Play of Light

by Debra Doxer

  “And the same place as that bruise too?”

  Spencer didn’t respond. He picked up the bottle, tilted his head back, and drank deeply from it, wiping at his lips with the back of his hand before putting it down in the sand again. I understood that the bruise was probably his secret. His uncle hit him. A wave of sadness swept through me as his image blurred behind my tears. There was only one thing to do.

  “We have to tell my dad.”

  Spencer’s head jerked up. “No,” he said firmly.

  “But—”

  He grabbed my shoulders and suddenly his face was only inches from mine. “I mean it. You can’t say anything to anyone, especially your dad.”

  But his uncle was hurting him. I didn’t understand. “But he can help you.”

  He scoffed. “He can’t help me. Just drop it, okay?”

  “That’s ridiculous. My dad’s a policeman. He can make your uncle stop.” Determined, I moved out of his grasp and stood. I was going to help Spencer whether he liked it or not.

  “You know why I came here, of all places?” he asked, pushing his hat back to look up at me.

  I shook my head.

  “Because I knew you came here, and I wanted to see you.” He released a heavy breath. “Actually, I was hoping to see you.”

  His words stopped me. I sank down in front of him, holding tightly to what he’d said.

  “Seeing you makes me feel better. After my parents died, it was only music that helped a little. But you help me too. Don’t do anything to change that.”

  I didn’t know what to say. He was complimenting me and threatening me at the same time. Tears fell onto my cheeks. His words hung heavy on my heart, even as they lifted it. It was selfish of me to like what he’d said because I wasn’t the cure to his problem any more than the bottle in his hand was. I wasn’t anything that could really help him, and I sensed he was about to extract a promise from me. It would be the hardest promise I’d ever have to keep, and one I would break if the circumstances got worse for him.

  “I promise,” I reluctantly said when he asked me again not to tell anyone.

  Spencer believed I’d keep my promise. His bloodshot, glassy-eyed stare held a soft openness that wouldn’t be there if he were sober. I helped him like his music did; that was what he’d said. Did he mean it or did he say it to soften me toward him? I didn’t know, but I still agreed to let his uncle continue abusing him while I kept silent.

  Shame filled me, because saying nothing was the wrong thing to do. But he’d practically begged me and if I didn’t promise, I’d lose him.

  And I didn’t want to lose him.

  I was on Pierce alert. Every night I listened for Jackson Pierce’s name in my parents’ conversations, and I watched for Spencer on the beach. But it was nearly a month before I saw him alone again. He was sitting in the same spot on the dunes, and he had a bottle in his hand, which made my chest feel tight with worry for him. This time he also had a scrappy little dog that started yelping the moment it saw me. It had shaggy gray fur, and looked like a terrier of some kind.

  “You have to take Astro home with you,” he said, not bothering with a greeting.

  “What?” I asked, stepping away from the dog that seemed to be trying to bite my ankles.

  “He’s here every time I come down to the beach. My aunt and uncle will never let me keep him, so you have to. He’s got no collar. I think the only food he gets is what I give him.” Just as Spencer said that, he pulled what looked like beef jerky from his pocket.

  “Did you just call him Astro?” I asked, watching as the dog jumped up to where Spencer was holding the jerky at his shoulder. “Whoa!” I exclaimed, impressed with its high-jump skills.

  Spencer looked at me and smiled. Then I thought whoa again as that smile made my insides tremble. He was just plain gorgeous, and he seemed so happy today.

  “Like the dog from The Jetsons,” he explained. “Doesn’t he look a little like Astro?”

  “I’ve never seen The Jetsons.”

  His eyes grew round. “How is it possible that you’ve never seen an episode of The Jetsons? It was my favorite show as a kid.”

  I shrugged. “Probably because it started and ended decades before I was born. Ask me anything about SpongeBob, though. I’m like a SpongeBob SquarePants encyclopedia.”

  He laughed, flashing his white teeth. “SpongeBob, huh? We’ll see if anyone remembers anything about SpongeBob in fifty years.”

  “Are you a cartoon snob or something?”

  His grin stayed glued to his face, and I wanted to do everything possible to keep it there.

  “Have you ever heard of Spike and Mike’s Sick and Twisted Festival of Animation?” he asked.

  I eyed him suspiciously. “Is that a real thing?”

  “It’s an awesome thing I used to go in Boston. It’s twenty-four hours of nothing but completely disgusting animated shorts.”

  Astro chose that moment to leap up into Spencer’s arms and start licking his face.

