The Matchmaker's Medium

by Laurel King

  I slammed my feet down on my pedals so hard my back tire skidded, making a crunching-squealing sound on the gravelly road. “Hey!” After my tires finally stopped sliding, I stood with my legs straddling my own bike and tried to catch my breath. My heart was pounding so hard and so fast I thought it would pop right out of my chest and keeping going down the road. “Watch where you’re going, dummy!”

  The kid just stood there, not moving, hands on the handlebars, feet planted on either side of the bike. He was about my age, wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, with one of those cloth bags slung over his shoulder. It was filled with rolled up newspapers.

  “Aren’t you kinda late delivering those?” I asked, pointing at the bundles. Everybody knew you were supposed to get the papers on the doorsteps before school. But here he was, standing right in front of me, with all those papers not on the doorsteps. Either he was too late for today, or way too early for tomorrow.

  He didn’t say a word. Just stared at me, barely blinking. His hands gripped the handlebars of his BMX, duct tape where the rubber handgrips should’ve been. Boys were always jumping ramps on their bikes, falling, and scraping the handgrips off. Chris had already gone through two pairs, before mom said he had to earn the money for the next ones.

  “Hey, kid? What’s your name?”

  No answer. Just staring at me, with big, brown eyes. They even looked kinda like he wanted to cry—or his eyes were watery from riding into the cold wind. That happened to me all the time, especially now, right before Halloween.

  I turned around to see where Chris was. Still back there digging in my bag of candy. Jerk-off.

  I turned back, but the kid was gone. I looked around, confused, and finally saw him down the street. How’d get down there so fast? I thought, looking at where he used to be—right in front of me—then over to where he ended up. Now, his bike was turned away from me, one foot up on the pedal, like he was about to ride off somewhere.

  “Hey! Where are you going?” I yelled.

  “What?” Chris yelled back, behind me.

  “Not you, you big jerk!” I shouted, turning to see him crumple-rolling the bag of candy. He jammed it into his back pocket, and started pedaling toward me.

  “Don’t call me a jerk you weirdo! I’m not the one talking to myself, Amber!”

  Uh-oh, I thought. Not again.

  I turned back around, slowly, hoping the kid wouldn’t be there. He was. Just waiting there, one foot on the pedal, like he wanted me to follow him somewhere. Ah, crap.

  Chris pulled up next to me, straddled his bike, yanked the candy bag out of his pocket, and presented it to me like a sword to the newest knight of the round table.

  “Here ya go, ya big baby.”

  I didn’t move a muscle, just kept staring at that kid, hoping he would go away. He was starting to creep me out.

  Chris looked at me, followed my eyes to see what I was staring at down the street—then turned back to look at me, frowning.

  “What’re you lookin’ at, Amber?”

  “That kid,” I said.

  He looked all around: back where he just came from, down the street, on both sides. Nothing.

  “What kid?”

  “That one,” I said, lifting my finger to point at the kid who was slowly shaking his head, now. “Don’t you see him?”

  “There’s nobody over there, Stinky.” He called me that because I earned the nickname when I was a baby. My first day home from the hospital, mom put me in his lap; he smiled, and kissed me on the forehead, and I pooped all over him.

  “Yeah, there is.”

  Chris mulled this over for a minute. Then asked, “Well, what’s he doin?”

  “He’s getting ready to ride away on his bike, but he’s just waiting.”

  “Maybe he’s waiting for you to follow him?”

  “I don’t wanna.”

  “Amber, if there’s some invisible kid trying to get you to go somewhere, you should go. If you don’t, he’s just gonna keep following you till you do. Don’t you ever read anything?”

  “Excuse me for not reading a million stupid comic books a day, like you do!” I yelled, “Some of us actually have a life you big jerk-off!”

  “Hey! Don’t get mad at me just because you’re scared of some invisible kid.”

  “I’m not scared,” I said, quiet.

  “No? Well, maybe you’re ‘terry-fied’?” he laughed for a while at that one.

  “It’s not my fault I didn’t know how to say it.”

