Making Faces (12 page)

Ambrose didn't like alcohol. He didn't like
the fuzziness in his head or the fear that he would do something
monumentally stupid and embarrass himself, his dad, or his town.
Coach Sheen didn't allow any alcohol during the season. No excuses.
You got caught drinking and you were off the team, period. None of
them would risk wrestling for a drink.

For Ambrose, wrestling was a year-round
thing. He was always training, always competing. He wrestled during
football and track, even though he was on the high school team for
both sports. And because he was always training, he never
drank.

But he wasn't training anymore, because he
wasn't wrestling. He was done. And the town was in a quiet panic.
Five of their boys, off to war. The news had spread like wildfire
and though people professed pride and had clapped the boys on their
backs, telling them they appreciated their sacrifice and their
service, the underlying current was one of horror. Elliott had
bowed his head as Ambrose had broken the news to him.

“Is this what you really want to do, son?” he
asked quietly. When Ambrose said it was, Elliott patted him on the
cheeks and said, “I love you, Brosey. And I will support you in
whatever you do.” But Ambrose had caught him on his knees several
times, tearfully praying. He had a feeling his father was making
all kinds of deals with God.

Coach Sanders at Penn State had said he
respected Ambrose's choice. “God, country, family, wrestling,” he'd
said to Ambrose. He said if Ambrose felt the call to serve his
country, that’s what he should do.

After graduation, Mr. Hildy, his math teacher
had pulled him aside and asked for a word. Mr. Hildy was a Vietnam
vet. Ambrose had always respected him, always admired the way he
conducted himself and ran his classes.

“I hear you signed up for the guard. You know
you'll get called up, don't you? You'll be shipped out faster than
you can say Saddam Hussein. Do you realize that?” Mr. Hildy asked,
his arms folded, his bushy, grey brows lifted in question.

“I know.”

“Why you goin'?”

“Why did you go?”

“I was drafted,” Mr. Hildy said bluntly.

“So you wouldn't have gone if you had a
choice?”

“No. But I wouldn't change it either. The
things I fought for, I'd fight for again. I'd fight for my family,
my freedom to say whatever the hell I want, and for the guys I
fought beside. That, most of all. You fight for the guys you serve
with. In the middle of a firefight, that's all you think
about.”

Ambrose nodded as if he understood.

“But I'm just telling you right now. The
lucky ones are the ones who don't come back. You hear me?”

Ambrose nodded again, shocked. Without
another word, Mr. Hildy walked away, but he left doubt behind, and
Ambrose experienced his first qualms. Maybe he was making a huge
mistake. The doubt made him angry and restless. He was committed.
And he wasn't turning back.

The US and her allies were in Afghanistan.
Iraq was next. Everyone knew it. Ambrose and his friends would
enter basic training in September. Ambrose wished it was tomorrow.
But that was what they'd all agreed to.

That summer was hell. Beans seemed intent on
drinking himself to death, and Jesse might as well be married for
as much time as he spent with his friends. Grant was farming,
Paulie, writing endless songs about leaving home, working himself
up into a blubbering mess. Ambrose spent all his time at the bakery
or lifting weights. And summer dragged by.

Now, here they were, Saturday night, two days
before they left for Camp Sill in Oklahoma, and they were all at
the lake celebrating with every kid in the county. There was soda
and beer, balloons, trucks with tailgates lowered, and food at
every turn. Some kids swam, some kids danced at the water's edge,
but the majority just talked and laughed and sat around the
bonfire, reminiscing and trying to pack in one last summer memory
to see them through the years ahead.

Bailey Sheen was there. Ambrose had helped
Jesse hoist his chair and carry him down to the lake where he could
mix and mingle. Fern was with him, as usual. She wasn't wearing her
glasses and her curly hair was tamed into a braid with a few
tendrils curling around her face. She didn't hold a candle to Rita,
but she was cute, Ambrose had to admit that much. She had on a
flowery sundress and flip flops, and try as he might, he found
himself looking at her throughout the evening. He didn't know what
it was about her. He could have started something with any number
of girls he called friends who might like to send him off with a
little something special. But sloppy coupling had never been his
thing, and he didn't want to start now. And he kept looking at
Fern.

