Last Night at the Circle Cinema Read Free Page B

popper.
    I tried not to be wounded, but there were my two selves again: the one who wished desperately to have Codman think I looked beautiful all rain-wet in an oversized sweater, and the one who wanted not to care. “Well, I do my best,” I told him. “Plus, you’re the one eating beyond-expired popcorn.”
    â€œThis shit’s so industrial it has no expiration date,” Codman said and flicked a piece up in the air.
    â€œWell, I have one,” Bertucci said. He leaned on the display case with his arms crossed, eyeing us coolly.
    â€œOne what?” Codman asked, shaking a box of chocolate-covered cookie dough bites as though warding off evil spirits.
    I was pretty sure I was going to throw up if we didn’t just get on with this. “Are you going to do that all night?” I asked Codman as he shook another box.
    â€œDo what?” Codman asked. He stopped right in front of me, so close I could smell his breath. So close I could have leaned in and—once and for all—felt his lips on mine.
    â€œNothing,” I sighed. “We need to come up with a plan. Unless ... do we have one?” I looked to see where Bertucci might want to go next. The long, black corridor under the sign that read “Theaters 1–5”? Or upstairs to the pathetic art gallery with white plastic patio furniture?
    I turned back to the candy counter. Maybe I’d just stuff myself full of old Sno-Caps. I took out a movie-sized box of Twizzlers and set them on the counter for Bertucci. Bertucci was capable of eating massive quantities. I’d seen Bertucci’s great buffalo chicken wing extravaganza. I’d competed with him in the late night marshmallow-in-the-mouth competition at Codman’s. He sang along, mouth full of marshmallows, to that Elvis Costello record, messing up the lyrics so murder sounded like mustard , pretending like preventing . Codman wimped out of our competition, instead watching as Bertucci and I had shoved marshmallows into our mouths while the lyrics spun all around us. In a moment of either pure competition or maybe desire, Bertucci had grabbed the plastic marshmallow bag from me and then reached for my face. One by one he tucked more marshmallows into my mouth, pudging out my cheeks rodent-style, slipping one between my gums and upper lip. I blushed because it was hard work keeping the stupid marshmallows in without choking, but also because Bertucci’s large hand on my face felt good. His oddly gray eyes fixed onto mine, and the song and Codman and even the silly stunt we were pulling faded into the background. Bertucci continued to feed me. But in the end, he won. Not that he ever said as much. I counted the saliva-coated marshmallows and knew I’d lost. But it didn’t matter. When I really tried, I could still feel his hands on my face.
    â€œSo where to first, Nutwit?” Codman asked, his voice billowing in the empty lobby. He and Bertucci had not yet exhausted their nut names despite years of calling each other every nut word known to man. “Wherefore art thou, Nut Mitten?”
    Then, before anyone else could answer, Codman said, “Retract that question. I gotta whiz.” He walked away from the refreshment stand, considering the options. Men’s room down the long, barren hallway alone, or women’s room right here.
    â€œI couldn’t care less!” I yelled.
    Codman was through the closer door in an instant.
    â€œBladder of a squirrel,” I said. My words echoed. Out of habit, I reached for my phone. I kind of already felt like ditching. How bad was that? Not even ten minutes and I was ready for the safety and comforts of my bedroom, away from the rain and dark and the confusion of being with the boys who haunted my brain.
    I pulled the paper out from my back pocket and studied it.
[The Winter of Our Discontent/Spring Awakening/Whatever Date Cracks Your Nut]
    Dear Friends,
    Greetings and Salutations!
    As