  A few months ago, Chris and I were in the library summer reading contest. For each book you read, they gave you a star or planet sticker, to put on this poster of space with little empty spots all over it. When your poster had all the empty spots filled in, you got a gift certificate for $10 at Kmart. Chris got bored when he found out you had to spend the gift certificate on books, but I wanted to win it really bad. So I checked out a whole pile of books, mostly Nancy Drew and Encyclopedia Brown.

  One book I checked out was different, though, these short stories by some guy named Edgar with three names. I liked the scary black bird on the front, so I decided to give it a try. There was one story, “The Black Cat” about this guy who has to kill a mean cat that won’t die. It was hard to read, with all these big words in it, and ‘terrified’ was right near the beginning. When I asked Chris what it meant, he laughed right in my face, then started running around the house yell-singing, “Terry-fied, terry-fied, Amber Green is terry-fied!!!” Jerk.

  “Will you come with me?” I asked, trying not to sound like a scared babyish sissy.

  “I guess,” he said, rolling his eyes. “But if we’re late for dinner, I’m telling mom I had to chase after you cuz you ran away.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  I turned back to look at the kid, who was still waiting there. Finally, I made up my mind and started pedaling down the street. Chris followed behind me, whistling. As I watched, the kid started pedaling away from us, heading deeper into the neighborhoods.

  Where the heck are we going?

  We rode like that for a few minutes, me following the invisible paper boy and Chris following behind me, whistling like we were going to the arcade or somewhere fun. Maybe we were? Who knew.

  Finally, after winding around through streets and cul-de-sacs, we turned a corner and the kid slowed down so much my bike almost tipped over. I looked at the house he was heading towards, and almost fell off my bike.

  “Hey, Chris? Isn’t this your scout leader’s house?”

  Chris stopped, straddled his bike, turned his head to the side in thought, and said, “Yeah. What are we doin’ here, Stinky?”

  “I dunno,” I said. The kid stopped, laid his bike down on the ground with no sound and stood there, looking at me. I dropped my own bike down, making a terrific crash! Chris did the same, and came over by me, chomping on some more of my candy.

  “Gimme that!” I whisper-yelled, finally snatching the crumpled bag out of his hands.

  “God, you’re such a brat,” he said, popping the last piece of a mini candy bar in his mouth, and wiping his hands on his pants. Every time he did that, mom yelled at him for it, but he just kept doing it, over and over.

  The kid motioned with his head, like he was saying: This way.

  “He wants us to follow him,” I said, not sounding very brave or grown up.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, Chris. Stop asking me stupid questions!” I whisper-yelled.

  The house sat by itself, at the end of a little dirt road. It was two stories tall, with one of those porch-swing things moving a little in the wind. A long time ago, it was probably white, but now it just looked like a peeling grayish-yellow color. The windows were dark and spooky-looking, like empty places where the eyes and teeth should be on a skeleton face.

  There were a few jack-o-lanterns on the porch, but they were already starting to look sunk-in, like they’d been out there way too long. Usually, our jack-o-lanterns didn’t look like that
till a week after Halloween. Then again, most of the jack-o-lanterns in the neighborhood were smashed the morning after Halloween, by the older kids who got all ‘beered up’ and threw toilet paper and eggs all over the place. Seemed kinda stupid to me.

  The kid walked toward the house a few steps, but then he turned like he wanted to go in a big circle around the house, first. I followed him, but my legs suddenly felt all shaky, like when I ride my bike up a big hill for too long. Chris plodded along next to me, like he was bored.

  “Why are we walking in a big circle?”

  “Shh,” I said, “Just wait and see.”

  We walked like that for a while, the kid leading and us following. It was starting to get a little darker, and the air was getting that bitey feeling to it. I wish I had my gloves, I thought, blowing warm breath into my cupped hands, then rubbing them together.

  Slam! Somebody’s old screen door opened or closed, back where our bikes lay on the ground. I instantly froze, and Chris bumped into me. My heart pounded in my ears so loud I could barely hear Chris snickering at me, covering his mouth with his hand. Looking around to make sure we weren’t about to be chopped up by some crazy killer in a hockey mask, I managed to get my feet going again.

