Maybe

16

I DIDN’T HIT Miranda.

But she did manage to talk me into pulling her hair from behind.

A little.

After a hot shower I inspect my puffy face and split lip in the bathroom mirror while thinking about Miranda’s perfect ACT score and her lifetime four-point-oh grade point average, and wonder briefly about the direction modern psychology is taking.

We pack everything except her torn blouse, and meet Dr. P. in the lobby, where I notice him staring at the scratches on my face.

“It took three years to create that face,” he says. “Show some respect, will you?”

“Sorry, Doc,” I say, while winking at Miranda.

Two hours later our pilot, Bob Koltech, expertly guides his jet onto the private runway outside Roanoke, Virginia, and taxies as close to the private aviation building as he can get. I sign the form, grab the rental car keys, and drive Miranda and Dr. P. to a hotel on I-81 just north of 581. Miranda and I check into our room, brush our teeth, and meet in the restaurant for sandwiches.

Dr. P. says, “I’m not sure why I’m here.”

“I’ve got an errand to run.”

Miranda says, “Can I come?”

“Yes.”

I look at Dr. P. “How about you?”

“I hate that place,” he says. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay here and read.”

“What place?” Miranda says.

“Sensory Resources,” Dr. P. says. “Headquarters.”

Miranda says, “Does this have anything to do with the acid guy?”

“We’re calling him Felix,” I say. “And no, it doesn’t.”

“Why Felix?”

I shrug.

Dr. P. says, “Do you have any objection to me catching a commercial flight back to Vegas?”

“I might need you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s a feeling I have.”

“A feeling.”

“That’s right.”

He frowns again. “Fine.”

“You can sit in the sun by the pool.”

He puts his index finger in the air and spins it around.

“Whoopee!” he says.

“I thought old people loved sitting in the sun, by the pool.”

“Fuck you,” he says.