As Cleaver and I travel to locate a vehicle we pass a familiar lane on which sat a townhouse I know all too well. It was the home of three girls, one of whom was named Kelly Loveland. Kelly had dated Luke mere weeks before me and also happened to be one of the most false and simultaneously abrasive people I knew. She was the kind of person that would ask for your number and call you the next day asking if you were going to hang out with anyone she knew.
The first few weeks we were dating Luke would take me to their house –Kelly’s brother was his best friend, no awkwardness there- and we would have a few drinks, play some video games, maybe hit the bars later. Every time I visited I grew more irritated. Kelly seemed to be able to acquire anything she wanted from anyone, and I was the only person who seemed to notice. And to top it all off, she was one of those girls that young, nice boys couldn’t see through. Largely because she was incredibly attractive. Kelly was one of those genetic freaks who had enormous breasts and no apparent waist or cellulite. Back in those days I tended to fantasize about her performing satanic rituals every night before she went to bed in order to keep her figure, usually while I was on the treadmill.
When Luke had broken up with her and she found out about me soon afterwards she had spread the gamut of rumors about me, from STDs to illegitimate children to sleeping with professors. At our age, probability of occurrence doesn’t really factor into a rumor mill.
I stare up at this house, which had a dirty barbeque, a doormat decorated with Hawaiian-style print, and several empty cans out front and I smile to myself. Kelly had a fantastic wardrobe. Her father was loaded, and not only was she privy to these funds; usually daddy would purchase things online for her and have them sent here.
As I cross the threshold into the tackily decorated dwelling, I see more empty cans. I take the stairs two at a time, and go straight to Kelly’s room. Of course she has pictures of herself in a string bikini with many many young men wrapped around her, posted about her room. I see one of her and Luke and pocket it, planning my own ritual whenever I can find a lighter. I feel a very brief moment of pity when I notice that she has no pictures with her parents, not even any of her parents.
I make my way to her walk-in closet and am practically attacked by the immensity of her collection. I quickly dress in the most extraordinary leather jacket I’ve ever seen and a pair of Rock N’ Republic jeans topped with Frye boots. Everything’s a bit snug but for these prices I’ll tuck it in. I promise myself to spend more time here later.
When I open her desk drawer, I see a can of mace and pocket that as well.
I’m about to leave when I remember about her dad. Jason Loveland, Kelly’s brother and Luke’s best friend, probably had had three rifles and a handgun when I’d spoken to him about it last. We hadn’t been hanging out that much since Luke had left. Their father was an NRA member. Actually, he might have had some kind of administrative position. I start pulling down boxes of extremely expensive and beautiful shoes in Kelly’s closet until I hear the thunk I was waiting for. Picking up the holster from the ground I pull out a Glock G17. And I only know that because I see a leaflet flutter to the ground. At this moment it occurs to me that I have never fired, let alone held a pistol. I gently place the gun back in its holster, grab the leaflet and tuck it in as well, and descend the stairs, leaving the house. Cleaver is sniffing a sticky substance on the street when I come out.
“Don’t you mess with me now,” I say, casually shaking the holster at him. He clearly doesn’t recognize the significance. We continue, leaving this road and my vendetta against Kelly behind.