Page 8 of Something Like Summer
“It’s just--”
“Thanks for helping me gethome,” Tim interrupted. The finality in his voice was clear; Benwas expected to leave. He turned to do so, spluttering more clumsyapologies as he went. He stopped and turned at the door. “Are yousure you are going to be all right? When do your parents getback?”
“In about two weeks.” Timgrimaced as he wrapped the cloth bandage around his shin. “They’rein Switzerland.”
Ben swallowed, but itfailed to flush away the guilty taste in his mouth as he left thehouse and began his walk home.
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Chapter 4
Ben was back in front ofTim’s front door, a book tucked under one arm. He had done nothingbut worry since he had left a few hours ago. First Ben had returnedto the scene of the crime where he had so carelessly left hisRollerblades. They were still in the ditch, not far from a sharp,blood-spattered rock that jutted out of the ground. At least theculprit for the shin injury had been discovered, Ben thought, wellaware that he was trying to shift the blame away fromhimself.
Once he was home hedeclined his mom’s invitation of a snack and instead went to hisroom. Ben anguished over the foolishness of his actions for thebetter part of an hour before his self-pity gave way to a growingconcern for Tim’s well-being. A million nightmare situations playedout in Ben’s head, the worst being that Tim would contract somesort of infection and have his leg amputated or would die. Themorbid medical fantasies piled up until Ben decided to seek outfacts from his mother’s family medical guide.
The gruesome book hadprovided Ben with hours of entertainment as a kid. Not only did itshow nauseating pictures of diseases in their most advanced andrepulsive stages, but it also featured self-diagnosis charts thatwere all too easy to navigate successfully. Ben had previouslyutilized their wisdom to diagnose himself with everything fromvaginal yeast infections to critical brain tumors. Now for thefirst time he was turning to it with all seriousness.
What Ben had learned hadbrought him scampering back to Tim’s house. Stomach bubblingnervously and palms breaking out in sweat, Ben rang the door bell.Someone called out in response. Thinking that Tim had fallensomewhere and was helpless, he opened the front door and gave atentative, “Hello?”
“Hey! Come in!”
Tim certainly sounded morecheerful. Ben rushed to the living room and found Tim lying on thesame uncomfortable couch as if he had never moved, which couldn’tbe true since an open can of Coke and a bottle of pills were on thecoffee table. The leg was now bandaged and elevated on the arm ofthe couch, but Tim looked pale and cold. He was still wearing hisjogging shorts and tank top, and with the air conditioner goingfull blast, it was no wonder. The ankle was just as swollen asbefore, but now it had graduated to a deep shade ofmaroon.
“Good that you’re here,”Tim croaked, sounding very much like Leon before he cleared histhroat. “I think it might be worse than I thought.”
“Yeah,” Ben held the bookup, brandishing it as if it were a medical degree. “I think youhave a third-degree sprain. Either that or it’s broken. You reallyneed to get to a hospital.”
“Probably should,” Timnodded with glassy eyes.
“Er, I know this is areally stupid question, but are you all right?”
“Yeah. After you left Idragged my ass into the kitchen and remembered some pills from lasttime. They’ve got me feeling--” he gestured with his right armbefore letting it flop onto his forehead-- “Oh man,” hefinished.
Ben cast around for aphone. “I’ll call an ambulance.”
“No, fuck that,” Timmuttered. “I’m not dying or anything. We’ll take my car. You candrive, right?”
“Yes,” Ben said a littletensely. Hecoulddrive, but he hated it. Since winning his driver’s licensewith solid “D” in driver’s ed, he had driven all of three times,each occasion forced on him by his parents.
“Well get me up and we’llbe on our way.”
Tim appeared cold, but hisskin was hot when Ben wrapped an arm around his back to help himup. Maybe it was a side effect of the pills, or maybe he had afever. Either way, Ben was relieved that they were finally takingaction. Getting Tim to the car was very much like all those moviesBen had seen where a drunken man hung like a limp doll on asupporting friend. Just how many of those painkillers had hetaken?
There was a brief andharebrained argument where Tim insisted that no one but him coulddrive his car, but eventually he was safely buckled into thepassenger seat and Ben was behind the wheel. He put the key in theignition and turned it, Beck’s voice exploding out of the stereosystem. Ben jabbed at the controls until the voice died, leaving inits wake the noise of the engine, which sounded powerful. Thiswasn’t the usual sports car noise that, frankly, sounded a bitunhealthy. Instead it was a subtle, constant hum that rosedelicately into a growl once they were cruising down theroad.
“Nice,” Ben said, notknowing if it really was but feeling it was a goodguess.
“Yeah, she’s my girl.” Timproudly patted the dashboard.
“So this is a, uh--” Bensquinted at the steering wheel, hoping for a hint. “Firebird?” hesaid, once he spotted the three diamonds.
“Pff,” came the reply.“Please. This is a 3000GT!”
“Right.” Ben risked aglance over to see Tim wearing an expression of mockoffense.
“What kind of a guydoesn’t know his cars?” Tim pushed.
“I’ll give you threeguesses,” Ben said evenly.
