Noelle August - Boomerang

“Do you still play?” Adam asks me.

“Just a pickup game on Saturdays with some of the guys who stayed local and whoever else jumps in.”

“Hey,” Rhett says. “You’re letting me play this weekend. Right, E?”

I fight the urge to throttle him. Only my closest friends call me “E,” and I don’t want Rhett playing soccer with me this weekend. But with Adam here, my options for shutting him out are zero.

“Sure, Rhett.”

“I used to play a little myself,” Adam says. “Center mid.”

Unlike Rhett, Adam’s too cool to invite himself on Saturday, but I see a spark in his eyes that tells me his competitive spirit just kindled.

He wants to play.

Now I’m the one who’s impressed. Guys who think they can hang with collegiate level players are either ballsy as hell, or idiots. Between Adam and Rhett, looks like both camps are covered.

“You’re welcome to join, Adam. Anytime.”

“Thanks,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder as he leaves. “Count me in for Saturday.”

Mia

Q: How well do you handle pressure?

I spend a long, long elevator ride down to the parking lot, mentally rehearsing and then rejecting a series of withering comments I’m dying to make. Like, “How’s that view from inside Adam Blackwood’s butt?” and “Did you and Rhett fondle each other’s balls?”

But I keep my lips clamped and my eyes on the elevator control panel. For one thing, Ethan looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin and beat Rhett with it, which tells me he’s not exactly wooing the guy. For another, I’m not mad at Ethan, but at the whole let’s-hoist-some-brews-after-a-sweaty-game-of-soccer-boys-club vibe of their little exchange. I’ve got the athletic grace of a puppy on Ritalin, so there’s no way I’m meeting Adam on that level. Which means I have to find another arena, something I own.

That brings me back to the portrait in the conference room. Which I happen to know sold at auction for probably a decade’s worth of paychecks from this place. So Adam’s serious about collecting. And he likes my mother’s work.

It gives me a pang of conscience to consider using this knowledge as leverage, but I file it away—for emergencies only, of course. I want to do this on my own, without hopping on the Pearl Bertram express train. There’s no challenge in it otherwise. And more than that, zero satisfaction if I win.

When I win.

The elevator doors whoosh open, and we step into the sultry parking garage. The odors of baking asphalt and oil waft over me, a scent I weirdly love.

“So, what are we looking for?” I ask, sizing up the rows and rows of Lexuses and BMWs. I imagine Blackwood in something zippy, like an Aston Martin or a Bugatti. He seems like a guy who likes to go fast. But for a company car? I’m clueless.

Ethan’s hair stirs in the breeze, revealing a tiny half-moon-shaped scar over his left eyebrow. Something about it seems boyish and endearing. But his blank expression tells me he has no idea.

He digs into his pants pocket for the key—a valet key, which he holds in a flat palm for my inspection.

“Wow, a valet key. I’m touched by Cookie’s trust in us,” I say, taking it. “Well, we know it’s a Toyota.”

“Thank God no one in LA drives one of those.”

“Right. Thank God.”

We stand there for a moment, looking out at row after row of cars, which stretch out toward the shadowy recesses at the far end of the cavernous garage.

I give voice to the unthinkable: “Should we go back up and ask?”

“Yeah, I definitely think we should do that,” he says and sweeps an arm toward the elevator door. “After you.”

“Why do I think you’re going to shove me in and barricade it behind me?”

“You cut me, Curls. You really do.”

I look up at him, into those blue eyes—electric and fathomless at the same time, slight creases turning them up at the outside corners. The shadows of the garage sharpen the planes of his face, making him look older and more ridiculously gorgeous—like a glimpse of the man he’ll be in ten years.

“Somehow, I think you’ll live,” I tell him. Turning back to the rows of cars, I say, “Can’t we just, you know, go around sticking our key in all the Toyotas.”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind leaving next Tuesday.” He surprises me by grabbing my hand and tugging me back toward the elevator. “Come on, we’ll do it together.”

I dig in my heels playfully and tug back. “Oh, God, don’t make me face that . . . that beast again! She’s got a vicious streak a mile wide. I can’t—I won’t!”

“Where’s your grit, dude?” Ethan teases, giving another tug that launches me against him. Then we’re scuffling and laughing. And he’s so close to me, I feel his warmth, the coiled energy of his muscles.

I try to grab the key back from him, but he holds it about a mile above my head.

“Come on, Curls,” Ethan taunts. “Try and get it.”

“You’re going down.” I make a suicide leap and nab it, but as I spin away, he grabs me around the waist, catching me in a firm grip.

I try to wriggle from his grasp, but I’m weak from laughing so hard. “Let me go, you jerk, or I’ll feed your bones to that monstrous Yeti.”

The elevator door opens to reveal Cookie, her eyes beaming roughly one thousand kilowatts of pure hate in our direction.

“Red Solara, dumbasses,” she says, and the doors snap closed in front of her with magical swiftness, as if evil has a special velocity.

Ethan lets me drive, which comes as a surprise because no guy has ever let me drive. We put the top down and enjoy the golden clarity of the Los Angeles afternoon, the stirring of palm trees. It smells like tar and honeysuckle outside, and my hair pulls free of its braid and whips around my face. I know I’ll be terrifying to behold by the time we reach our destination, but I don’t care. The sun warms my skin; the 405 is miraculously clear; and we’re moving toward an actual destination.

I holler over the roar of the engine and the fluttering of my blouse flapping in the wind, “What are you thinking for a theme?”

“Theme?” Ethan sits with his eyes closed, face turned up to the sunlight. His smile holds such contentment that I feel almost guilty bringing up actual work.

