“What’s that?” I asked her.
“Avocado dip.”
I threw out my arms. “And what’s all this?”
“Oh,” she sighed, dipping, “just a little touch of home.”
“Wha’d you do, have a moving truck?”
“Our station wagon.”
“Yeah, but still—”
She reached behind the sofa, pulled something. I heard a hiss, then it stopped. “Inflatable,” she said. She bounced up and over to the plastic palm tree. She flipped something on it—down came the green top, like an umbrella. “Collapsible.”
“Are all you Californians like this?” I asked her.
“Only the goochies,” she said. “Here, step into the dining room.” She wedged into the crowd at the pots and came out with a long, skinny fork with a chunk of something gooey stuck on the end. She held it in front of my face. “Here, quick, before it drips.” I opened my mouth, she shoved it in. It was soft, chewy, cheesy. “Fondue,” she said.
I loved it. “Here, hold this.” I handed her my sandwich, took the fork, and headed for the copper pots. I did like everybody else: stabbed a chunk of bread with the fork, dipped it in the melted cheese, ate.
By the time I turned away from the pots, I must have been fifty pounds heavier. I could hardly move. I was wondering where to put my used fork when I saw some sticking in the snow at the edge of the blankets. When I got closer, I saw the forks were also sticking into something that was lying on the snow. It was a photograph, in color—the kind they take at the mall, of little kids on Santa’s lap. Only the kid on this Santa was a big kid. I couldn’t tell who it was because a couple forks were stuck right in his face.
It was almost dark. This is always the neatest-looking time: the red strip of sky behind the Homestead House, the ice looking blue, the lights of little stick fires and Sterno cans and candles ringing the lake, skaters skating, nesters nesting. You can always tell the ninth-grade nests; they’re the smallest; usually big enough for just two, barely.
“Megin! Look!”
It was Sue Ann. She was pointing across the ice, at our nest. Somebody—Grosso—was reaching down, rooting around, picking something up, sniffing it, skating away, dropping the something to the ice, pushing it with his stick… my blueberry-filled!
By the time I got there he was passing the donut around with Valducci and Broadhurst and some of the other clowns. I chased it and tried to cut off the passes, but I was full of fondue and they were spread out too far. They were having a great old time, just standing there and passing the donut and howling with laughter. After a while I was just standing there in the middle, panting. Then Grosso cooed, “Okay, here ya go. You can have it back.” He wound up and slap-shot the donut: blueberry glop.
Grosso knew better than to stick around. By the time I took off after him, he was halfway across the ice. Not that it did him any good; he’s a turtle. A couple good strides and I was up to him. I took dead aim on his butt and swung my stick with both hands, baseball style. He yowled to the moon like a coyote.
Then I was the one being chased, which is a piece of cake for me. In fact, I turned around and skated backward, and still the turtle couldn’t catch me. Every couple strides I’d flick my stick out and poke him in the stomach, and he’d grunt and fume and snort even more. “Me matador; you bull.” The seventh-graders were cheering me on. I waved at them.
Then I decided to teach him a lesson. One of Grosso’s many faults is that he can’t stop good. I turned and took off fast. When I got near the edge of the lake, I pretended to slip and go out of control. While I was lurching around pretending to get my balance, I kept him in the corner of my eye. He was coming like a freight train, his stick back-swinging, then coming forward—I jammed my toe into the ice and shot to the side; I felt the breeze from his stick as he went by. He plowed into the snow and went flopping all over a pair of ninth-graders in their nest.
“Learn to stop, chump!” I called as I laughed and glided back to a hero’s welcome at Zoe’s palace.
Greg
THREE times I saw Sara Bellamy with Leo Borlock. Three thousand times I almost called Jennifer Wade on the phone. I never thought about calling Sara. But I did think about her. Sara never looked at me anymore, or spoke. It was like I was invisible to her. Of course, Jennifer Wade never saw me or spoke to me either. But would she, if we went to the same school? Or would I be invisible to her too?
