Kody Keplinger - Shut Out

There is nothing more humiliating than being topless in the backseat of your boyfriend's car when someone decides to throw an egg at the windshield.

Wait. Scratch that.

Having your boyfriend jump off you, climb out of the car, and chase after the guy, completely forgetting that you're still half-naked — that trumps it.

And there is one thing even worse than that.

Having it happen repeatedly.

I rolled onto my stomach and reached an arm down to the floorboard, searching for my tank top and praying the windows of Randy's new Buick Skylark were as tinted as the ones on his old Cougar, the one he'd wrapped around a telephone pole last month. The Buick was older and used, but Randy considered the bigger backseat an improvement over his other car.

Not that it was being used at the moment.

I pulled on my top and climbed into the front seat. This was the third time the car had been vandalized — with us inside — since Randy and I had started dating sixteen months ago. The other two times had happened last fall, when the rivalry was in full swing, and both times I'd been left in the car, humiliated, while Randy chased after the culprit. Not exactly my definition of a good time.

It had been almost a year since then, though, and I'd hoped to avoid the embarrassment this time around, but apparently, I was too optimistic. Here I was again — forgotten, alone, and fighting back tears.

Part of me knew I should be mad, but I was mostly just hurt. After more than a year together, I hoped I came first to Randy. But the fact that he forgot me so easily because of a stupid egg on his car? It stung.

I shut off the sexy R&B CD Randy had been playing and flipped through the presets on his stereo, stopping at a crackling Oldies station to hear the last few seconds of "Night Moves" by Bob Seger while I pulled my messy make-out hair into the elastic band I wore around my wrist.

Thirteen and a half minutes later, Randy returned.

"Soccer fags! I'm gonna kill those assholes."

I shot him a look. He knew I hated it when he talked like that.

"Sorry," he muttered, falling into the driver's seat with a thud. He stared at the egg-splattered windshield, grinding his teeth. "I just can't believe they did that."

"You can't?"

"Well, okay, I can, but I'm pissed."

"Uh-huh."

"That's going to be a pain in the ass to clean off."

"Probably."

He turned to face me. "I hate those assholes. God, I can't believe I didn't catch the guy. Shane and I are going to have to get them back good for this."

I didn't say anything. I'd tried to explain the whole "cycle of violence" concept to Randy before, but it just didn't stick. He didn't seem to understand that retaliating against the soccer players would lead to them attacking him again. He was giving them what they wanted. Feeding into this stupid rivalry. It would never end if he kept fighting back.

Logic wasn't Randy's strong suit, though. He was the spontaneous "act now, think later" type. That was part of the reason I loved him. The whole "opposites attract" thing was way true in our case. But sometimes Randy's impulsiveness was more stressful than sexy.

He sighed dramatically before turning to me.

"So," he said, a suggestive grin sliding across his face. He tilted his head forward, letting his sandy blond hair fall into his eyes. "Now that that's over with… where were we?"

"We," I said, pushing him away as he leaned in to kiss me, "were at the part where you take me home."

"What?" Randy sat back, looking wounded. "Lissa, it's only ten thirty."

"I'm aware."

"Look, I know that guy ruined the moment, but we can start over. Please don't be pissed at me. If anything, be pissed at the guy who threw the egg."

"I'm not pissed, I'm just… frustrated."

"It's not my fault," he said.

"It's both of your faults."

"Come on, Lissa. What was I supposed to do?" he asked. "He egged my car. He ruined our moment. He could have been spying on us — on you. A good boyfriend wouldn't let some jerk get away with that."

"He did get away with it," I reminded him. "They always get away with it. Whether you go chasing them or not, they get away. So what's the point?"

I wanted to be honest with Randy. To open up and tell him how much it hurt when he left me alone like that. How worthless and cheap it made me feel. We'd been together for so long; we loved each other; it should have been easy to tell him the truth. To let it all out.

But all I could make myself say was, "I'm not cool with coming second to this stupid rivalry all season."

"You aren't second, babe."

"Prove it," I retorted.

Randy stared at me. The corners of his mouth twitched a little, like he was going to spit out a cute answer and then thought better of it. His eyes perked up once before going blank again. He had nothing.

I turned away from him, messing with the dials on his radio again. "Just take me home, okay?"

"Lissa," he murmured. His hand closed around mine, gently pulling it away from the radio and lifting it to his lips. He kissed my knuckle, whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry that jerk ruined our night."

That wasn't what I wanted him to apologize for.

"I know you are."

His hand slid down my wrist and danced its way back up my forearm and shoulder, stopping when it reached my neck. His fingers cupped my cheek and turned me to face him. "I love you," he said.

"You, too."

He moved forward, and I let him kiss me this time. Just a quick, light kiss, not the kind I knew he was hoping for.

"You still want me to take you home, don't you?"

"Yes."

Randy shook his head, half laughing as he reached into the backseat and blindly attempted to locate his own shirt. "You amaze me, Lissa Daniels. Most girls would cave as soon as I gave them the puppy-dog look with these amazing eyes."

"Sorry. I like boys. Not dogs. You should've dated a different girl if you wanted someone to bend to your will."

"That's all right," he said, pulling the shirt over his head and turning to fiddle with the keys, still dangling from the ignition. "I like having a girl who can keep me in line. You're tough and smart and sexy and — "

"And you're still taking me home," I said, giving him a sweet smile.

"Yeah, I figured. But, hey, doesn't make it any less true."

I shook my head, unable to hold back a little bit of laughter now. "Oh, just drive me home, you brownnoser."

And, just like that, the night's drama was almost forgotten.

Almost, but not entirely.

"Dad!" I called out as I walked down the stairs the next night. "Where is Logan? He should be home already." I paused in the doorway, staring at my father. Or, more accurately, at the big bowl of ice cream in his lap.

"Hey, honey," he said, trying to conceal the bowl from my line of sight and failing oh so miserably. "I'm sure Logan is — "

"Dad, what are you eating?"

"Um…"

I walked over to him and jerked the bowl out of his hands. "I can't believe you," I said, taking it into the kitchen. I could hear the wheels of Dad's chair squeaking across the carpet, rounding the corner after me as I dumped the remaining chocolate-swirl ice cream into the garbage disposal.

"Oh, come on, Lissa."

"You heard what Dr. Collins said. You're supposed to be watching your diet." I ran the water to rinse out the bowl. "You need to lose some of the weight you've put on since the accident or you're going to have more health problems. Eating this isn't going to help you with that, Dad."

"One bowl of ice cream isn't going to kill me," he argued.

"You don't know that." I reached for a paper towel and turned to face Dad as I dried the bowl. The look on his face tore at me a little. The one that said he knew I was right but didn't want to hear it.

This wouldn't have been an issue five years ago, before the accident; his construction job and love of sports kept him in great shape. But it all changed on the January night his car slid on a patch of ice and sent him and my mother careening into the opposite lane. Even after Mom's funeral, with all the food no one could touch; after he started his new job as a counselor at the elementary school; after he began smiling again — he was still in the wheelchair.

No more biking. No more football. For some paraplegics these things were possible, but we couldn't afford any sort of special chair or bike that would keep Dad active.

So it was my job to watch out for them. For him and Logan. Without Mom around, they needed someone to take care of them. That was my responsibility now, even if it meant being a little harsh sometimes.

"So why isn't Logan back?" I asked again, glancing at the clock on the microwave. "He usually gets in right at five thirty-two. He's almost ten minutes late."

Dad laughed. My muscles relaxed a little at the sound, even if it was my neurosis he found amusing.

"Lissa, are you really stressing over him being less than ten minutes late?" Dad asked.