  That’s the last time I sneak to the drive-in and watch a scary movie, I thought, for the gazillionth time. Even without the sound, it scared the living daylights out of me. They were showing Halloween I, II, and III at the drive-in, so teenagers could kiss and wrestle in their cars while some crazy killer on the screen chopped everyone to pieces. Chris thought it was hilarious, and I spent the whole week waking up sweaty from nightmares. And I’m never sneaking out with Chris at night again, either.

  The kid turned to look at me like he was annoyed. Actually, I was starting to get a little annoyed, too. The nerve of this kid! Invisible and impatient? What a load of crap.

  Shaking my head, I kept walking, and the kid continued to the back yard. As we got closer, I saw a big stand of trees still dropping leaves all over the ground. Now I knew why every step we took was announced by a loud crunch-crunch.

  Stupid trees, always dropping their dumb leaves all over the place. So messy.

  The kid walked over to a shed, back behind the stand of trees. It was a mini-house, built the same exact way as the main house, up front. If I wasn’t so freaked out, I would probably be trying to get in there and explore it. Ever since I was five, I wanted my own clubhouse, and this shed looked perfect. It was painted the same peeling, grayish-yellow color as the house, with dark windows and a fake little second-story section on it. The kid was just standing there on the fake-porch of the shed, staring at the shed with his hands shoved in his pockets, like he was waiting for the school bus.

  “Cool,” Chris whispered behind me, reaching for the door handle.

  “Wait,” I said. I looked at the kid, who was suddenly acting really weird. He kept looking back and forth, from the main house to the shed, like he was nervous. Then I heard it.

  A car was rumbling up the road, toward the house.

  Crap.

  “I think someone’s home,” Chris said, looking toward the main house.

  “Do you want me to go in the shed?” I asked the kid. He nodded his head, like he was real serious about it, over and over.

  “Maybe we should just go, and come back later?”

  “No, Chris, we have to get in there, now. Something’s wrong.”

  The kid yanked his hands out of his pockets, and put them up to the sides of his eyes, like he was trying to look into something. The shed windows.

  I put my hands up like his, then pushed my face to the little window on the shed. Darkness.

  “Chris, you still got that Zippo you stole from dad?”

  “What? What Zippo? I never stole anything from dad!” he answered, trying really hard to sound convincing.

  “Yeah, you did. I saw you playing with it the other day. Give it to me right now, or I’m telling dad you took it.”

  “Okay, okay, you’re such a tattletale,” he said, scrounging in his pocket for it. He finally fished it out, and showed it to me. “Here it is. But I’m using it, not you. You’ll just burn the whole place down.”

  He flipped the top open by snapping his hand back, with a metallic ting! Then he flicked his thumb down the circle-flint thing and a huge flame appeared. It flickered in the wind a little, but it held.

  “Zippos are the best,” he said, “they’re the only lighters that stay lit in the wind. The army guys used ‘em in the war. Dad told me all about it.”

  “That’s so great I forgot to care,” I said, grabbing it out of his hand.

  “Hey!” he said, “Give it back!”

  “Shh! Just let me look in there and shut up!” I said, holding the flame up to the window.

  I could only see a few inches into the shed, mostly just handles of things all over the place, like shovels and rakes. And maybe a table or something.

  “We gotta go in there,” I said, “I can’t see anything.”

  “Okay,” Chris said, reaching for the handle.

  Slam! A car door closing.

  “Hurry up!” I whispered, my shaky hand making the flame jump around, thanks to my heart racing in my chest again.

  “I am!” he turned the old knob a little bit, but then it stopped. “It’s locked!”

  “Well, look for something to open it!”

  He wandered around the side of the shed, finding nothing but a bunch of dry sticks that broke when he tried to pry the door open. I looked at the kid, who was pointing at the other side of the shed.

  “Look over there!” I whisper-yelled, pointing the same way the kid had.

  Chris looked around for a few seconds, then almost tripped on something. He reached down and picked it up, “Yes!” He showed me a long screwdriver that looked as rusty as the shed’s doorknob.

