Page 27 of Home Is Where the Bodies Are

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, go, I’ll be fine.”

“All right. I won’t be long, and I’ll bring you back a corn dog,” I say.

“A beer would be great too.” She laughs, but I know she’s serious.

I head deeper into the park, exchanging greetings and smiles with several people from the Grove. Many compliment the event, and I respond the same way to each of them, that I couldn’t have done it without all the volunteers, donations, and the others who helped organize the whole thing. A hand taps my shoulder, startling me. I turn to find Nicole.

“Can I hang out with my friends now, Mom?” Her arms are folded across her chest, her way of telling me she’s over this. Nicole wasn’t one of my willing volunteers, but she agreed when I promised to buy her that new Blink-182 CD she’s been wanting.

I scan the park again. Michael isn’t near the petting zoo anymore. I spot him lining up for the egg toss game. Brian calls out B4 to a group of bingo players. He adds, “I hope one of you wins B4 the keg taps out.” It garners a handful of chuckles. I shake my head and laugh at his cheesy joke.

“Mom!” Nicole groans, stealing my attention.

“Where’s your sister?”

“How the heck am I supposed to know? She’s probably off getting jiggy with Lucas.”

I give her a stern look and let out a heavy sigh, hoping she’s yanking my chain and there’s no truth to it. Beth is almost seventeen, and I know how teens can be, but I’m just not ready for my little girl to grow up yet.

Scrutinizing the park once more, I finally spot Beth. She’s slow dancing with Lucas in front of the stage, while a local band performs “Amazed” by Lonestar. Her hands are draped around his neck and his arms are wrapped around her waist. They sway back and forth to the music, their eyes never leaving one another. It may be young love but that doesn’t mean it’s not real love. I looked at Brian the same way at her age and still do.

I hold up the camera, placing my eye over the viewfinder, and snap a photo of the two of them and then a few others—an egg splatting against Michael’s chest, Brian pulling a ball from the bingo machine, and Nicole grimacing right in front of me.

“Mom, stop being a buzzkill.”

I release the camera, allowing it to hang from its strap again, and focus on my wild child.

“So... can I hang out with my friends now?”

“Fine, but make sure you’re home before dinner, and keep an eye on your brother.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she mutters as she runs toward a table full of teens her age. They’re dressed similarly to her—grunge, as they call it. I only recognize one of them, a boy named Casey Dunn. He and Nicole have been friends since middle school, and he seems to be a good influence on her. The rest of them I’m not so sure.

“Mom!” Michael whines, stealing my attention. Egg yolk is splashed across his shirt. “Look what they did,” he says, gesturing to the mess. There are tears in his eyes, but they don’t escape. He’s trying not to cry.

“Oh, honey,” I say, getting eye level with him and patting his shoulder. “Why don’t you go home and change quick? Just throw the dirty shirt in the washing machine, and I’ll take care of it later.”

“But I’m going to miss the water balloon toss,” he groans.

“No, you won’t. And bring another shirt just in case,” I tease.

He stomps his foot, letting his head fall forward. I place my hand under his chin, lifting it, and promise him cotton candy when he returns. That garners a smile and gets him moving. He takes off across the street and down our road. I can see the mailbox from here, so I keep an eye on him until he reaches the driveway.

“Hey, babe,” Brian calls from behind me.

I turn to find him holding two cups of beer and wearing that boyish grin I fell in love with twenty years earlier. Dressed in a white T-shirt and a pair of Wrangler jeans, he closes the distance and leans down, planting a warm kiss on my lips. A swarm of butterflies flap their wings inside my stomach. Brian always has that effect on me.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispers.

“Thanks,” I say, smiling up at him.

He hands me a beer. The thick foamy head clings to my lip when I take a gulp.

“Need any help?” he asks.

I look past him out at the park. My eyes land on Charles, a tall, gangly man with a horseshoe mustache, long thin hair, and a slight hunchback. He’s in his forties and lives on the corner of our street. Not only is he an eyesore but so is his yard, which is filled with run-down vehicles he refuses to get rid of. He stands alone, staring at a group of teen girls who are attempting to create a human pyramid. A beer is clutched in one hand and a lit Marlboro cigarette is in his other, pinched between his pointer finger and thumb.

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