He ended up drinking more beer than he
should, getting pulled into the lake by a bunch of guys from the
wrestling team, and missing the moment when Fern left. He saw the
Sheen's old blue van pull away, crunching across the gravel, and he
felt a twist of regret slice through him.

He was wet and mad and a little drunk–and not
enjoying himself at all. He stood next to the fire trying to
squeeze the water from his clothes, and he wondered if the regret
he felt over Fern was just his way of digging in his heels at the
last moment, grabbing for something to hold onto as his old life
slipped away and the future dawned, scary and new.

He let the fire dry the worst of the wet from
his jeans and T-shirt and let the conversation flow around him. The
flames looked like Fern's hair. He cursed aloud, causing Beans to
pause in the middle of introducing a new game. He stood up
abruptly, knocking the flimsy lawn chair over, and walked away from
the fire, knowing he should just leave, knowing he wasn't himself.
He was such an idiot. He'd twiddled his thumbs all summer long with
not a damn thing to do. Now here he was, the night before his last
day in town, and he was just discovering that he might like a girl
who had all but thrown herself at him more than six months
before.

He was parked at the top of the hill, and the
cars that were nestled close to his were empty. Good. He could just
sneak away. He was miserable, his crotch was wet, his shirt was
stiff, and he was all partied out. He headed up the hill only to
stop in his tracks. Fern was picking her way down the path to the
lake. She was back. She smiled as she approached him and fingered a
strand of her hair that had come loose and was curling against her
neck.

“Bailey left his ball cap, and I offered to
come back for it after I dropped him off. And I wanted to say
goodbye. I got to talk to Paulie and Grant, but I didn't get to
talk to you. I hope it's okay if I write you sometimes. I would
want people to write me . . . if I were leaving . . . which I
probably never will, but you know,” she was growing more nervous as
she spoke, and Ambrose realized he hadn't said a word. He'd just
stared at her.

“Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that,” he rushed to put
her at ease. He ran his fingers through his long damp hair.
Tomorrow the hair would go. His dad said he'd shave it off for him.
No use waiting until Monday. He hadn't had short hair since Bailey
Sheen told him he looked like Hercules.

“You're all wet.” She smiled. “You should
probably go back by the fire.”

“You wanna stick around, maybe talk for a
minute?” Ambrose asked. He smiled like it was no big deal, but his
heart pounded like she was the first girl he had ever talked to. He
wished suddenly that he'd had a few more beers to take the edge
off.

“Are you drunk?” Fern narrowed her eyes at
him, reading his thoughts. It made Ambrose sad that she thought he
wouldn't want her around unless he was smashed.

“Hey Ambrose! Fern! Come 'ere! We're starting
a new game. We need a couple more players,” Beans called out from
where he crouched by the fire.

Fern walked forward, excited that she was
being included. Beans hadn't been exactly nice to Fern through the
years. He usually ignored girls he didn't think were good looking.
Ambrose followed a little more slowly. He didn't want to play
stupid games, and if Beans was running the show, it was sure to be
mean or stupid.

It turned out the new game wasn't new at all.
It was the same old version of spin the bottle they'd been playing
since they were thirteen and needed an excuse to kiss the girl
sitting next to them. But Fern seemed intent on the whole thing,
her brown eyes wide and her hands clenched in her lap. Ambrose
realized she probably hadn't ever played spin the bottle. It wasn't
like she came to any of their parties. She hadn't been invited.
Plus, she was the pastor's daughter. She probably hadn't ever done
half the things everyone else sitting around the fire had done,
multiple times. Ambrose laid his head in his hands, hoping Beans
wasn't going to do something that would embarrass Fern or make it
necessary to beat the shit out of him. He really didn't want that
strain on their relationship heading into boot camp.

