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Cruel to be Kind
by Barbara Carter She struts down a hill in the park in four-inch sandals, towards me and the guys. “Sit,” I pat a soft grassy spot. She carefully folds her legs under her. From out of her bag she pulls the Spumante, pops the cork, tips the bottle and takes a long swallow. She passes it to me. I drink. The bubbles dance down my throat. Her first question is, “Where’s Paul?” So predictable, like a Barbie with a pull string. “Has he been here?” None of us answer. “Forget him for a minute, will you?” I say, frustrated that she thinks a few nights sleeping together makes him her boyfriend. She should stop being a fool, but she doesn’t want to listen to me. I motion that I don’t want more wine. I lean over and grab a beer. “I’ve got to find him,” she says. Fuck. She doesn’t stop. I shake my head and say, “Can’t help you.” I turn away and take another drink. The guys laugh. One says, “Yeah, right.” Another one says, “Yeah, like you don’t know where he is.” He stares straight at me. Smirks. I throw my beer cap and hit him in the shoulder. She turns to the guys, flicking back her hair. “Do you know where Paul is?” I blurt. “They’re just being assholes.” They grin, elbow one another and laugh harder. I bite my lower lip. She turns back to me, her long mascara lashes not blinking. “Was he here today?” I stare her in the eyes and shrug. “Was Paul here?” she says, flicking back her hair again. “Why won’t you tell me? Come on.” she spins to face the guys. “Someone tell me something.” I jump up, spilling my beer. I swing around. “Do you want to know where he is?” “Yes.” She stands. I grab her arm. “Let’s go.” I lead her up the hill, not caring that she can’t walk as easily in her shoes as I can in mine. “I’ll show you,” I say, nearing her car. “Get in and drive.” I tell her to turn left at the stop sign. Right, then another left. “What the…” she turns, looking at me. She realizes we’re heading to my house. “Look at the road,” I say. “Keep driving.” She turns up the music, that annoying Bee Gees disco. I liked their folk ballads better. Maybe she should start listening to their old stuff again, like “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart” or “I Started a Joke.” She turns up my parents’ driveway and puts the car in park. “What the—” “Come on,” I open the door and get out. “Follow me.” She slams the car door shut behind her. I lead her up the stairs to a closed bedroom door. She pauses, waiting for me to explain. “Go on, open it. See what’s inside.” I give her a push. “Find Paul.” I step back, turn and walk back down the stairs. I hear the door creak open, then her scream. She found exactly what I wanted her to find, my sister and Paul in bed. They’d been at the park earlier in the day and had left shortly before she’d arrived. Maybe now she’ll get that he’s not her boyfriend. |
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