“I’ll bet the guy has a five handicap,” Tim said. His father laughed. “He’d better have.”
All in all, it had been an eventful day, he reflected, as he scraped the plates and listened to the rise and fall of his parents’ voices. First Melissa’s metamorphosis, then his father’s announcement that he was moving to California. Two very big happenings. At last he had to admit something to himself, something he’d been wrestling with for some time. His mother and father were not going to get remarried. He had hoped they would, prayed it might happen. People did get remarried. He was always reading or hearing about people who did. But now he knew it would never happen to them. His mother and father both were happily embarked on new ventures. He was the only member of the family dragging his feet, flailing away at life, running in place.
The next day, Patrick’s mother asked him if he’d come to a family cookout they were having at six. “I’d love to!” he shouted, trying vainly to conceal his enthusiasm. He took pains with his appearance, parting his hair on the left side, then on the right. Then he tried for the casual look, no part at all. He looked like a Neanderthal man fresh from the bush. On probation. A middle part was quaint. He looked like Alfalfa. Then he rummaged through his drawers for matching socks, having decided to spare no effort or expense to look suave. He settled for two pale-gray socks with red stripes.
Going all out, aren’t you? he told his mirror image. His little voice, silenced for a while, shot back with “You’re wasting your time, bud. You heard what Patrick said, she’s got ’em stacked up on the runway.”
But I saw her first, he answered back.
“Oh yeah?” The little voice was feeling testy.
“Wasn’t it nice of Mrs. Scanlon to include you?” his mother said. “Is it a party?”
“I don’t know. Patrick’s back from Florida and Melissa’s back from camp, so I guess it’s a family reunion, sort of.”
“Well, I think you won points with Mrs. Scanlon when you took Melissa to the tea dance.” His mother fiddled with her lipstick. “That’s the kind of thing the mother of an unattractive thirteen-year-old girl never forgets, Tim.”
“Unattractive!” The word burst from him, unannounced. “You oughta see her now, Mom. She’s something! She went to a fat camp and shed piles of pounds. Plus, she shed her zits and had her hair cut. She’s got beautiful red hair. All the Scanlons have red hair, you know.”
His mother turned to look at him. She was smiling. “Well, what do you know? Melissa must really be something. I’ve never heard you wax so enthusiastic about a girl before, Tim.”
He’d gone too far.
“She’s fourteen now,” he said, backing off. “I guess when most girls hit fourteen, they sort of blossom. I’ve got to split, Ma. Mrs. Scanlon said six, and I’m running late.”
“Have a good time, Timmy. Give the Scanlons my best.” His mother still held her lipstick aloft, a bemused expression on her face.
A gibbous moon rose from behind a bank of clouds as the scent of hamburgers rose from the Scanlons’ grill. Mr. Scanlon basted the burgers with his special sauce, the ingredients of which were top secret. Tim was the only guest.
It was tough going, keeping his eyes off Melissa. Every time he stole a peek, she was looking back. They sat down at the outdoor table, and the telephone rang.
“If that’s for you, Missy”—Mr. Scanlon spoke, plainly irritated—“tell him you’re about to have dinner and not to call back for an hour.”
“And this is only the beginning,” Mrs. Scanlon murmured.
“I thought only girls hung out on the phone so much,” said Patrick. “Those cretins who keep calling Missy never got the word, apparently. Half of them haven’t even gone through a change of voice yet. The other day, I answered, and I thought it was a girl until he said, ‘Tell her George called.’ George isn’t even dry behind the ears.”
“It wasn’t so long ago,” Mr. Scanlon reminded Patrick, “that the same might have been said about you. Age is relative, after all. A two-year-old thinks a six-year-old is old. And I used to think fifty was ancient, until I realized I would be fifty in three years and I’m still a broth of a boy. Another burger, Tim?”
“No thanks, Mr. Scanlon. I’ve had three already.”
“Save room for dessert, Tim. It’s coconut cake.”
Mrs. Scanlon’s coconut cake was so outstanding, the mere thought of it almost drove Melissa out of his mind. After supper, the whole crowd trooped down to the pool room. Melissa and her mother played against Patrick and Tim. He let Melissa win. That’s what he told himself.
“I guess I’d better take off,” he said, the chiming of the Scanlons’ clock reminding him of the passage of time. Mr. Scanlon offered to run him home but he said he had his bicycle. He said good night and thank you very much and Melissa escorted him to the door.
“Well, guess I’ll see you in high school come September, huh, Melissa?” he said. Sometimes his own dialogue almost put him to sleep. Imagine what it did to her. How come when he was alone he always managed to sound so dynamic, so positive, each word a pearl, but when he was with a girl, everything came out sounding stolid and heavy, like a politician discussing tax reform?
“My mother and father are making me go to the Academy up the river,” Melissa said with a long face. “I want to go to the high school, but they’re afraid I would get too boy crazy there. I wouldn’t, but they think so.”
“Oh.” He was taken aback, wondering where to go from here.
“Tim, I was thinking,” and although Melissa was tall, almost as tall as he, she managed to give the effect of being petite as she glanced up at him through her eyelashes.
“Yeah?”
“If I write you, will you write back?” Melissa said in a rush.
“You mean we’d be correspondents, sort of,” he said, his head in a muddle.
She nodded eagerly. “I think it would be fun. When I get my new address, I’ll send it to you. How would that be?”
“Fine. Great.” Melissa put out her hand and he took it and held it gingerly in his, stroking it gently, as if it was a baby rabbit just out of its mother’s womb.
“Tim,” Melissa breathed.
“Hey, you guys!” Patrick loomed. “I thought you’d gone, Tim.”
He jumped away and assumed a devil-may-care look, which seemed to suit the occasion. “I was just telling Melissa about high school, on account of she’s not going there,” he said.
“Well,” said Patrick, “I guess that’s as good a reason to tell her about it as any.”
“Missy!” Mr. Scanlon bellowed. “Telephone!”
Melissa raced to answer, and he departed at last, serenaded by Patrick singing one from his large store of golden oldies. The gibbous moon watched sourly as he pushed his bicycle out to the street and climbed aboard for the return trip.
The next morning, before he was completely awake, reason took hold and threw romance out on its ear.
“I’m not writing her any letters,” he grumbled, as if someone had been trying to talk him into it. He punched his pillow savagely and thought, I’ll call her up when the rates are down. After six P.M. and before eight A.M. But no more letters. Once burned, twice shy.
He tossed and turned, trying to get back to sleep. He gave his pillow a final thump and a book fell out.
One Hundred of the World’s Best Love Letters stared him in the face. No sirree. Begone. Out, damned spot. Take off.
He couldn’t resist flipping it open.
“My sweet lass!” caught his eye. “Is it possible I cannot have the satisfaction of weeping at the foot of your bed and kissing your beautiful hands?”
He imagined Melissa’s face as she read the words.
It’s a fool who doesn’t learn from his mistakes, the little voice said, somewhat pompously.
Get lost, he told the little voice. What do you know?
Instead of throwing the book across the room, he tucked it carefully under his subdued pillow, and as he shut his
eyes for forty more winks, a beatific smile wreathed his face.
About the Author
Constance C. Greene is the author of over twenty highly successful young adult novels, including the ALA Notable Book A Girl Called Al, Al(exandra) the Great, Getting Nowhere, and Beat the Turtle Drum, which is an ALA Notable Book, an IRA-CBC Children’s Choice, and the basis for the Emmy Award–winning after-school special Very Good Friends. Greene lives in Milford, Connecticut.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1986 by Constance C. Greene
Cover design by Connie Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-0083-3
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The Love Letters of J. Timothy Owen Page 12