When the bottle landed on Fern, Ambrose held
his breath. Beans whispered to the girl beside him, the girl who
had spun the bottle. Ambrose glowered at Beans and waited for the
axe to fall.

“Truth or dare, Fern?” Beans taunted. Fern
seemed petrified of either one. As she should be. She bit her lip
as twelve pairs of eyes watched her grapple with the choice.

“Truth!” she blurted out. Ambrose relaxed.
Truth was easier. Plus, you could always lie.

Beans whispered again, and the girl
giggled.

“Did you, or did you not, write love letters
to Ambrose last year and pretend they were from Rita?”

Ambrose felt sick. Fern gasped beside him,
and her eyes shot to his, the darkness and the dancing flames
making them look black in her pale face.

“Time to go home, Fern.” Ambrose stood and
pulled Fern up beside him. “We're out. See you losers in six
months. Don't miss me too much.” Ambrose turned, clasping Fern's
hand in his, pulling her along behind him. Without turning his
head, he raised his left hand, hanging a big, ugly bird at his
friend. He could hear laughter behind him. Beans was going down.
Ambrose didn't know when, he didn't know how, but he was going
down.

When the trees closed around them, hiding
them from view of the beach, Fern yanked her hand out of his and
ran ahead.

“Fern! Wait.”

She kept on running toward the parked cars,
and Ambrose wondered why she wouldn't slow, just for a minute. He
ran to catch up, reaching her as she clasped the handle on the door
of the Sheen's blue van.

“Fern!” He grabbed her arm and she fought
free. He grabbed both of her arms and pulled her against him
angrily, wanting her to look at him. Her shoulders were shaking,
and he realized she was crying. She'd been rushing to get away so
he wouldn't see her cry.

“Fern,” he breathed, helpless.

“Just let me go! I can't believe you told
them. I feel so stupid.”

“I told Beans that night, the night he saw us
talking in the hallway. I shouldn't have. I'm the stupid one.”

“It doesn't matter. High school's over.
You're leaving. Beans is leaving. I don't care if I ever see either
of you again.” Fern wiped at the tears streaming down her face.
Ambrose took a step back, shocked by the vehemence in her voice, at
the finality in her eyes. And it scared him.

So he kissed her.

It was rough, and it definitely wasn't
consensual. He gripped Fern's face between his hands and pressed
her back against the door of the old, blue van that she drove to
shuttle Bailey around. She was the kind of girl who didn't care
about pulling up to a party in a mini-van rigged for a wheelchair.
The kind of girl who had been giddy to just be asked to play a
stupid game. The kind of girl who had come back to say goodbye to
him, a boy who had treated her like dirt. And he wished, more
desperately than he had ever wished for anything before, that he
could change it.

He tried to soften his mouth against hers,
tried to tell her he was sorry, but she stayed frozen in his arms,
as if she couldn't believe, after everything that had happened,
that he thought he could break her heart and take a kiss too.

“I'm so sorry, Fern,” Ambrose whispered
against her mouth. “I'm so sorry.”

Somehow, those words melted the ice that his
kiss could not, and Ambrose felt her surrendering sigh against his
lips. Fern's hands crept up to his biceps, holding him as he held
her, and she opened her mouth beneath his, allowing him in. Gently,
afraid he would crush the fragile second chance she'd extended, he
moved his lips against hers, touching his tongue to hers softly,
letting her seek him. He had never tread so carefully or tried so
hard to do it right. And when she pulled away, he let her go. Her
eyes were closed, but there were tear-stains on her cheeks and her
lips looked bruised where he'd initially pressed too hard,
desperate to erase his shame.

Then she opened her eyes. Hurt and confusion
flitted across her face for just an instant as she stared him down.
Then her jaw tightened and she turned her back on him. Without a
word, she climbed into the van and drove away.