The Last Song

"She's not a vampire."

"Yeah, I saw her. On the short side, ugly purple streak in her hair, black fingernail polish? You poured your soda over her, remember? She thought you smelled."

"What?"

"I'm just saying," he said, reaching for the pan. "You didn't notice her expression after you slammed into her, but I did. She couldn't get away from you fast enough. Hence, you probably smelled."

"She had to buy a new shirt."

"So?"

Will added the second can. "I don't know. She just surprised me. And I haven't seen her around here before."

"I repeat: So?"

The thing was, Will wasn't exactly sure why he was thinking about the girl. Particularly considering how little he knew about her. Yeah, she was pretty--he'd noticed that right off, despite the purple hair and dark mascara--but the beach was full of pretty girls. Nor was it the way she'd stopped the fight in its tracks. Instead, he kept coming back to the way she'd treated the little boy who'd fallen. He'd glimpsed a surprising tenderness beneath her rebellious exterior, and it had piqued his curiosity.

She wasn't like Ashley at all. And it wasn't that Ashley was a bad person, because she wasn't. But there was something superficial about Ashley, even if Scott didn't want to believe it. In Ashley's world, everyone and everything was put into neat little boxes: popular or not, expensive or cheap, rich or poor, beautiful or ugly. And he'd eventually grown tired of her shallow value judgments and her inability to accept or appreciate anything in between.

But the girl with the purple streak in her hair...

He knew instinctively that she wasn't that way. He couldn't be absolutely sure, of course, but he'd bet on it. She didn't put others into neat little boxes because she didn't put herself in one, and that struck him as refreshing and different, especially when compared with the girls he'd known at Laney. Especially Ashley.

Though things were busy at the garage, his thoughts kept drifting back to her more often than he expected.

Not all the time. But enough to make him realize that for whatever reason, he definitely wanted to get to know her a little better, and he found himself wondering whether he would see her again.

8

Ronnie

Blaze led the way to the diner Ronnie had seen on her walk through the business district, and Ronnie had to admit that it did have some charm, particularly if you were fond of the 1950s. There was an old-fashioned counter flanked with stools, the floor was black and white tiles, and cracked red vinyl booths lined the walls. Behind the counter, the menu was written on a chalkboard, and as far as Ronnie could tell, the only change to it in the last thirty years had been the prices.

Blaze ordered a cheeseburger, a chocolate shake, and French fries; Ronnie couldn't decide and ended up ordering only a Diet Coke. She was hungry, but she wasn't exactly sure what kind of oil they used in their deep fryer, and neither, it seemed, was anyone else at the diner. Being a vegetarian wasn't always easy, and there were times when she wanted to give up the whole thing.

Like when her stomach was growling. Like right now.

But she wouldn't eat here. She couldn't eat here, not because she was a vegetarian-on-principle kind of person, but because she was vegetarian-because-she-didn't-want-to-feel-sick kind of person. She didn't care what other people ate; it was just that whenever she thought about where meat actually came from, she'd imagine a cow standing in a meadow or Babe the pig, and she'd feel herself getting nauseated.

Blaze seemed happy, though. After she placed her order, she leaned back in the booth. "What do you think about the place?" she asked.

"It's neat. It's kind of different."

"I've been coming here since I was a kid. My dad used to bring me every Sunday after church for a chocolate shake. They're the best. They get their ice cream from some tiny place in Georgia, but it's amazing. You should get one."

"I'm not hungry."

"You're lying," Blaze said. "I heard your stomach growling, but whatever. It's your loss. But thanks for this."

"No big deal."

Blaze smiled. "So what happened last night? Are you like... famous or something?"

"Why would you ask that?"

"Because of the cop and the way he singled you out. There had to be a reason."

Ronnie made a face. "I think my dad told him to go find me. He even knew where I lived."

"Sucks being you."

When Ronnie laughed, Blaze reached for the saltshaker. After tipping it over, she began sprinkling salt onto the table while using a finger to mold it into a pile.

"What did you think of Marcus?" she asked.

"I didn't really talk to him. Why?"

Blaze seemed to choose her words carefully. "Marcus never liked me," she said. "Growing up, I mean. I can't say that I liked him very much, either. He was always kind of... mean, you know? But then, I don't know, a couple of years ago, things changed. And when I really needed someone, he was there for me."

Ronnie watched the salt pile grow. "And?"

"I just wanted you to know."

"Fine," she said. "Whatever."

"You too."

"What are you talking about?"

Blaze scraped some of the black polish from her fingernails. "I used to compete in gymnastics, and for maybe four or five years, it was the biggest thing in my life. I ended up quitting because of my coach. He was a real hard-ass, always telling you what you did wrong, never complimenting you on what you did right. Anyway, I was doing a new dismount off the beam one day, and he marched forward screaming at me about the proper way to plant and how I have to freeze and everything I'd heard him scream about a million times before. I was tired of hearing it, you know? So I said, 'Whatever,' and he grabbed my arm so hard that he left bruises. Anyway, he says to me, 'Do you know what you're saying when you say, "Whatever"? It's just a code word for the f-word, followed by "you." And at your age, you never, ever say that to anyone.'" Blaze leaned back. "So now, when someone says it to me, I just say, 'You too.'"

Right then, the waitress arrived with their food, and she placed it in front of them with an efficient flourish. When she was gone, Ronnie reached for her soda.

"Thanks for the heartwarming story."

"Whatever."

Ronnie laughed again, liking her sense of humor.

Blaze leaned across the table. "So what's worst thing you've ever done?"

"What?"

"I'm serious. I always ask people that question. I find it interesting."

"All right," Ronnie countered. "What's the worst thing you've ever done?"

"That's easy. When I was little, I had this neighbor--Mrs. Banderson. She wasn't the nicest lady, but she wasn't a witch, either. I mean, it's not like she locked her doors on Halloween or anything. But she was really into her garden, you know? And her lawn. I mean, if we ever walked across it on our way to the school bus, she'd come storming out, screaming that we were ruining the grass. Anyway, one spring, she planted all these flowers in her garden. Hundreds of them. It was gorgeous. Well, there was this kid across the street named Billy, and he didn't like Mrs. Banderson much, either, because one time he'd hit a baseball and it went into her backyard, and she wouldn't give it back. So one day, we were poking around his garden shed, and we came across this big sprayer filled with Roundup. The weed killer? Well, he and I snuck out after dark one night and sprayed all those new flowers, don't ask me why. I guess at the time we thought it would be kind of funny. No big deal. Just buy some new ones, right? You couldn't tell right away, of course. It takes a few days before it starts working. And Mrs. Banderson was out there every day, watering and pulling weeds before she noticed that all her new flowers had started to wilt. At first, Billy and I laughed about it, but then I started to notice she'd be out there before school trying to figure out what was wrong, and she'd still be out there when I came back from school. And by the end of the week, all of them were dead."

"That's terrible!" Ronnie cried, giggling despite herself.

/>   "I know. And I still feel bad about it. It's one of those things that I wish I could undo."

"Did you ever tell her? Or offer to replace the flowers?"

"My parents would have killed me. But I never, ever walked across her lawn again."

"Wow."

"Like I said, it's the worst thing I've ever done. Now it's your turn."

Ronnie thought about it. "I didn't talk to my dad for three years."

"I already know that. And it's not that bad. Like I said, I try not to talk to my dad, either. And my mom has no idea where I am most of the time."

Ronnie glanced away. Above the jukebox was a picture of Bill Haley & His Comets.

"I used to shoplift," she said, subdued. "A lot. Nothing big. Just more for the thrill of doing it."

"Used to?"