“Yes, for the booth. For the show. What do we want the design to be?”

He sits up and squints at me, shading his eyes. “How about something sports themed? You know, ‘Have fun. Score big.’ ”

“Ew.”

“Come on,” he insists. “We’re not eHarmony. It’s not about lifelong commitments. Nothing wrong with some fun.”

“I know, but—”

“And we’re called Boomerang. That’s already sporty. How about, ‘play hard, throw it back?’ ”

“Okay, that’s even worse.” I try to contain my hair so I can give him a solid glare, but it’s no use. “And what exactly is the ‘it’ in that little slogan?”

He grins. “You know.”

“No, sir, I do not. Because it sounds like you’re talking about lady parts. Like, ‘use them up and throw them away, boys.’ ”

“That’s crazy,” he protests. “It’s lady and gentleman parts. You’re free to throw it back, too.”

I laugh. “So, that’s the image we’re unveiling for our investors? Sex organs whipping through the air?”

“It’s genius. Give it time. You’ll warm up to it. Seriously, though, why not something sports related?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “It feels shallow or . . . I don’t know. Not everyone thinks of it as a game.”

“But that’s what Blackwood’s selling, isn’t it? Recreation? It’s about having fun and then shaking it off at the end of the night, right? Live to score another day.”

A sudden coolness creeps into his tone, and I wonder if he’s thinking of that girl, whoever she was. The one who put him through two years of hell.

We pull off the highway and cruise along a few narrow residential roads. We’re quiet now as we pass through mottled opaque shadows cast by lacy tree canopies.

“What’s your idea for a theme?” he asks quietly.

“Well, of course I’d love to do a movie theme. Something funny, maybe. Like if Annie Wilkes had just used Boomerang, maybe things wouldn’t have gotten so intense in Misery.”

“Right,” he says. “Or maybe Captain Ahab could have chased, um, a whale and a dolphin. Spread the love around.”

I laugh. “And you act like you only know about sports.”

“So, if I’m hearing you, Curls, you’re saying that it’s healthy to date a lot and that monogamy makes you dangerous. At least to writers and whales?”

I feel an itch of something—melancholy, maybe—but I give him a smile. “Something like that.”

The GPS guides us down a row of squat warehouse buildings to a sign in the shape of a thumbs-up with “INNING DISPLAYS” in 1970s bubble type. I stop a few feet from the door, which is coated with a peeling layer of UV tinting.

“See,” Ethan says, springing out before I’d taken the key—the valet key—from the ignition. “Inning Displays. It’s a sign. Sports theme, for the win.”

“It’s a sign that Cookie’s crazier than we thought.”

I get out and do my best to smooth the snarled cloud of my hair, then dab on a quick coat of lipstick and make sure everything else is more or less in place. I wonder if Ethan feels like I do sometimes. Like I’m playing at adulthood. At being confident in totally strange situations.

Inside the building, row after row of display vignettes stretch before us, each with a different type of booth and elaborate signage. A slouchy dude with ear gauges and bushy sideburns sits behind a circular reception desk and mumbles a greeting in our general vicinity.

“Candy will be right with you,” he tells us and gestures us to a plush leather sofa, which promptly swallows me whole. I struggle to sit up and hover at the edge.

After a few minutes, a towering blond woman comes clipping toward us, barking threats to others as she passes.

Ethan watches her, eyes wide. “No way. That . . . can’t be . . . ?”

“You don’t think—” But I can’t even make myself process the sight.

She reaches us, and we leap to our feet like soldiers caught sleeping on watch.

“So you’re from Boomerang?” She pumps my hand with mechanical precision and then moves on to Ethan.

“Yes, we’re—” he begins.

“You’re late,” she barks. “My sister told me you’d be here at eleven.” She executes a marching-band pivot and sprints away from us.

“Oh, God,” I whisper. “Cookie and Candy.” Never in the history of procreation have two less apt names been bestowed upon a set of human beings.

“You do realize you’re supposed to be following me, don’t you?” Candy fires over her shoulder. “I didn’t realize I needed to spell that out.”

“Sorry,” I say. “We’re coming.”

We hurry to catch up with her, drawing close enough to hear her mutter “dumbasses” under her breath.

Ethan

Q: Cotton sheets or satin?

Mia and I follow Candy past the lower budget booths to the primo setups in the back. We pass a booth for a suntan lotion company with a waterslide that lands in a clear-walled pool, a booth where the sides are made of rock wall, and then one with a fully stocked chef’s kitchen.

When we reach a bedroom set complete with shiny satin sheets and fake flowers on the bedside tables, I lean toward Mia and whisper in her ear, “What do you think? Our competition?”

“Mattress distributor, asswipe,” Candy says over her shoulder, then she stops and gestures to the booth on our right. “This is what Blackwood did last year.”

I take in the white furniture and recessed lighting. The long white counter with a bank of computer screens, where I’m guessing people tried out the Boomerang website and member interface. Above the counter, there’s a big purple Boomerang logo that’s backlit.

“Wow. It’s very . . .” It reminds me of a Virgin America airport terminal—style that’s been watered down to accommodate the masses—but I’m not sure how much I should say with Candy standing right here.

Mia’s mouth pulls into a grimace. “Blech? Uninspired?”

I nod. “Yeah. And predictable.”

“And generic. It’s almost corporate.” Mia says the words like they’re blasphemous, and I remember learning yesterday that her mother is an artist. A photographer. “And forgettable.”

“Yep,” I agree. “I can’t even remember what we’re looking at.”