  He put the screwdriver into wood between the door and the shed, pushing and cussing a little under his breath, until I heard a wood-splitting craaaack. “Finally!” he said, pulling the door open.

  Chris stepped into the shed, with me right behind him, holding the Zippo so we could see inside, since the sun was almost down. It was even bigger inside than it looked from the outside, almost big enough for a small car. There were about a million rusty-dusty tools all over the walls, hanging from the ceiling, and piled on the workbench by the window. Leaning against the walls were a bunch of rakes and shovels and even an ancient push-mower like my next door neighbor used.

  “Just some crappy tools and yard stuff,” Chris said, “gimme the lighter.” I handed it to him, and he walked further into the shed. That’s when the kid’s face popped right in front of mine, nearly scaring me to death.

  “Aaah!” I scream-whispered.

  “What?” Chris asked, turning around.

  “Nothing,” I answered. The kid pointed to the back corner of the shed, where it was super dark. “Look over there.” I pointed the same place the kid was pointing.

  Chris walked to the back corner of the shed, shoving stuff with his foot, “Better not step on any rusty nails, or we’ll get test-nuss and Doctor Lindworth will give me a shot. I hate getting—holy crap.”

  “What? What is it?” I asked.

  “Don’t come over here, Amber.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Just don’t.” I never heard him sound so grown up and serious before. My arms got a little goose bumpy from it.

  I heard scraping and rustling, like he was moving something. “Here, hold the Zippo. But don’t look,” he said, handing the lighter to me. I took it from him, held it out, and glanced at the kid. He was really sad, now, looking down at the ground, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

  That’s when I knew.

  I turned away from the kid, really slow, pushed the lighter down toward Chris’s feet, and looked.

  There he was. The kid who brought me here, who was just standing there crying a second ago, was crumpled on the ground. His newspaper bag was
on the floor next to him, his eyes staring at nothing, his mouth hanging open a little bit. I dropped the lighter, and the shed went dark. The rest happened really fast.

  I screamed, and Chris fell backward into me. Scrambling around for the lighter, he yelled some cuss words, both of us tangled arms and legs on the floor. Then a man’s voice yelled something from somewhere by the house, and Chris grabbed my arm like he was either really mad or really scared.

  “We gotta get outta here!” he whispered. I couldn’t really see him, since the light coming in through the window and shed door was almost gone, the sun finally setting.

  “How?”

  “Come on!” he said, grabbing my hand, and dragging me toward the shed door. He crawled with me, then poked his head out. “Hurry!”

  He sprung out of the shed like one of those guys in the Olympics, yanking my hand so hard I felt my shoulder pop. Then we were running like crazy, crashing through thick weeds and tall grass, crunching through big piles of leaves. A branch smacked me in the face as we smashed through some bushes, but I kept running, hearing the man’s voice getting closer. We ran and ran, Chris right in front of me, the man’s voice muffled but yelling when he got to the shed and saw the door.

  We got to our bikes, snatched them off the ground, flipped around and ran, pushing them for a few feet then swinging our legs over them like a cowboy jumping on a horse that’s galloping away. I pedaled faster than I ever had before, wind flying into my face and eyes, tears streaming down my cheeks, not daring to look back. Chris weaved through the streets, curving and turning, jumping the curb and taking a few shortcuts. Finally, we zoomed up the driveway to our house, both of us throwing our bikes to the ground so hard it sounded like a car wreck, racing up the stairs and rushing to Chris’s room. He slammed the door and locked it, and we both crammed into the tent-fort he built for practicing his Army stuff, as mom called up the stairs, “What in the blue blazes are you two up to? I told you not to throw those bikes! If you break them, I’m not buying you a new one, y’hear?”

  We just huddled in the fort, me with knees to my chin and my arms wrapped around my legs, Chris sitting there staring at nothing. Sitting like that for a few minutes, we listened to mom go back in the kitchen, banging and clanging dishes and cupboard doors, mumbling to herself about what awful kids we were.