"Wait... I've got... Aerials, uh... Roman Candles, Spinners, Mines, " Bodhi dropped, on sandy knees, holding a beer, rifling through his backpack one-handed, a lit cigarette loosely between his lips. Flash-round, a wiry wick: "And Cherry Bombs."
___...
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KYLE WAS HOT ON MY HEELS. "You're late, Cruz."
I could barely sling my backpack down. I'd clocked in at 11:00; our punch clock in the break room printed it clearly. I'd slipped it in my slot haphazardly, slipped behind the counter at 11:02. Hair frizzing up in ringlets. My damp sweatshirt, clingy Polo.
"Yeah, I... uh..." My chin lowered. "Sorry."
"Don't let it happen again."
"Right."
A moment of awkward silence lingered, Kyle walking away. Everybody would wait a beat.
Then Olivia passed by, patted my shoulder apologetically. "Sorry, babe. You good?"
I groaned, buckling under such a basic question. My elbows on the glass counter. My forehead in my hands as I huffed. "Yeah, I just— I... Somebody stole my bike yesterday. Last night in Old Orchard."
"Aw shit. Really?"
"Mmm. I left my shift and..." I opened my arms in a hopeless shrug. Gone.
Olivia cocked a hip. Her gaze a stark brown, deep, unfathomably dark, raking down, down, down. I was wet, I know. "So what... you walked here?"
"Half-way," I said, straightening clumsily. "Bodhi gave me a ride."
It's a free ride, I swear.
"Bodhi? Hot Bodhi?"
"Only Bodhi I know." Hm. "Introduced himself as Baz."
Ever hitchhiked? His voice low and raspy, as if he knew I had. Hot. His silty-soft gaze. Everybody down Old Orchard calls you Cruz.
"Be careful, Cruz." Olivia kicked off, flashing a frisky smirk. "I've heard about him."
"Me, too."
Sure. Everybody had. Old Orchard Beach was a den of gossip. Bodhi blew in like hazy weather over a weekend in May, a seasonal gig, referral by a friend of a friend of a friend, bumming until August. I ignored a lot of it: Bodhi got around. Bodhi was a people-person, a hang-on handyman, a gypsy. Everybody liked him.
Hours dragged. It ebbed and flowed. Rain pattered off the roof of the Arcade. Noise amplified. Traffic. Kids screeching,ping-ponging across my vision, slipping, skidding in sandy puddles, and a long wailing cry. Somebody always got hurt. I could only help by pawning off accolades, winding a sum down to zero; partitioning their ticket total off—a chewed pen cap between my lips, a calculator against my elbow—into hundreds of cheap, crappy prizes: smiley-face erasers, friendship bracelets, dinky rings. An occasional CD player: somebody who'd been saving up. Those were fun. It slowed sporadically.
"Hey." Jake swung by, patted a palm against my glass counter. Perfect. Timing. Impeccable, Jake could be. "Lunch?"
"Yes. Yeah." I cracked my neck, glancing at Hector. I hadn't had a break yet. "You'll be okay alone? I'll be back in a half hour."
