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Something Special
RACHEL MCCUTCHEON AND her younger sister had the house to themselves. Their parents and big brother Tim shopped thirty-three miles away at New Cambridge for groceries and a new air conditioner to replace the old one that stopped working last night. April had brought a taste of summer with it, and its sticky torment caused Rachel to pull at her green halter and white terrycloth shorts. She struggled to sit up on her mom’s plushy sofa. Then, upon sinking in a mushy spot on the middle cushion, she freed a romance paperback wedged between the cushions and leafed through it. It was from a bag of similar books Tim’s wife Josie had dropped off an hour ago. Buxom women and muscular men seduced and cheated on each other in graphic description. She threw the book back in the bag on the floor and looked over at her eleven-year-old sister Britt who lay in their dad’s huge recliner, her summer tan glowing around the pink bikini top and bottom she wore. An oscillating fan blew on her every fifteen seconds and played with her long sable hair, the ruffles on her beachwear, and the pages of her beauty magazine.
Like Rachel, Britt was barefoot. But Britt’s toenails were expertly pedicured and painted light blue to match her fingernails. Rachel’s nails were unpolished and her fingernails kept short by her teeth.
“This stuff is flower petal porn,” she declared as she stood and dropped the bag of books next to Britt, who looked up with aquamarine eyes opened in wonderment.
“Whattaya mean?”
“I mean these books are for lonely old church ladies and librarians,” Rachel said before she made her way to the kitchen and peered in the refrigerator for her leftover Italian sub from lunch. Not finding it among the assortment of diet food and drinks and several plastic dishes labeled with leftover dinners, she swore and slammed shut the door. Something fell over inside. She ignored it as the doorbell’s annoying buzz took her from her dilemma. She started for the sun porch and stopped. Two curious eyes peered in at her through the door’s three diamond shaped windows. She stopped and frowned, and then crossed her arms over her chest.
“Can we talk?” the boy on the other side asked, his voice muffled by the glass.
Rachel almost said no, but Britt, who was now behind her, pushed past her and opened the door that stuck to its jam for a moment because of the humidity and too much paint.
“Hi, Paul, come on in. I like your T-shirt.”
Fourteen-year-old Paul Joseph looked down the front of his plain aquamarine shirt and said, “Thanks.” He looked up at Britt and smiled, his gaze resting on her bikini top. “Going swimming?”
“I wish. The pool’s still covered from winter.” Britt stuck out her bottom lip.
Rachel harrumphed and returned to the kitchen. Paul quickly followed with Britt close behind.
“Can we talk?” he asked again. His squeaky voice gave away his unease.
Rachel stopped. The ache to have him back in her life stabbed at her chest. She said, “I’m still mad at you for hitting me with that tomato.”
“That’s why I’m here … to apologize.”
Rachel felt her gaze linger on his face longer than she wanted to. He was pleasant on the eyes. And she had been dreaming about him a lot lately, often lying with him in a postcoital embrace, running her fingers through his well-groomed, silky and shiny auburn hair.
Her cheeks flushed. She tightened her arms over her chest and said, “It was a rotten thing to do.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.” The serious look from his steel blue eyes seemed to penetrate her soul.
She uncrossed her arms and ran a hand through her short red hair, combing it away from her forehead.
“Forgive him already,” Britt said. Then to Paul, “You want something to drink? I could go for something cold. It’s so hot in here.”
Rachel stepped between them and took Paul by the arm. “He’s coming with me,” she said, steering him to the dining room and the stairs.
A frown replaced Britt’s flirty smile.
Rachel turned to her and said, “If you follow us or try eavesdropping on us, I’ll tell Dad what you and Taylor did at the movie theater last week.” Then she pushed Paul up the stairs.
Inside her boxy bedroom, Rachel set the ceiling fan’s speed at high, and then reclined on her narrow bed. Paul plopped down in her yellow beanbag chair—the one he had bought her last year for her thirteenth birthday. Her high school Fighting Eagles swimming, volleyball and softball trophies littered her nightstand next to him. He always admired her athletic achievements, fondling at least one or two trophies when he visited. He kept his hands free this time as he crossed his arms and looked at her with eyes still serious.
After a moment, he cleared his throat and said, “Sorry I lost my head and threw a tomato at you. But…”
Rachel’s frown deepened.
Paul sighed. “You told Justin we had sex.”
Rachel relaxed her frown and forced herself not to smile. “He saw us kissing at Pizza Hut and wanted to know how serious we were. He’s been stalking me all school year, so I told him we went all the way. Now he can’t play me like I’m some virginally challenged moron that he needs to score with.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t have to tell him we had sex.”
“Yes I did, so get over it. Besides, we know the truth and that’s all that matters.”
Paul sighed again. His face and shoulders relaxed, but his arms remained crossed and pressed against his chest.
Rachel gave him a small smile and said, “I had a good time that night, just the two of us talking. We should date more often.”
“It wasn’t a—”
“Don’t you dare say it wasn’t a date, Paul Joseph.” The frown returned. “You asked me out. You paid for my food and drinks. That’s a date. Plus, we held hands and you put your arm around me. And I know you liked it when I kissed you.”