When I tried to picture Jennifer real clear, I didn’t have much to go on except the night at Sara’s party. So I thought about that a lot, especially her touch on my arm. Only sometimes a funny thing happened. I would be picturing the fingers on my arm, and even feeling them, and I would look up and see Sara’s face, not Jennifer’s. When I thought of Sara, I usually pictured her with Leo, or her in her new powder blue scarf and cap. Only sometimes—crazy—it would be Jennifer’s face in the scarf and cap. But it was never Jennifer with Leo.
I wondered what Sara and Leo talked about. Did they talk about me a lot? What did she say when she first went to him? “Help me”? What would he say to me if I went to him? I tried to imagine:
ME. I have a problem.
LEO. Okay. What is it?
ME. Sara and Jennifer.
LEO. Right. Easy. One question: Who’s the prettiest?
ME. Jennifer.
LEO. That’s the answer. Go get her. Next patient.
Thinking about it that way, it seemed so simple. But it wasn’t. And I couldn’t really talk to Leo about it. There was nobody I could talk to about it. All I could do was wonder. I wondered and wondered and wondered.
I hadn’t lifted a weight since Christmas. My vein was in hibernation.
The first time I saw Sara and Leo was at the mall, going into the bookstore.
The second time was at Homestead Lake on the day after Christmas. It was late afternoon when I noticed them nesting just off the edge of the ice. From then on, even though I was playing hockey, I was always aware of them. A couple times I snuck a look and saw them laughing. Were they laughing at me?
After dark, when the floodlights covered the ice, I got a closer look, a real close look. I was chasing down a loose puck to the lake’s edge when my skate blade snagged in a rut and threw me right into their laps. For a split second, as I scrambled to my knees, Sara’s face was right in front of mine. Her mouth and eyes were wide open—in shock, I guess—but it reminded me of a face singing Christmas carols. Her powder blue scarf, up close, had a fuzzy look to it, like cotton candy. It was piled high around her neck and covered her chin. Her cap was tilted on her head, like a beret. In that instant the thought came to me: she’s cute.
I was cool. “Hey, fancy meeting you two here.” I laughed, and was gone. As I skated back to the nets, I noticed I was a little shaky. And there was a taste in my mouth, from the words that had come out of it: “you two.” The taste was bitter.
The third time I saw them together was the night of the school play. I don’t really care that much about plays, but I figured I’d go to see if Valducci did anything crazy with the lights. I got there early, so I could go up to see Valducci. I asked him what special lighting effects he had in mind.
He shook his head. “None, baby. I’m goin’ straight.”
“Not with that California girl on stage, you’re not.”
“No, really.” He patted his spotlight. “I’m in control. MacWilliams gave me the word.”
“Yeah? Wha’d he say?”
“He said if I messed around, he’d have me arrested.”
I laughed. “Executed too, huh?”
Valducci wasn’t laughing. “No, listen, I think he meant it. Y’know how he yells? Hollers?”
“Yeah.”
“Hollers the same thing over and over?”
“Yeah.”
“He was different this time. He said it real quiet. And only once. That was it. Said it, left. Boom.”
In a way, I was disappointed. Valducci comes in handy sometimes, because the things nobody
else has the nerve to do, he does. It was strange seeing him so serious, so normal. “He’s just trying to scare you,” I said.
“He ain’t tryin’—he’s doin’ it. And I ain’t goin’ to the slammer. No way, Joccalocca.”
I went downstairs and took a seat in the back. When Sara went walking by with Leo Borlock, I knew Valducci wasn’t the only reason I had shown up for the play. Again: the powder blue scarf and cap. And more this time. Earrings. And she was taller. High heels. She was dressed up! Down the aisle they went, following the usherette. The usherette stopped at a row about halfway down and handed each of them a program. The usherette nodded and smiled at them. They nodded and smiled at her. They went in to their seats. Before sitting down, he took his coat off—a long, man-type coat. She sat down and then pulled her scarf off. Then she plucked off her cap and gave her head a quick little shake. Then he tilted his head toward her and said something, and then he was putting his arm around her shoulders and holding her coat while she turned this way, that way, and slipped out of it. He let the coat fall over the back of her seat. About a minute later she tilted her head toward him, and then he was reaching around again and pulling the coat back up. It took him a long long time to get the coat just right on her shoulders.
