Little Blue Lies by Chris Lynch

Author:Chris Lynch
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers

Six

I have just about convinced myself that I can move on. By “move on” I mean I can have thoughts that don’t entirely revolve around Junie. I can consider my father’s offer of a job for life—no—and the prospect of college—not yet—and what that leaves me for near-term options—beats the squat out of me—without my mind being paralytic with concerns and worries and speculations about the existence of lovely June.

And then my phone does that thing that it does. Message.

I’m coming over.

It’s from her.

And just like that, as if all the psychological masonry that I had just carefully tapped and pointed into place has been rocked with a 6.5 tremor, I come spectacularly to rubble again.

I jump out of bed, grab some clean underwear—that’s right, this time I was doing exactly the type of mind-clearing exercise they think I’m always doing—and I get dressed as if I am going to Wimbledon or boating or my own baptism, but in my bright beautiful whites I am confident that this is the sunny reboot of my summer right here.

The doorbell rings, and I hear my mother padding to the door—but sorry, Mom, I cannot be denied—and I take three stairs at a go and practically break my ankle at the bottom, but I wobble and careen to the door first and fling it open on the wrong, wrong, wrong shade of goddamn blackened Blue.

“What are you doing here, Ronny?” I say.

“Is that what passes for hospitality in this house?” he says.

“Yes,” I snarl.

“No,” Mom says, extending her hand to shake the beast’s big meaty paw.

“You have lovely hands,” he says, and he kisses one of them. A noise comes straight through my stomach wall, like when you need to retch but you fight it down. I won’t fight next time. “Lovely artist’s hands.”

“Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Blue,” she overpolites.

“Mr. Blue is a weenie Bobby Vinton song from the 1970s. I’m Ronny. Especially to a lovely lady such as yourself.”

She’s courteous, but she’s not a dope. “Yes, thank you. So, what brings you here?”

“An appointment,” he says.

“What are you talking about?” I say. “And what are you doing with Junie’s phone again?”

“You’re an inquisitive little chap today. As it happens, Miss June—hey, sounds like she’s naked in a magazine, don’t it? Anyway, she happened to leave her phone behind again.”

“Where is she?”

“Another holiday, I guess.”

“So,” Mom interjects.

“So,” he answers, “I pick up this business card, right. Your business card,” he says, pulling my mother’s card out of his breast pocket. “And it says right there on the back that there’s a sitting scheduled here this morning. And I remember, I was supposed to be having a sitting, so apparently it’s been scheduled for me. So, apparently, I better get myself over here. Can’t be upsetting the artiste, you know what I mean?”

“Where is Leona?” Mom says in a cool way that bears no resemblance to any version of her warm self I have ever heard.

“Home,” he says, all happy-smiley.

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