Kim Mckade - That Kind Of Girl

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    That Kind Of Girl
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Why was she doing this to herself? What was it going to take for her to learn?

She’d worked hard to build her self-esteem. It had taken years of conscious effort for her to accept herself, to even like herself. It had not been easy; she had a lifetime of feeling like a freak to wipe away. But she’d done it. And now she was champing at the bit to let it be brushed aside by a few careless remarks and a kiss that obviously meant nothing to Colt.

She put her palms on the counter and faced her reflection sternly. It was time to be perfectly honest. The truth was, she’d always had a bit of a soft spot for Colt. Okay, a big soft spot. A ridiculous crush, in fact. And maybe a part of her had always wondered whether if she looked different, and acted differently, he would see her differently. Less as the weirdo girl who lived down the road and made up stories to tell him when they were kids. Less as the bookish wallflower in high school, and more as…well, as more.

But the fact was—aside from falling through his porch and splashing iced tea all over herself—she hadn’t done anything overwhelmingly embarrassing. At least she hadn’t thrown herself at him—again. And if there was a God in the sky, Colt would not remember that night and she could go on pretending it had never happened.

The only real injury today had been to her pride, and she was an old hat at rebuilding that. So there was no reason she could not go out there as Colt’s old friend, have dinner with him, catch up on old times, and act like a normal person. If she stopped behaving like an imbecile right this second.

Whatever had changed Colt’s mind about dinner, it surely involved little more than an empty stomach. And if she had any brains at all—which she knew she did; they were in there somewhere—she would go out there and quit reading something into every little move he made. She would relax and enjoy herself.

Just to prove to them both that she really didn’t care if Colt found her attractive or not, she left her hair piled in a messy nest on top of her head. She dragged on baggy sweatpants, topped off with a T-shirt that announced “Math is Power.” Then she faced her reflection again and nodded. Now, there was a woman who was truly comfortable with herself, in all her nerdiness.

When she went back to the kitchen, though, he wasn’t there to test her indifference. Neither was he in the living room. She slumped against the arm of the sofa and made a face. She scared him off already. This had to be a new record for her—

“This is really good. Did you do it?”

She grinned. He was in her office.

He stood in front of the mural she’d painted on the south wall, his thumbs in his back pockets.

“Yes, I did it.”

“It’s great. When I came in I thought it was a real window.”

“Yes, well, the light is dim. Of course, if it were a real window, the light would not be dim,” she said inanely. She flipped the light switch and moved to stand beside him, noting the way his hair, still damp from his shower, curled at the back of his neck.

“This is incredible. You’ve caught it all, just as if there was a window here.” He reached up to trace a blunt finger over the telephone pole beside the dirt road, the tumbleweeds built up along the barbed-wire fence.

“Thank you.”

“It’s great.” He turned to face her. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“If you were just going to paint what’s really there— I mean, it’s really good and everything—but if you were just going to paint what you would see if there was a window there, why not just put in a window?”

“I turned out to be a lot handier with a paintbrush than I am with a saw.”

“You could get someone else to do it. I’d do it, if you want. It’d take about half a day—”

“I don’t want. Why would I want you to destroy my mural? It took me months to finish. And besides,” she said with a sniff, “this is far superior to an actual window. It never needs cleaning. It won’t let in dust, no matter how hard the wind blows. And if I ever get the urge to move, all I have to do is drag out the brushes and paints.”

“But seriously, Becca, you could have the real thing.”

“And look at this—” Ignoring him, she stepped up to point out the giant mulberry tree. “This is the tree that grows beside the elementary school. You remember that tree, out at the west edge of the playground?”

“Sure, I remember. I stared at it all the way through the third grade, wishing I was out in that tree instead of inside trying to figure out fractions.”

“I used to sit under it and read all through recess.”

“I remember. You sat on this root right here, the big one that grew up through the sidewalk.”

She looked at him and blinked. Told herself there was nothing touching or heartwarming about his remembering her in elementary school. They had, after all, been friends. Just friends. “Yes, well…” She scratched under her ear. “I wanted it in my window here. So I put it here.”

“You could plant a mulberry tree, you know. You could have a real tree and a real window.”

“Not a tree that’s thirty feet tall and has branches thick enough to swing from and roots big enough to sit on.”

“Well, not for a while.”

“Admit it. My window is superior.”

Colt shook his head. “If you say so.” He looked up at the stand of mesquites that bordered the quarry in the distance. “But doesn’t it bother you that it’s just…just pretend?”

She faced him and smiled. For the first time since he’d pulled up to his house, she didn’t have to tell herself she was glad to see her old friend. She didn’t have to remind herself that she cared for him as the person she’d grown up with, had once been close to. She didn’t have to remind herself, because she just was.

“No,” she said simply. “It’s real enough for me.”