I moved to a closer seat, on the other side of the aisle, about three rows behind them. Once, she looked around. I ducked and pretended to be tying my sneakers.
The worst thing about the play starting was that the lights in the audience went out. I panicked. I wanted to move right behind them, but by then every seat was taken.
The play was a hit from the start. The audience was almost always either clapping or laughing. Romeo, who is really Jeremy Bach, got laughs from the parents because they thought he was funny, and from the students because he’s such an egotistical pretty boy. He thinks he really is Romeo. As for the Zoe girl from California, I had to admit she was pretty good. You’d never guess she was only a seventh-grader, especially not in the micro-mini McDonald’s outfit she was wearing.
Valducci stayed in control, like he said. When Romeo and Juliet first met at the Dipsy Dumpster and sang to each other and had their first kiss, the stage was dark except for the spotlight, and the spotlight never wavered. As far as I could tell, all through the first act, Valducci was in control.
That’s more than I could say for me. The cozier Romeo and Juliet got up on the stage, the itchier I got. I couldn’t help thinking: Romeo and Juliet equals Leo and Sara. When the lights blazed on at the end of Act One, I almost had a stroke; they were getting up! They were leaving their seats, edging out to the aisle, walking to the back. Oh no! They’re going somewhere to make out! I followed them out to the lobby. They stood and talked with some other kids. Sara laughed a lot. I didn’t remember her laughing so much when she was with me. Then they headed down a hallway. Oh no! But they stopped and looked at a case displaying stuff from art classes. The ceiling lights flickered. The people started heading for their seats. I hung back, to make sure they went along with the crowd. They did. Two whole acts to go. I wasn’t sure I could make it.
Act Two was worse. Romeo and Juliet getting cozier and cozier. I must have ruptured my eyeballs trying to spot Sara and Leo in all the clumpy darkness. At the funny parts I swore I could pick out her laughter from all the others. Such a great time she was having. Was Leo fixing her coat over her shoulder? Did he stop playing games by now and just flat-out put his arm around her? Were they holding hands, secretly, on the armrest between them? On his side? On her side? Fingers intertwined? Onstage, things were all of a sudden going bad for Romeo and Juliet. Their parents were tearing them apart, Romeo banished to a natural foods shop, Juliet to a White Tower. Great, I thought. But then they escaped and met again, at the usual place. She climbed into the Dumpster with him and Act Two ended as the lid slowly lowered to a soft clank and the stage became dark and silent.
I was into the lobby before the lights went on. I tore up the stairs, into the lighting room, shocking Valducci. “I’m going crazy!” I blurted.
He grinned. “Join the club.”
At that moment I felt a bond with Valducci. His Zoe, my Sara. And both of us on the outside. Then he said something that floored me. “Sara Bellamy, right?”
“How’d you know?” I said after I recovered.
“The way she was all over you on the sled that day. Her chasing you into the woods.”
“We didn’t do anything.”
“ ’Course not.”
“No kidding. She never caught me.”
“What?”
“She didn’t catch me.”
“You mean you really were running away? You didn’t let her catch you?”
“No.”
He put his hand on my forehead. “This boy’s sick. He runs away from girls.”
“Not anymore.”
“But now,” he grinned, “she’s here with Leo the Shrink.”
“You saw them?”
He tapped on his window. “I see everything.”
“I wish I could. I’m going crazy wondering what they’re doing there in the dark.”
“Maybe they’re watching the play.”
“Yeah, well, what if it was you and Zoe sitting there? What would you be doing?”
He whistled and fanned his face. “Makes me get all overheated just thinking about it. You’re right, you got a problem.”
“Thanks a lot, pal.” I started to go.
“Yo—Greg—,” he called. “Hey, you like this chick, huh?”
