Fireworks Every Night by Beth Raymer

Author:Beth Raymer [Raymer, Beth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2023-06-27T00:00:00+00:00

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Jay stopped by nearly every night. On the porch, we played Ping-Pong. Best out of five, best out of seven—our games were very competitive. Jay had a fast forehand; I’d say it was his signature shot. But I was like a human wall. Nothing got past me. The only time I lost a point was when my offense got sloppy.

To the rhythmic pock-pock, pock-pock, Mom swung on the swing. Jay and I let out agonized howls after losing points, and she’d jump a little. Our games were always close in score. When I won, Jay reacted with a short freak-out. He’d hit himself in the head with the paddle, then push me into the pool. “All right, I forgive you,” he’d say a moment later, and he’d take off his shirt and jump in. He swam from shallow to deep end in fast, precise strokes, his dark head and body, slippery and sleek like a dolphin, appearing at intervals, luminous under the moon.

Mom and I still went to the mall, but now Jay came with us. His mom never took him shopping for new clothes. Everything he wore was a hand-me-down from his brothers. Jay really didn’t mind, but Mom did. “That’s how I grew up,” she said. She bought him Billabong T-shirts and board shorts, K-Swiss shoes.

After the mall, we’d stop at Sound Splash. A hole-in-the-wall with a spray-painted sign in a strip mall on Okeechobee, Sound Splash was the only place we could get underground music: L7, Tool, banned videos of Marilyn Manson. Graffiti covered the walls: “Neil Young is God.” “Jesus was a Rasta.” “Cocksucker” scribbled over a picture of Linda Tripp. The pummeling thrash of Fugazi shot from the store’s speakers, and I hated walking in with Mom. There was no one over twenty in this place—ever. But Mom didn’t care. She walked around with her Dooney & Bourke purse, head bopping to the music, so happy to be out and about that I just didn’t have the heart to ask her to wait in the car. Plus, Jay wasn’t nearly as self-conscious as me. He went about looking at music, and I stayed close to him.

The owner encouraged us to open anything in stock and listen to it. There was even a little station with headphones. “Can I listen to somethin’?” Mom said.

The owner dropped in a PJ Harvey CD and handed her headphones. Surrounded by black-light posters and burning incense, Mom bopped her head along to the beat. “I like this song,” she said, loudly, to the owner. Her expression turned coy. “How’d you know I’d like this song?”

The owner tossed up his hands, and I could feel the heat radiating from my face: Mom was flirting. It was happening more and more. At Wendy’s, when she ordered a salad and it came with bread, and the guy behind the counter asked if she wanted it toasted or not, “Lemme see this bread,” she said, one hand on her hip. “I usually don’t like my bread toasted.

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