Filed to story: Brace Face Betty Drama Story
“Hey, dude. What kind of motorcycle is that anyway?” the guy on the left asks. His name is David, or Daniel, or Diego or something.
“It’s an Indian. A Scout.”
“Huh. My old man says anyone who rides a motorcycle must have a death wish.”
I grunt as I leave the table. “Yeah. Your old man’s probably right.”
It feels like an eternity passes after lunch. I’m torn; I can’t wait to get the fuck out of this hell hole, with its clean bathrooms, and horribly healthy, wholesome-looking students who smile way too damn much, but I’m also looking forward to staying, too. Because once that bell rings at two-thirty, all of these assholes are gonna file out of here and I’ll get to spend an hour with Betty.
She’s going to follow through on the lesson. She will. I know she will. I’m so confident that she’s going to be there when I enter the music room at two thirty-five that I’m honestly a little confused when I show up only to find the place deserted. I even check the sound booth cubicles to see if she’s waiting for me in there. It takes me a second to really understand that she’s stood me up. I run my tongue over my teeth, leaving the music room, heading in the direction of the admin office, where all the student records are kept.
Okay, Betty.
It’s like that, is it?
Well, two can play that game.
BETTY POV
“Hey, Maxie! For real, dude. Where the hell are your shorts? We’re gonna be late!” I’ve already run all over the house, searching for Max’s soccer uniform, but the boy loses everything he touches, and thus far he’s been more interested in ‘Call of Duty’ than helping me hunt down his shit.
I’m not even supposed to be taking him to practice tonight, but Dad managed to talk me into it-uninterrupted time for him to continue working on his piece for The Architect’s Digest. In exchange, he promised I could have the keys to the cabin this weekend since it’s Labor Day on Monday, plus a full tank of gas so I can drive myself up to the lake. The thought of being up there, alone, with only my guitar and my books for company? Seventy-two blissful hours of solitude? Yeah, it’s gonna be heaven on earth. Of course, Dad has no idea I’ll be going up there alone. I didn’t lie to him, per se. Okay, well it’s potentially a lie by omission, but it’s hardly my fault if he doesn’t do his due diligence. For the past two years, I’ve been allowed to use the cabin at the lake because the girls always used to come with me. A group of five girls, together in the woods, armed with pepper spray, made it possible for my parents to sign off on unsupervised trips to the tiny log cabin my grandfather built on the shore of Lake Cushman back in the sixties.
Since last spring, I’ve been going there by myself, though, and neither Mom or Dad have bothered to ask if any of my friends were going with me. They’ve assumed, which is to say…they’ve been too wrapped up in their own separate shit to adequately parent their only daughter.
For once, their total lack of interest in my life has worked out in my favor.
“MAX! I swear to god, I will burn your PlayStation if you don’t give me some sort of clue here, Bud!”
Downstairs, there’s a loud crash, followed by a thud, and then the sound of footsteps hammering up the stairs. My brother bursts into his room, where I’m ankle deep in the clothes that have been dumped on his bedroom floor; his cheeks are flushed, eyes flashing with irritation. Like most eleven-year-old boys, Max takes threats to his PlayStation very seriously. “I don’t even care about soccer anymore. I basically told Dad I wasn’t going to go, so you might as well stop.”
“Well Dad basically told me you basically had to go, so find your shorts. If you’re not in the car in five minutes, there’ll be consequences.”
Growling like a little fucking savage, Max begins to kick through his clothes in search of his elusive soccer shorts. I grab my bag and head downstairs, trying to decide which book to read while I wait for Max’s practice to be over. I don’t blame the kid for not wanting to go. It’s raining again, layers of mist skating through the tops of the trees that cover the mountainside opposite the house, and the cold feels like it’s seeping into my bones.
I’ll be safe and dry in the car, but Maxie will be soaked to the skin and covered in mud in less than five minutes flat. Which reminds me…
“I’m taking the van, Dad!”
“Can’t you take him in your car?” he calls from his office.
“No dice, hombre. Last time I did that, it took a week to get the dirt out of the seats. Pretty sure it’s all still ground into the carpet, too. I’m not dealing with that again.”
“Come on, Betty. I don’t have time to clean the van!”
“I appreciate that. But you’re an adult with the six-figure salary. You can afford to have someone detail it for you. See you in an hour!” I snatch up his keys, ignoring the sound of his grumbling coming from underneath his office door, and I go wait in the van for Max. I’m getting ready to lean on the horn when he comes running out of the house, red-cheeked but dressed in his full kit, soccer cleats and all. He slams the car door behind him and slumps down into his seat, arms folded across his chest. “I need your cell phone,” he informs me.
I throw the van into reverse and clear the drive. “Why?”
“I was s’posed to hang out with Colton and Jamie in the game. I need to let them know I’ve been kidnapped.”
For all their faults, my parents have stuck to their guns on this one thing: Max doesn’t get a cell phone until high school. I had to live by this same rule, so I sympathize with him. The little monster has memorized all of his friend’s number’s, though, and he constantly has his hand out for my phone. Beyond annoying. If I don’t give it to him, the next hour is going to be brutal. I opt for the quickest, easiest route to a peaceful life and I hand it over.
He begins typing furiously. “Mom was crying this morning,” he says.
“What? What do you mean, she was crying?”
“I heard her in the shower.”