With all my scrambled feelings lately, the idea had never occurred to me that way: so simple, so blunt. “Yeah”—I shrugged—“yeah.” And then it all came gushing out. I told him about Jennifer Wade and lifting weights all summer and getting stopped by the cop and Sara’s party and the bracelet and the good letter and the bad phone call and Sara and Leo—
Music below—Valducci jumped. “It’s starting!” He whirled and started flipping switches and running his finger down the script. I left him there, hunched over the controls, mumbling to himself.
I walked the hallways. Cold green cinderblock walls. Cold gray linoleum. Sounds from the auditorium came in quick, faint bursts—a brassy blare, a shriek of human voices—like a faraway radio that was trying to die. So easy, I thought, so easy to walk away from the world. The stairwells, nothing reached there.
Then, somewhere, somewhere behind me—not far, not the auditorium: a noise, two noises. A squeal (girl-type), then a door-slam. Them! I turned, went back down the hallway. Door by door, telling nothing, dark. I was tiptoeing, I stopped, listened: nothing. Where? Which door? That one? 206? 208? 210? My heart stopped: Faculty Lounge! Sofas inside. Rugs. I stood at the door, sweating, my hand trembling on the knob. I thought of the time I french-kissed her, her head bumping against the door, the little yelp. No, Borlock, you can’t! I threw the door open, fumbled for the light switch, flipped it on: empty. Chairs, magazines, coffee maker, deck of cards. No sofa.
I headed back for the play, not sure what I’d proved. That they weren’t in the Faculty Lounge? Or that I’d opened the wrong door?
The finale was on. I stood in back. Romeo and Juliet were married under the golden arches. Then, while all the counter girls and busboys and customers and even parents cheered and danced around, the happy couple climbed into their honeymoon special—a McWhopper—and they wrapped their arms around each other and sang “Hamburger Built for Two,” and then while everybody did the Burger Boogie around the newlyweds and showered them with french fries, they laid a titanic kiss on each other. Meanwhile the lights went absolutely crazy wild bananas. Flashing, swooping, slashing everywhere—walls, ceiling, audience—like being inside a tornado of lights. Poor Valducci, he couldn’t quite hold out long enough. Would he really be arrested?
Then I noticed people in the audience laughing—at the lights. Some even turned around and looked up at the control room and applauded. I guess they figured it was all part of the finale. Then I saw something that gave me the chills.
In the center of all the crazy, swirling lights, a single beam—the spotlight—never even moved, not an inch. It shone straight down, smack into the middle of the audience, silent and frosty and still, and nobody was noticing it—nobody but me.
I started down the aisle. I kept moving until I could see what I already knew—that the light was landing on Sara Bellamy and Leo Borlock. They were here, thank God, here, not upstairs! They were not snuggled up to each other. His arm was not around her. I wanted to laugh, I wanted to cry, I wanted to hug somebody. The people were standing now, clapping, whistling. I turned and looked up to the point where the shaft of light began and I saluted my friend, Edward P. Valducci.
The next morning, Saturday, I phoned my Health teacher, Mrs. Ackerman, at her home.
“ ’Lo?” She sounded a little groggy.
“Hello? Mrs. Ackerman?”
“Mm.”
“This is Greg Tofer. In your Health class? Ninth grade?”
“Mm.”
“Uh, Mrs. Ackerman, you know the egg project? Y’know?”
“Is this ’bout school?”
“Yes, the egg project. Remember, you asked for people to volunteer as couples? Like parents for the egg?” Silence. “Well, I just thought you’d like to know that Sara Bellamy and I would like to be a pair. Of parents. For the egg. Okay?” Silence. “Mrs. Ackerman?”
“Isn’t this Saturday?”
“That’s right. Okay, Mrs. Ackerman? Greg Tofer. Sara Bellamy. Tofer. Bellamy. Egg project. Okay?” The phone went click. I grinned to myself. “Okay.”
Megin
ONE GOOD THING about having a birthday on January 30: it’s like getting a second shot at Christmas.
When I stopped at Emilie’s after school, she handed me a box wrapped in beautiful paper and ribbons. “Don’t open it till you get home,” she said.
Who Put That Hair in My Toothbrush? Page 11
