossing the four-lane by the Dairy

Queen at the edge of town.

​

Sometimes, just to goof around, he’d stop right there

in the middle of the two lanes going east and put his arms

straight out to better feel the blankness around him, to

feel how that blankness would get wiped out by just one

car speeding by. If there was a car a way off, he’d squint and

watch the lights move closer and closer. If there wasn’t one,

he’d close his eyes and pretend there was, which taught him

how easy it was to fool yourself into thinking things were

there when they weren’t. Mostly, there weren’t any cars, but

one night he’d stood in front of a big truck until he felt the

ground shake then ran and stood in the glow of the street-

light at the edge of the frontage road to watch it thunder by.

The truck driver had pulled on his horn and yelled “dumbass”

out the window while he did it, but Barry knew he’d just

scared him, that the driver wasn’t a bad guy. As he watched

the taillights of the semi vanish into the darkness, he wished

he could be riding in a truck like that, alone, flying down the

highway.

​

Tonight, though, Barry crossed the the four-lance with-

out stopping. He jogged through the DQ parking lot and

turned onto Main Street, taking out the plastic bag he always

brought folded in his back pocket in case he found some-

thing interesting to take home. He mostly found stray jew-

elry, some change, or a note to somebody. Once he found a

grocery list, and he could just picture the person who wrote

it. The handwriting was neat, and the words dog food were at

the top, followed by rice so he thought it must be somebody

who cared about other people, like dog-people do, and was

patient enough to boil rice. This was the kind of thinking that

kept him lying awake at night, which was not fun, but it was

fun if he was walking around alone; he could let his thoughts

unfurl and branch, take over his mind like a wild vine.

He decided to vary his route and turned onto the fresh

gray sidewalk that doubled as the entrance to a new hous-

ing development. He’d been there once, a few weeks ago, but

hadn’t found much. The lawns were neat, and people parked

their cars in their garages, which meant nothing much got

dropped on the ground. Across the street he heard the sound

of metal sliding, which made him jump for a second, but he

figured it was probably somebody locking their front door,

thinking he was some kind of delinquent.

​

But it wasn’t. Somebody was actually coming out of a

house, and when he looked over, he saw Trish Livermore,

probably the sexiest senior girl, if not sexiest girl in the whole

school, hopping down the front stairs, wearing what looked

like her dad’s old white dress shirt. She had only a few but-Aftershocks 33

tons buttoned, and the sleeves were rolled and pushed up on

her arms. When she lightly jogged across the lawn—like a

cat, if cats could jog, Barry thought—he could see way up on

her thighs, so far that he wasn’t entirely sure if she was wear-

ing anything underneath. As if caught, she stopped suddenly

and looked right at him, also like a cat.

​

“Hi,” she loud whispered.

​

Barry couldn’t make much of a reply because, well, be-

cause there was Trish Livermore just standing there, all sexy.

“What are you doing?” Trish hissed, flapping her hand to

indicate he should come closer, which he did, even though

his self-consciousness about how he looked walking nearly

paralyzed him. At least when he reached the other side of the

street, Barry’s vocal cords worked.

​

“Just walking around.”

​

“What else are you gonna do, right? In the most boring

place on earth?”

​

“I’m not bored,” Barry said, weirdly feeling far less nervous

now that he was right next to her.

​

“Right now or in general?”

​

“Not at night.”

​

Trish paused and licked her lips.

 

“I’ve seen you before,” Trish said, “at night. It’s like you’re

searching for stuff. Picking up pennies or something.”

​

“I wouldn’t pick up a penny.”

​

“Well, I’m glad you’re not cheap. That’s a terrible quali-

ty in a person. I did see you pick up something shiny once

though and put it in your pocket.”

​

“Yeah, I mean, I pick up compelling things. Like when I

found a brand new watch in a box just sitting on the sidewalk.

​

“What kind of watch?

​

“Gucci, I think.”

​

“Gucci! Good god.”

​

“I’m just kidding. It was a Swatch. Nice, though.”

​

“What did you do with it?”

​

“I gave it to my doofus sister.”

​

“Emilee, right?”

​

“Yeah.”

​

“We don’t talk, but I know her,” Trish said.

​

“Same.”

