Strays by Ron Koertge Page B

mother fed behind the shop. They lived by the underpass, the parking structure, the clump of trees behind the cul-de-sac.
    But I’m not a feral cat, and I wonder if I ever was. Maybe I was just a kid who was hard to like. Every now and then somebody would try, and I’d hiss and run away. But now Astin likes me a little and I can make C.W. laugh.
    Astin half turns around. “How’d it go with Bob?”
    “I got the workshop tour. ‘Everything in its place.’”
    “The poor bastard. He practically lives out there.” Astin pats his pockets. “You got any money, Ted?”
    “Some.”
    “Loan me sixty, will you? I don’t want to stop by the ATM. We’re late now.”
    “I have to go upstairs.”
    “So? What are you waiting for?”
    I’m up and down inside of a minute. Astin stashes the three twenty-dollar bills and pops the clutch.
    At the stoplight just before we turn onto Huntington, he says, “Wanda goes for younger guys, always has. When we were fourteen, she was making out with twelve-year-olds. When we were sixteen, she was driving fourteen-year-olds around.”
    “What do I talk to her about?”
    “Whatever.”
    “I’m serious, Astin.”
    “Tell her about your folks.”
    “Oh, that’s a good idea. ‘My parents died in a fiery crash. Can I get you some barbecue?’”
    “She’s going to go on about how fat she is, okay? So let her and then say, ‘Stop being hard on yourself.’”
    “I can’t tell her what to do. I just met her.”
    “She’s fishing for a compliment. I’m telling you, man, she’s yours if you want her.”
    I want to tell Astin I wouldn’t know where to start. Instead I say, “My father made me promise I wouldn’t get married, and my devoted mother told me once the only thing any woman would ever want me for is to get a piece of the business.”
    He twists the throttle and we spurt ahead. “You know,” he shouts, “if those fuckers were alive, I’d go over there and set their house on fire.”
    “Too late for that. Anyway, thanks for telling me what to say to Wanda.”
    “Teddy, man. Relax. It’s just a day at the pool with a couple of girls.”
    I’m not going to tell him I’ve never been anywhere with even one girl.
    Megan and Wanda are waiting for us. Wanda’s not more than an inch taller than I am; she’s solid and strong when we shake hands. She’s barefoot in loose pants and a V-neck top. Megan’s wearing some kind of pool cover-up; she looks like a statue about to be unveiled to thunderous applause.
    She kisses Astin like we’re not there, so Wanda leads me toward the kitchen. “I’d tell them to get a room,” she says, “but they would, and where would that leave us?”
    I can hardly see the counter for all the stuff from Bristol Farms, a market so upscale that my parents went there to point at things, like they were on a field trip.
    I say, “That would leave us alone with enough food for six people.”
    Wanda pretends to think that over. “You know, that doesn’t sound all that bad.”
    She gets a lot of potato salad on a big spoon. “C’mon. Friends don’t let friends eat alone.” She hands me a napkin as she says, “My goal today is to gain five pounds and fall asleep in the sun. What’s yours?”
    Just to not do or say the wrong thing. But I tell her, “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll gain five pounds too.”
    “There you go. I like you already.”
    You wouldn’t say that if you’d gone to my other school.
    I take a couple of spareribs and some slaw and follow her out toward the pool with its tables and chairs and umbrellas.
    Wanda balances her plate of food and her Coke, then falls onto a red chaise. Its cushions match the bougainvillea that tumbles down the nearest wall.
    “What’s it like at the Rafters’?” she asks.
    I have to remind myself that she’s just making conversation.
    “It’s okay, I guess.”
    “That thing with your parents. That had to be hard. Did a cop come to the door and everything?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Wow,