" Yeah, I know, but really, how much trouble can an 11-year-old really be?" Hoo, boy, do you have a lot to learn," she said.So there I was that Friday night, driving in my dad's car over to Melissa's house for dinner with her family. I had a fresh haircut, I was showered and shaved, and so nervous I thought I'd sweat right through my suit coat. I kept on wiping my sweaty palms on my pants, vainly trying to will myself to calm down. I managed to park in her driveway without knocking down any trees, or driving over any rose bushes, which, considering my mental state, was an accomplishment. I knocked on the door, half hoping they had forgotten about this and had gone out somewhere. I was relieved when the door opened and Missy was there. She was dressed in a simple black sweater with gray pants. There was a fine gold chain with a small pearl pendant around her neck. She had curled her blonde hair so that it lay on her shoulders, soft and lustrous. She had never looked lovelier."Pow," I. Looking around the bar, I realized almost everyone had gone outside. Fire trucks and other emergency vehicles roared by the windows, lights flashing, sirens wailing, joining the cacophony of alarms and sirens from the refinery. I had the oddest sensation just then of time standing completely still for me in the quiet vacuum of the bar, while it rushed by at a noisy, frantic pace just outside those walls. What should I do now? I couldn’t bear to join the others, see the billowing smoke, the stricken faces, the emergency vehicles and people rushing by. Couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t let myself see what was really happening. I sat down in the booth Dave had vacated and tried to capture John’s face in my mind. Tried to see him as he’d been the first time we’d spoken. The first time he’d said my name. The first time we’d kissed. But his face eluded me. Bits of him surged into my memory, the baseball caps he always wore, his hands—the lovely long fingers and rounded fingertips, the.
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