First Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

Twinkie.
    “ID?” the bartender said.
    Robinson fished out his wallet. The bartender’s eyes darted from Robinson’s fake license to Robinson’s face and back again. “Okay…
Ned Dixon
.” Then he turned to me.
    I shrugged. “I wasn’t driving, see, so I left my license back—”
    The bartender crossed his meaty arms. “Listen,
kids
, how about you head across the street and get yourself a nice ice-cream cone at the café.”
    “Actually, I’m lactose intol—” Robinson began, but I interrupted him.
    “Oh,
I
get it!” My voice came out surprisingly fierce. “We can fight in Afghanistan, but we can’t have a beer and watch the sunset?” My hands gripped the edge of the bar and I leaned forward, hostility coming off me in waves. I had no idea wherethis was coming from, but it actually felt kind of good to be angry with someone. Someone who didn’t matter, someone I would never see again.
    I probably would have yelled more, but Robinson dragged me outside. Then he bent over, practically choking with laughter. “Fight in Afghanistan?” he wheezed. “Us?”
    “It just came out,” I said, still not sure what had just happened. I started to giggle a little, too.
    Robinson wiped his eyes. “You don’t even like beer.”
    “It was a matter of principle. A lot of people die in Afghanistan before they’re allowed to buy a six-pack.”
    “A lot of people die every day, Axi. They don’t go off on bartenders in secret towns about the unfairness of the drinking laws. I can’t wait to see what you come up with next,” he said, still laughing at my outburst as he strode ahead of me.
    His flip tone made me stop short in the middle of the sidewalk. Yeah, people
do
die every day. Some people, like Carole Ann, die before they even learn to tie their shoes. Others die before they graduate from high school.
    Hell, either one of us could die on this crazy trip.
    There were so many more important things to do than buy a beer before that happened. I hurried to catch up with Robinson, who was turning the corner to where we’d parked the motorcycle in an empty lot behind the saloon. But now there was a man in a leather jacket and chaps standing right beside it, giving it a long—and much-too-close-for-my-comfort—look.
    “Nice bike,” the guy said. “Got a cousin in Oregon who has one exactly like it.”
    My lungs felt like bellows that someone had just squeezed shut. I took a step backward. Should we just run?
    But Robinson didn’t flinch. “Your cousin has good taste,” he said. He glanced at the bike behind Chaps. “You riding a Fat Boy these days? I love those, but my girl here likes a bigger bike.” His voice had taken on an easy drawl, like he and Chaps were two dudes who’d see eye to eye over a Harley.
    Chaps was still sizing Robinson up: Robinson was taller but about a hundred pounds lighter. Me, I was still thinking about running—and about how Robinson had called me his girl. That sounded… interesting. But did he mean it, or was it just part of his act?
    “Happy hour’s almost over, y’know,” Robinson said.
    Chaps gave him one long, last look, then shook his head and went inside.
    I was already reaching for paper and pen.
    Thanks so much for letting us ride your motorcycle
, I wrote.
We took really good care of it. We named it Charley.
    Robinson read over my shoulder. “We did?”
    “Just now,” I said. “Charley the Harley.”
    I’m sorry we didn’t ask you if we could borrow it, but rest assured that your bike was used only for the forces of good. Sincerely, GG & the Scalawag
    I tucked the note into the handlebars. “Come on. Time to find another ride,” I said, like I’d been stealing cars my wholelife. In all of downtown Bolinas there were only about five cars, though.
    “That one,” I said, pointing to a silver Pontiac.
    Robinson nodded. “Dead boring,” he said. “But sensible.”
    I could feel the tingling beginning in my limbs. Robinson took a quick look around and