Paul squirmed, looked out her window, and said, “Okay, I liked it. But my parents say I’m too young to date. So, if … I mean when we go out again, no kissing … in public.”
The frown left. Rachel sat up and moved closer to him. She surprised herself when she almost said she had wanted him to take her virginity that night after they left the restaurant together. Instead, she said, “We’ve been neighbors all our lives and have done things only best friends do. We know each other’s closest secrets. I’d hate to do anything to jeopardize our friendship.
“And you’re right to be mad at me,” she said, standing. “It was reckless and stupid of me to lie to Justin. I’ve been beating myself up over it ever since.” She stood in front of him, forcing him to lie back in the chair to look up at her. “Can you forgive me for telling him we had sex?” she asked.
Paul sorely smiled at her and she felt smitten all over again.
“Of course,” he said after clearing his throat.
“Thank you.” She placed her feet on either side of his legs and squatted in front of him, sitting lightly on his ankles. She bit her lower lip and let him squirm internally while she gauged the emotions on his face.
A moment later, she stood and returned to sitting on her bed.
“Thank you for not being mad at me anymore,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” Paul said; his voice was barely audible. Then, after clearing his throat again: “Have you ever noticed strange things about Ms. Umberto?”
Rachel followed his gaze out her window to the side of the yellow, square house a hundred yards away. “Other than dating Mr. Nash?’
“Like strange green lights flashing in her house at two and three o’clock in the morning.” Paul struggled his way from the beanbag chair.
“Spying on Ms. Umberto when you should be asleep? That’s pretty creepy, Paul.”
“I think she’s a witch.” Paul went to Rachel’s window. “She always seems to know when I’ve forgotten to do the homework for her class, or when I don’t know the answer to a question.”
“Pfft. All teachers do that. I think it’s called teacher’s intuition. They do
it to keep us on our toes.”
“Maybe so, but even my mom mentioned something weird. She said Mr. Hallstead was a patient on her psych ward for a few days during winter break because he thought Ms. Umberto was a dragon.”
“Your mom actually told you that?”
“No. I overheard her talking on her phone.”
Rachel shook her head. “Ms. Umberto’s the coolest teacher I know. How could you possibly think she’s a witch?”
Paul stepped away from the window. “Because she moved into a haunted house.”
Rachel stared at the two-story Victorian house and its large manicured lawn shining bright in the distance. No one in the neighborhood had referred to the place as haunted since its restoration five years ago. Before that, the house had sat abandoned and rundown amidst a tangled growth of trees and brush. Some of its windows had been smashed out and its front door missing long before Rachel had been born. And everyone knew the rumors of murders, ghosts, and creepy sounds and voices at the property until old Mr. Deveraux from Ridgewood’s Savings and Loans bought and fixed up the place. Now the house was like all the others in the perpetual land development of Ridgewood’s west side. Even a modern one-story, two-car garage sat behind the house, painted the same yellow and trimmed in white.
“I don’t mean witch in a Wicked Witch of the West sense,” Paul continued. “It’s just the way she looks at me … like she sees into my soul. It’s unnerving. I can never relax in her classes.”
“So now you’re peeking in her windows, spying on her?”
Paul sat at the edge of Rachel’s bed and said, “I’m looking for proof. If she is a witch, maybe she can … you know … reverse your curse.”
“There is no cure for what I am.” Rachel forced herself not to shout. “Except…” She swallowed to keep from saying the word. “I would love to be normal.” She smiled at Paul who looked tense again. She couldn’t blame him for being afraid of her. “Thanks for thinking about me. But I’m stuck being what I am. My whole family is. As long as there is plenty of deer and cattle and other animals in the neighborhood, we’ll be okay.”
“I worry about you,” Paul said.
“Well, I think you’re being overly imaginative about Ms. Umberto,” Rachel said, directing the conversation away from her and her family. “Call me tomorrow. We should do something.”
“You want Pizza Hut again?”
“Surprise me.”
Paul stood, looked out Rachel’s window again and said nothing.
“You should probably go now,” Rachel said when he continued to stare out her window. “Unless you’re afraid Ms. Umberto will turn you into toad when you pass by her house.”
“Very funny.” Paul stumbled through the doorway and Rachel listened to him leave down the squeaky stairs. Britt called out a flirty goodbye moments before the front door opened and closed.
“Paws off, he’s mine,” Rachel yelled out. Then she turned and looked out her window again. Moments later, she saw Paul ride his bicycle along the blacktop road past their teacher’s house. His house sat unseen on the other side.
She was about to turn away when she saw Paul vanish. His bike rolled several feet before it crashed into the ditch alongside the road.
Rachel ran downstairs and out the front door, calling Paul’s name as she hurried to where she had seen him vanish. A brown toad sat in the road.
“Paul?”
She knelt to get a closer look at the toad when Ms. Umberto’s front door opened. Rachel looked up as the teacher stepped onto the porch and called her name.
“Come,” Ms. Umberto said. “I have something for you … something special. And bring Paul with you.”
Old Bones: A Collection of Short Stories Page 3
