Tucker McBride and his sidekick Andy Gonzales pulled up alongside us with an expert squeal of the tires. Tucker puffed with pride at the wheel of his father’s tan pickup truck. He was obviously planning to have an epic summer now that he finally had his license. Andy threw open the passenger door, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners.
“About time you showed up, Patterson,” Andy said.
He nudged my shoulder with his knuckles.
“Ow,” I protested.
Lisa and I looked at each other. We tried to maintain but we couldn’t help it: we giggled. Andy flicked his nut-brown bangs, which immediately slid back toward his eyes. The toast-colored skin of his face and arms was buttery smooth against a navy blue down vest. A silver amulet hung from a leather cord around his neck, his black eyes flickering with curiosity. Because I lived in Boulder, 240 miles away, and only spent summers and an occasional ski weekend here, my arrival in town signaled the official start of the summer party season. I hadn’t seen Andy for months. He had definitely gotten cuter.
“When did you get here?” he asked.
“Three days ago. She showed up today,” I said, nodding toward Lisa.
Andy looked right past me, studying Lisa. The sensation of being invisible standing next to her was all too familiar. But I was used to it by now – we’d been best friends for years. Lisa met his gaze, then looked away. I was startled by her indifference. If there was any question as to whether Andy was sexy, the few times I’d allowed him to steal a kiss had put the matter to rest. Andy’s Hispanic father was a pilot for Delta Airlines and the Gonzales clan exuded the pride of successful assimilation. Andy didn’t give out his affection lightly.
I shivered. Crested Butte was too cold – even in early June — to stand still for long.
“Aren’t you going to introduce your friend?” Andy asked.
“Oh, right. This is Lisa Kipling,” I said.
I started to hop from sneaker to sneaker.
“Hi,” Lisa said, monotone.
She seemed to be refusing to take the bait. Producing his most heart-stopping smile, Andy shook her hand.
“Andy Gonzales,” he said.
I raised my eyebrows at Tucker. Since when did Andy shake a girl’s hand?
Tucker’s white teeth, gold hair and puka shells flashed in the dwindling light. Andy must have already known I was back. I’d seen Tucker twice, and news traveled fast in Crested Butte, where the town’s teenagers could be counted on two hands.
“Amy’s been laying low. Maybe she’s too good for us,” Tucker said.
He shot me his trademark Cheshire cat grin. This smile always seemed to imply, ‘I dig you. But that’s not going to stop me from hassling you as much as I can.’ The look pissed me off, but also stirred a tremor in my gut. If Tucker weren’t so delicious and tall — if his arms didn’t sport firm avocados of bicep, if his kisses weren’t so expertly delivered – it would be easy to walk away when he was being a dick. But I always stuck around, amazed to be going out with the best-looking guy in town.
Tucker leaned over Andy’s shoulder, extending his hand.
“Tucker.”
“I know.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Tucker said. “You ladies need a ride?”
“To where?” I asked.
“Cruising Main. Then up to Gibson’s Ridge,” Tucker said.
“But this is Elk Avenue,” Lisa said, pointing to the street sign.
“That don’t stop people from calling it ‘Main,’” Andy said.
“Doesn’t stop people,” Tucker corrected.
“Whatever,” Andy hissed.
“You guys are cold. Get in,” Tucker said.
We wedged in between them on the front seat. Tucker hit the gas and we rumbled away. Andy turned to Lisa.
“What do you think of the Butte?”
“The mountains are a rush. I haven’t seen much of town yet, though,” Lisa said.
“We’ll have to fix that.”
High above it all in the big-wheeled truck, I glanced down at my legs. On the seat, my thighs looked like mini Sequoias next to Lisa’s. Actually, I was labeled thin, being 5’9” with stick-like arms and a concave stomach. But I was convinced my thighs were chubby. Just because no one else agreed with me didn’t make it any less true. People often called me striking, probably because I was your proverbial tall blonde. But the only feature I prized was my skin, which kept its peaches-and-cream glow no matter how much I trashed my body.
Tucker pulled up on a side street in view of the Mountain Spirits liquor store, an old-time storefront like most of the buildings on ‘Main Street’. Outdoorsy locals strolled the street, en route to the town’s overflowing restaurants and bars. Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way” filtered into the night air from the Grubsteak Bar’s open door.
“I love this song,” I said.
“Yeah, but ’Go Your Own Way’ is my favorite,” Lisa said.
“Harsh!” Andy said, studying Lisa’s profile.
Tucker motioned to a bearded man in his 30s standing outside the liquor store.
Tucker extended a $5 bill over to Andy. “You going to get us some liquor or what?”
“Why do I have to do it?” Andy asked.
“I got the wheels.”
“But you look older.”
“Pussy,” Tucker said, laughing.
“Up yours.”
Andy hopped out and approached the man and spoke to him confidentially, indicating the liquor store. The man stepped back and looked around for a moment. Andy smiled and shook his hand, then handed the man a bill and he disappeared inside. Andy turned and gave us thumbs up. The man returned, covertly passing a brown paper bag to Andy. Andy’s face was flushed as he jumped in.
He handed the brown paper bag to Lisa.
“Would you like to do the honors?” he smiled.
“I guess,” Lisa replied.
Lisa wasn’t a big drinker, but she was a sucker for a dare. She slid the fifth of Seagram’s 7 out of the bag. Andy grabbed for it but she yanked it out of his reach. She twisted off the gold top and took a swig. Andy wrested it from her hand and swigged.
“Maintain, airheads,” Tucker hissed. You want to get us busted?”
Tucker turned onto a side street.
“Tucker’s freaked,” Andy explained. “One more ticket and they’ll take his license. Then he’ll have to stay home and play checkers with mom.”
“Eat me, Gonzales,” Tucker smiled.
“No thanks,” Andy replied.
