Tossing the useless hunk of plastic back into her purse, Joy hurried back to the specials board, whipping out her pen.
“Forgot your phone?” Neil asked.
“I wish,” Joy said, scribbling words like ahi tuna and anchovies and smearing the blue ink. “It’s broken.”
Neil whistled through his teeth. “Sorry. That sucks.”
Joy grumbled and scribbled down the last details as Neil tucked away his cell. He lingered by the board.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
Joy double-checked the prices. It was a mistake she’d like to make only once this summer. “Yeah, sure.”
“That friend of yours, the one who stopped by the other day? Miss Ice-water-hold-the-glass?”
Suspicion prickled up Joy’s arms. “Yeah?”
“Is she seeing someone?”
Joy laughed. “Um...no. I mean, yes. She’s seeing someone...” Joy thought about the Cabana Boys—Luiz, Tuan, Antony, Enrique, Ilhami and Nikolai, as well as the indomitable Kurt—all hard bodies and exotic faces. Joy was afraid Neil didn’t quite fit the bill. “Um...several someones, in fact.”
Neil raised his eyebrows. “Really?” he said, patting his stiff spikes of hair. He went back to texting and shook his head. “Man,” he whispered under his breath. “That is so hot.”
* * *
Goodbye, Shelley! Goodbye, Dad! Hello title transfer! And now for a hot date with a sponge...
Joy scrubbed the last crusty bits from the windshield. She wasn’t sure if it had been bird poop or squashed bugs from the road, but she planned on throwing the rag in the garbage and soaking her hands in bleach.
“I’m washing it right now,” Joy said into the house phone tucked by her ear. “There are Cheeto stains on the ceiling, Mom. The ceiling!” She sighed in disgust. “Your son is the messiest driver who ever lived.”
“Is he there?” her mom said. “I told him to call as soon as he got there.”
“He went out to get Turtle Wax,” Joy said and wiped her bangs out of her eyes. “Why does anyone need to wax turtles? Their shells are already so shiny.”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” her mom said. “You never had any interest in pets.”
“Does an iPad count as a pet?”
“Har-har. Just tell him to call me later, okay?” she said. “I have to go meet Doug at the gallery. I love you, I’m glad you have a car, I’m proud of you, please remember to eat something that does not have a foil wrapper and—oh, by the way—I love you. Did I mention that already?”
Joy squeezed the rag in her hand. “I love you, too, Mom.”
“Bye, Joy. Hugs to Stef.”
Joy hung up and slipped the phone into the glove compartment to keep it dry. Soapy water ran by her feet and into the gutters, trickling over her toes. She still felt damp after using the hose—Monica and Gordon’s offer to help was much appreciated but also far soggier than she’d anticipated—but they’d agreed that the outside of the car had been a lot easier to clean than the inside. Stef’s car was a free gift in a very smelly wrapper.
They’d attacked the Kia with sharp-smelling fluids and thick, bubbly suds, using rags and old toothbrushes and toothpicks along the seams. They’d played “spray tag” across the backyard, yelling and ducking, before Stef bequeathed the hose to Gordon and ran to the C&P to get more wax. Monica was scrubbing the rear bumper, soaped to the elbows. Gordon aimed a tight spray near the back wheels.
“Hey!” Monica’s voice spiked from behind the trunk. “If you spray my feet one more time, I swear I’m going to come over there and force-feed you this sponge!”
Gordon fixed Joy with comically wide eyes, then sprayed again. Monica shrieked.
Gordon winked as Joy laughed. “Oops.”
Monica less-than-gracefully stumbled to her feet, her orange tank top soaked over a flower-patterned bra. She threw the sudsy sponge at her boyfriend, which Gordon dodged easily. He sprayed her again in self-defense, laughing and backing up, but not fast enough to avoid getting tackled into the yard. Bits of freshly mowed grass clung to their bodies as they rolled over the hose, fighting for the nozzle and getting drenched. They yelled and squealed as Joy wiped down the side mirrors. She ignored them until she got a cold splash across her back.
“Hey!” she shouted and whipped around. Monica waved a sorry and went back to wrestling her beau.
“Ah, young love,” Stef said, approaching with fresh rags and a plastic bag. “Or, in this case, a mating ritual courting massive allergies.”
Joy picked at her pruney fingers. “Mom called while you were gone. Call her back. There! My deed is done.” She pointed at the bag. “Found the car wax?”
“Yep. Stored cleverly between the rat poison and boxes of cornflakes. Don’t confuse the two.” Stef held up the small red tin. “Okay, so—first we have to rinse all this off, towel it dry and do an even coat of this stuff. Wait an hour—then wipe it off. Not too hard.”
“Says you,” Joy quipped. “My arms are killing me.”
“Oh, please. I’ve seen you flip twenty times in succession to the operetta from The Fifth Element,” Stef said. “Your wimpy arms can take it.”
“Yeah, well, it’s been a while.” She sniffed. “I’m out of practice.”
Stef crossed his arms in his I’m-coaching-you way. It was so familiar, it made Joy’s stomach lurch with performance butterflies; her body psyched up for a Level Nine routine. For a split second, she was back on the mats with a panel of judges, a crowd in the backdrop and her family near the bench. She could feel the air-conditioning, smell the chalk dust and sweat. It was as if she’d been plunged back years at a glance: her brother’s coaching from the sideline.
“Is that an excuse?” he barked.
“No,” she said. It was her line. “No excuses!”
“That’s right,” Stef said, wagging a finger at her. “You can do this.”
Joy dropped her dirty rag and toed off her flip-flops. Tossing her ponytail, she rolled her shoulders and bounced on her toes. The backyard was open and empty and as green as Abbott’s Field. She whispered words to no one.
“I know I can.”
Dipping her chin, Joy ran for the yard, bare feet clearing the parking barrier and touching wet grass. She felt it tingle up her spine, sending electric pops through her toes. Joy sprang in the dirt into a quick roundoff and slammed a series of back handsprings, fast and tight, in a snapping cycle that felt like flying. She landed in a corner. Everyone had stopped, stunned.
Joy was still moving. She pivoted left, right, and took off again, her mind’s eye imagining the triple twist, double back before it could happen, both knowing that the ground wasn’t a spring floor and that she could do it, anyway. She could feel it. Warmth pulsed up her legs like golden wine, warming her hip joints and filling her lungs, pouring liquid light out her palms.
She ran forward and dived, her fingers squelching in mud and wet grass, slippery and dangerous, but the rush was upon her—she wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop!—and tucked herself through the spin, landing with an impossible stick. Present left, present right, a split leap and a long, stretched pose, reaching for the sky and straightening her knees, rolling the energy from her heels to her toes, pointing in crisp formation.
Final