Tart. Jody Gehrman

could go back out there and get the bartender to give me quarters. But then Clay will see me and it’ll be obvious or at the very least odd (think about it, Claudia—wouldn’t incinerating a stolen vehicle qualify as plenty odd already?). I know the chances that I’ll create a favorable impression at this point are slim (not to mention unnecessary. Remember? On the rebound, delirious with heat, on the rag, homeless, with all possessions currently blowing amid Tuesday traffic in form of ash. Do not, I repeat, do not indulge in a messy entanglement with Gorgeous Motorcycle Boy). But still, I don’t want to make things worse with one more faux pas.

      There’s a gentle sniffling coming from inside the bathroom stall. I freeze. It never occurred to me that I wasn’t alone in here. A quick check under the door reveals a pair of pink flip-flops. A couple seconds pass, and then the toilet flushes and out comes Beach Barbie.

      She’s wearing a tiny tank over a bikini top and miniature turquoise shorts, cut high enough to reveal her mile-long legs. Her eyes are bloodshot and her nose is pink from too much blowing, but neither this nor the seedy setting is enough to detract from her overwhelming California glow.

      I try not to gawk as she squeezes past me to the sink, washes her hands and then her face, pats both dry with a paper towel.

      “Hi,” I say.

      She looks at me in the mirror and smiles, revealing the expected set of gleaming white teeth, then she bursts into sobs.

      “Oh, no,” I say. “What is it?”

      “I—” She can barely get the words out. “I hate—”

      “Yes? You hate…?”

      “Guys,” she finally spits out.

      By now, there’s snot dripping from one of her pretty little nostrils, so I duck into the stall she just left and get her a wad of toilet paper. “There you go,” I say, patting her shoulder gently. “It’s all going to be okay.”

      She blows her nose loudly several times, then composes herself quite rapidly, considering the extremity of the breakdown. “Oh, my God,” she says, checking her reflection for mascara damage. “I’m so embarrassed.”

      “Don’t be. If you have a quarter or a tampon, I’m never telling anyone. Deal?”

      She’s got a pink beach bag slung over her shoulder, and now she paws through it, pulling out a half-eaten Snickers bar, a bottle of aspirin, three lipsticks and a cell phone before finally producing the coveted Tampax. She hands it to me. Its paper wrapper is smooth and delicate from so much toting around.

      “Oh, God, thank you,” I sigh. “You’re an angel of mercy.”

      She hiccups daintily and smoothes her already perfect hair with one hand. “Our little secret, right?”

      “Lips are sealed,” I say, disappearing into the stall.

      When I emerge, my tragic little Beach Barbie is gone. As is usually the case, the blood damage was much less extensive than I’d feared—hardly more than a spot—so I’m feeling refreshed and eager to return to my drink. Clay is still stroking Medea. He appears to be engrossed in a conversation with her, as well. Her puffiness has completely disappeared and she is stretched out happily in his lap, soaking up the affection. She’s always had excellent taste.

      “…terrible motorcycle ride,” he’s telling her, as I sit down. “But you’re okay. Bet you always land on your feet.”

      “Thanks,” I say.

      He looks up. “For what?”

      “Oh, I don’t know…calming her down. Bringing us here. Saving us from a fiery death.”

      “I hardly saved you.” He wraps a hand around his beer and rotates it slowly before taking a swig. “You two don’t look like the kind of girls who need saving.”

      “Anyway,” I say, eager to change the subject, “what’s your story? What do you do?”

      “For a living?”

      “Okay, sure. What do you do for a living?”

      He shrugs. “I’ve got a record store.”

      “Here in town?” I ask.

      He nods.

      “That’s cool. So you’re into music. You play anything?”

      “Not really. I DJ on the side, but it’s slow going. The gigs I make money at are mostly weddings, which generally suck.”

      “Oh, man,” I say. “I hate weddings.”

      “Jesus, if I have to play ‘You Are So Beautiful’ one more time I’m going postal.”

      “I think our generation’s way too jaded for marriage. It should seriously be outlawed. Forget the whole same-sex marriage debate.” I lean into the table. “Let’s do away with the whole institution.”

      He looks amused. “Now, that’s something I can drink to,” he says, raising his beer bottle. We toast, and a vision of his mouth on the nape of my neck makes me feel suddenly much drunker than half a vodka tonic can account for, even on an empty stomach.

      “So what are you doing in Santa Cruz, anyway?” he asks.

      He keeps turning the conversation back to me. He’s probably a serial killer. People who murder for a living tend to be rather private. One more reason not to go home with him.

      “How do you know I’m not from here?” I ask, twirling my straw in my drink and looking coy in spite of myself. Stop. Flirting. Stop. Flirting.

      “I had the dubious pleasure of growing up in this vortex. I can spot an outsider by now. Besides, your license plate said Texas.”

      He’s an undercover cop. Oh, God. I can already feel the cold steel of the cuffs against my wrist bones.

      “You okay?” He reaches across the table and gently touches the very hand I’m busy morbidly encasing in restraints. Please, Jesus, don’t let him be a serial killer undercover cop.

      “Sure. Why?”

      “Every once in a while you get this wild gleam in your eye—”

      “Wild gleam?”

      “The same look Medea shot me when I unstrapped her from my bike.”

      I laugh, though even to me it sounds strangled. “Yeah, well, I’m a little off today. I don’t routinely rise at four in the morning, drive six hundred miles, then blow up my stolen vehicle to unwind in the afternoon.” Listing the events of the day makes me feel the wild gleam coming back, so I try to steer us toward safer topics. “Um, let’s see, what was your question?”

      “Santa Cruz—what brings you here?”

      “Right. I’ve got this university gig teaching theater.”

      “Wow.” He looks impressed, and maybe a little bit skeptical, which only confirms my suspicion that I am not professor material.

      “Yeah, well, they were hard up,” I explain. “Some guy faked his credentials so they had to fire him. I’m the only person they could drag here at the last minute. They made it clear that I’m just a stand-in—you know, one year and then, unless I turn out to be the next Stanislavski, I’m on the street.” The combination of my nerves, three days on the road alone and this dreamy vodka tonic are making me babble, but I hardly care. It feels good to talk to somebody other than a pissed-off, stoned cat. “I’m a total perennial student— I fell in love with the endless adolescence of college—so I figured a university’s the only place I stand a chance. Except I’m not so sure about the professor thing. I suspect I haven’t got the wardrobe for it.”

      He waves a hand at me dismissively. “At UC Santa Cruz? You could walk on campus in a garbage bag and by the end of the day you’d have a following. Lack of fashion is a fashion here.”

      “Yeah.