“But I’m telling you, in a matter of hours—”

“Still the same old Colt. Always ready to rip everything apart and put it back together again.”

He rubbed his chin and nodded. “Well, I suppose I come by the urge to knock holes in things honestly enough. But you have no room to talk, you know. You haven’t changed that much, either.”

She focused on the bird’s nest she’d added in the crutch of the telephone pole, and told herself she didn’t care. “I know,” she said quietly.

“Oh, don’t get mad. I’m not talking about your looks. Sure, you look a lot better with your hair all—” He made a vague motion in the general direction of her head. “All up and out of your face. At least people can see how pretty your face is now. And you dress better, that’s for damn sure. But I’m talking about the way you always felt just fine living in your little fantasy world. If you couldn’t have what you wanted, you just pretended like you did. Or pretended like you didn’t want it.” He shook his head and stepped back. “That always confused the hell out of me.”

Since she couldn’t have spoken coherently to save her soul, Becca just stared at him.

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing at the drawing on her easel. “Your idea of the perfect pretend couple?”

Becca cleared her throat and blinked, moving around to face the easel. “Not hardly,” she said. “This is a drawing I’m doing for Dunleavy’s Department Store ads.” She picked up the graphite stick and fiddled a little with the guy’s tux. “They’re far from perfect.”

Colt grunted. “The guy looks like a real wuss.”

“Oh, he is.” She motioned to the bride with her chin. “She’s got him completely whipped.”

“Probably reads his horoscope daily and has his remote controls color-coded. His chin is weak.”

Becca grabbed her eraser. Within a few minutes the groom’s chin could have broken granite. “That’s better. But still, he’s not quite…” She picked up her thinner pencil and sharpened it. A few strokes later, the groom had a thin scar threading below his eye.

“Bar fight?” Colt asked.

“An unfortunate accident with the weed trimmer. He keeps an immaculate lawn, you know. Won an award from the neighborhood association.”

She glanced at Colt and saw that he was grinning. A real grin—not the one he dragged out that was supposed to make people think everything was okay.

She tapped the pencil against her chin. “I know what’s missing.” She stepped up to block Colt’s view and spent a few moments working on the groom’s hair. With a satisfied sigh she stepped back. “One lock of hair, falling rakishly over his forehead.”

“Rakishly?”

“It’s a word. There now. The perfect groom.”

“And that’s the standard? Rakish hair?”

“Of course. A lock of hair falling rakishly over the forehead signals the perfect balance of vulnerability and masculinity. Very sexy, don’t you think?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t really do anything for me. Sorry. What are we going to do about her?”

Becca sighed. “There’s not a lot we can do, unfortunately. The dress is far too frou-frou my taste. But since the dress is the whole reason for the ad, it’s got to stay— I’m going to start dinner. Hungry?”

“Always. What are we having?”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I know. Your hesitation has cost you one of my world-famous lasagnas, I’m afraid. I don’t have time now. But I’ll dig up something.”

“Are these yours, too?” He motioned to canvases stacked against the wall.

She nodded.

“Mind if I take a look?”

Actually, the idea held the same level of appeal as if he’d asked to look through her underwear drawer. But since she couldn’t think of a logical reason to tell him no, she simply nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Colt watched her go, chewing the inside of his lip. He still couldn’t decide if it had been a good idea to come over here tonight. The live wire of anger still fizzled in him. He’d even argued with her over her painting on the wall, though she hadn’t seemed to mind. She didn’t seem to mind anything, really.

But then, that was Becca. Everything pretty much rolled off her back, always had. He was still a little disappointed she hadn’t made it out of Aloma. Not surprised, but a little disappointed, for her. He figured that night twelve years ago was the only time she’d ever allowed herself to admit that she had dreams, that she wanted more than what she had.

He flipped through the stack of canvases, remembering the last night he’d seen her, the night of high school graduation. She’d been desperate to get out of town then, desperate to get away from her mother. Desperate enough to offer herself to him as a way out.

He cleared his throat as that particular memory took its effect on him. On more than one occasion he’d regretted the necessity of telling her no that night. No to taking her with him, and no to taking her to bed. But it didn’t take a genius to know he’d made the right decision. Still, if things had been different…

If things had been different, she wouldn’t have given up and resigned herself to a lonely life in the back of nowhere. And he wouldn’t be here cleaning up after the mess of a drunken bum.

He let the stack of canvases fall back against the wall, sick of his own thoughts. It was the real reason he’d come over, he reminded to himself. He was tired of his own company. And Becca was one hell of an improvement.

She didn’t hear him step up to the kitchen door. She stood at the counter slicing mushrooms, humming softly to herself. Her slender bare feet poked out beneath the shapeless sweats, and she reached up to brush away a strand of hair that had fallen and lay at her neck.

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