​

Trish flashed him half of her straight white teeth, which

he saw was her natural smile. It also looked a bit like she was

about to bite you. She had an unnatural one, too, that was

perfectly symmetrical and showed up about sixty times in

the yearbook.

​

“Let’s walk around,” she said.

​

It took Barry a moment to believe what was happening,

and when he did, he looked down at her legs for the first

time since he’d crossed the street.

​

“OK, but maybe you put on pants first.”

​

Trish looked down and pressed her hands against her

thighs, all ten of her nails perfect and painted red.

​

“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

​

And just like that Trish Livermore returned, still wearing

the white shirt but also jeans and Nike red-swoosh tennis shoes.

​

After they’d made a loop of the town, which hadn’t taken

that long, Trish stopped and looked up at the water tower

high in the air. White lights angled off its rim and a blinking

red one pulsed on top.

​

“Kinda looks like we’re being invaded by aliens,” Trish said.

​

“Aliens that can spell Cantorville.”

​

Trish laughed and punched his arm surprisingly hard.

​

“Shut up. They are super smart and trying to deceive us.”

​

“Ever been up there?” Barry asked.

​

“To the top?”

​

“Yeah.”

​

“How do you even do that?” Trish said, dropping her

chin and looking directly in Barry’s eyes.

​

“There’s a ladder,” he said.

​

“That seems insane. What if you fall off ?”

​

“You hang on.”

​

Trish made a grimace.

​

“You said you were bored,” Barry continued.

​

“I said this place is boring.”

​

Barry shrugged. “Maybe it’s you.”

​

Trish put her hands on her hips and dropped her head

side to side. “Show me the damn stairs, Guthrie!”

​

Barry led the way to the side with the ladder. It was dark

but the light of the moon lit up its baby-blue painted rungs.

​

“You go first so if you fall, I’ll grab your shirt tail and save

you,” Barry said.

​

“Thanks, Superman. Maybe just keep an eye on saving

your own life.”

​

“My brother already died, so I don’t think God would do

that to my mom.”

​

“Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

​

“Thanks. It was way before you moved here. It was fuck-

ing terrible.”

​

“I’m sure,” Trish said. She touched his forearm.

​

“You first,” Barry said.

​

Slowly, they climbed the stairs, not talking, their mov-

ing bodies and breath the only sounds. Trish stopped every

few rungs to gather her courage while Barry waited. He had

climbed the water tower plenty of times and was convinced

that his brain simply didn’t register certain kinds of fear.

​

When they got to the top, there was a wider than expect-

ed platform with a railing; still, Trish scooted across with-

out standing and sat crossed legged gripping the bar. Barry

walked over casually and sat next to her, dangling his legs36 Annie Bruno

over the edge, liking how his lack of fear erased their age dif-

ference, at least for the moment. He looked up into the starry

sky. His thigh where it touched her knee felt like a bee sting,

hot and radiant.

​

“What does your mom do?” Trish asked.

​

“She raises Arabian horses.”

​

“No dad?”

​

“Yeah, I’ve got one,” Barry said.

​

“Oh. It’s just that you said God wouldn’t do that to your

mom, so I thought he was, you know, not in your life.”

​

“Well, my parents are sort of separated without actual-

ly being separated. My dad decided to start a business with

his buddy in Europe. After my brother died, my dad didn’t

like coming back or couldn’t. I don’t know. He just moved to

Bangkok, actually.”

​

“That’s crazy. What’s Bangkok like?”

​

“I don’t know. We don’t go there. I mean, my mom, my

sister, and me.”

​

“Your parents are like opposites then?

​

“In some ways. What about you?”

​

“Got the set. Still together? Kinda? But this shirt is not

my dad’s.”

​

“Boyfriend’s?” Barry said, to get that out of the way.

​

“No. What boy here wears a white button-down?”

​

“Well, it works.”

​

“Ha! So you’re a stylist too,” Trish said.

​

“I’m many, many things.”

​

“Well, I know one thing you’re good at.”

​

Barry’s stomach dropped, thinking she was going to kiss

him or do something crazy.

​

“What’s that?”

​

“Not being boring!” she said, pointing her finger in the

air, as if he were number one at this.

​

“I get the feeling you have a high bar in that department,”

he said, relieved because he didn’t yet have the nerve to kiss

her.

​

“Extremely high,” Trish said,, dropping back her head and

yelling at the sky, “High as this damn tower!”