Crank It Up

Crank It Up

By Lynn Townsend

This story begins just before Chapter Twenty... after Beau has called his mother to get his passport paperwork mailed to him at his new address and before the party at Screech where everyone gathers to watch the pilot episode of his cousin, Kate's, television show.



“You got a package,” Meghan said as Beau unlocked the door. She didn't even wait for him to get all the way inside the apartment before she was shoving a padded envelope at him.

Beau concealed a sigh. The last thing he wanted was Meghan asking him what was wrong. He took the package and shoved a corner of it in his mouth to hold on to it; he was already carrying his backpack and the five plastic bags of groceries that he'd toted up nine flights of stairs were cutting off the circulation in his fingers. And then he had to stare, pointedly, at her until she backed off and cleared the way into the miniscule living room that they shared.

Beau dropped the bags in the kitchen, tossed the envelop onto the tiny, two-person breakfast nook table that they never actually used for anything because it was so completely coated in the sort of available-flat-surface-detritus that just sort of accumulated, and unloaded the groceries.

Meghan, as he could have predicted, hovered in the doorway. Leaning against the nicked archway, she watched him, her fingers cupping her elbows, the glitter-polished nails drumming absently against her skin.

Beau started counting in his head. He hadn't yet reached seven by the time she burst out, “Well, aren't you even going to open it?”

“Thanks for getting the mail,” Beau said. He nudged around a few bottles of various salad dressings—Meghan was convinced that if she could just find the right dressing, all her weight problems would be over. To be fair, after living in a ninth floor walk-up for a semester and a half, Beau didn't think she had any weight problems. Which didn't keep her from buying at least two different brands of dressing every time she went to the store.

While he took his time unpacking each bag and carefully arranging the groceries, he wondered who was sending him mail at this address. He'd told his mother that he'd moved, and his cousin, Kate. He'd kept his campus mailbox, of course, so that his constantly moving around didn't affect his bills, or where he picked up his report card. It wasn't likely to be a package from his mother; Joanna had sent his birth certificate and records, along with some odds and ends from his bedroom at home a few weeks before.

Just to be aggravating, Beau folded each of the plastic bags neatly—the crunching noise of rustling plastic drove Meghan berserk—and tucked them into the bin where they'd recycle them later, before finally turning his attention to the package. A standard, if it fits, it ships padded envelop, the white sides scarred up as if it had been knocked about a bit. Something shifted around inside.

The return address was as familiar to him as his own. The Wingfields lived right down the same gravel road as the Watkins. His family had been neighbors with hers since at least the late 1950s, when Gerald Watkins had bought the plot there in the first place. Donna Wingfield had been Beau's high school sweetheart, the girlfriend that he didn't really care about, who had been his shield and his camouflage. And who he had treated extremely poorly. His heart moved upward into his throat and he swallowed it painfully.

He turned the envelope over, found the tab, and yanked. Cardboard dust spun up from the rip. “Who's it from?” Meghan queried, practically dancing on her toes.

“My ex,” Beau said, letting the object inside side out. It was a small, flat box, somewhat dented. The post office never was much good at not flattening shit, and a folded piece of paper. He put the box aside and unfolded the note.

Beau,

Probably should have gotten this to you sooner, but honest, I forgot.

Just wanted to let you know, I'm going out on my first date in a while, this weekend. A boy from my study group asked me to shoot pool with him. I don't know if I'm nervous, or excited, or what. I've been glad to be taking classes, and I'm set to transfer over to university next year. Be happier for that. People still talk, in town. I get asked about you all the time, and honest-to-god, Beau, I just want them to shut up.

You can write me, if you want, and I'll tell you how it went. I know you never cared about me like I wanted you to, but I hope you can be happy for me.

Dee

Beau sighed, pushed the letter away and opened the box.

The gold ring, its wide set with a sapphire stone, glittered up at him. It was a championship ring and his father had been so proud that Beau's high school team had ranked that year, he'd actually taken the trouble to help Beau pick it out.

Meghan sucked air through her teeth. “Huh, that's nice of her,” Meghan said. “I threw out my high school boyfriend's ring after the son of a bitch cheated on me.”

“Ow,” Beau said, mildly.

“It was only plate-covered silver,” she sniffed. “Turned my finger green until I wrapped it with yarn.”

Beau slipped the ring onto his finger. “Well, this one was 14k. My father bought it for me.” The band was cold on his skin and didn't seem to warm. The ring was heavy on his hand, he'd barely worn it two weeks before Dee-Dee had claimed it as her own. She'd put it on a chain around her neck, Beau turned his hand, he could see the faint markings on the band where it had scraped against her necklace.

“Huh,” Meghan repeated. “Bet that'd pawn for scrap at a good price.”

~*~*~*~