  “That dog loves you. You have to keep him if he’s a stray,” I said as Spencer laughed and turned his face away from the dog’s enthusiastic tongue.

  “He’s a stray, but I’ll put up posters anyway. And you’re the one who’s keeping him.”

  Watching Astro, I almost wished I could. “I’m allergic,” I stated.

  He stopped moving and looked at me. “Seriously?”

  I nodded.

  He shook his head slowly. “That’s tragic, Sarah.”

  My eyebrows shot up at the word he chose. I could think of many more tragic things, most of them having to do with Spencer, not my dog allergy. “It’s inherited,” I explained. “My dad’s allergic too.”

  He scratched his head. “What am I going to do with him then? I was counting on you taking him.”

  “Well, he could stay here at the beach and you could keep feeding him. That’s what he’s been doing, right?”

  “That’s what he was doing before I realized he was doing it. Now that I’m pretty sure he’s homeless, I can’t just leave him here.” He looked off toward the ocean, which was growing choppier as the winds picked up. “Aunt Helen might be okay with it if he stayed mostly in my room. Maybe I could take him.”

  “That’s your dog, Spencer. At least, he thinks so.”

  He stared at Astro with a gleam in his eye. “Yeah. I guess there’s no need to break the poor guy’s heart.”

  Speaking of broken hearts, I wanted to ask him if he really did have a girlfriend. It was on the tip of my tongue the whole time, but I couldn’t find a natural place in the conversation to ask. I didn’t want to just blurt the question out.

  “Are you still drawing?” he asked, surprising me with his subject change.

  “Yes. Are you still playing music?”

  He nodded. “I haven’t forgotten that I agreed to play for you sometime.”

  I gave him a stern look. “Neither have I.”

  “I didn’t think you would.” He chuckled.

  I watched as he played with Astro awhile longer. Spencer found a stick and threw it down the beach a couple of times. The dog ran for it, but he wouldn’t bring it back. “We’ll have to work on that,” he mused.

  When dinnertime came, we walked off the beach together. As Spencer disappeared down the road, I looked up at the darkening sky, thinking that someone had sent Spencer a friend. One who could love him unconditionally and put that devastating smile on his face. I was so pleased for him that I nearly cried again, happy tears this time, for Spencer Pierce.

  The next time I saw Spencer on the beach, he had both Astro and a guitar. I nearly jumped up and down with excitement. “They let you keep him?” I asked once I reached him.

  With a small smile, he nodded.

  “That’s awesome, Spencer!” I couldn’t help but give a tiny leap and maybe a soft clap or two.

  His grin widened as he watched me.

  “You brought it,” I said, pointing to his guitar.

 
; “Brought what?”

  I tilted my head at him. “You know what.”

  “You mean this thing?” He held it by the neck. “What do you know? It’s a guitar. Otherwise known as a chick magnet.”

  Giggling, I shook my head at him and said, “Like you need one,” then clamped my mouth shut. Crap, more stuff I hadn’t meant to say out loud.

  But Spencer didn’t comment. He only laughed softly as Astro took off down the beach toward a couple of kids who were racing the waves up and down the sand. Watching him go, Spencer put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Astro halted and turned to look at us. Then he came trotting back in our direction.

  “You already taught him something,” I said.

  “Bought him some food too. Made up posters and gave him a bath. Uncle Jackson and Aunt Helen said that as long as I took care of him myself and cleaned up after him, I could keep him.” Spencer continued to watch Astro. I could hear the surprise in his voice when he said his aunt and uncle were letting him keep the dog.

  Once Astro was back beside him, Spencer turned to his guitar. He picked it up and sat on the dune. Looking down at the sand by his feet, he started strumming slowly. He was joking before, at least I thought he was, but he was also right. The way he held that instrument, both confidently and gently at the same time, upped his already considerable chick magnetism.

  A few notes in, I recognized the song. Then my legs turned to jelly, and I dropped onto the sand across from him. The beginning came out gradually, but when the tempo picked up and he started softly singing the words to “Sara Smile,” my heart expanded, growing inside me just like the Grinch’s did at the end of that Christmas special.

  Spencer’s exterior was beautiful, but now I knew how tender his soul was because his voice seemed to flow directly from it. He wasn’t trying to copy the original song. He was singing it his own way, slowly and easily with a buttery tone that rippled through the air.

  My scalp started tingling, and the sensation traveled down my spine. My dad never got past the first verse in the morning. But Spencer sang all the words. Without looking my way once, he sang the entire thing, his voice tinged with emotion and melancholy.

  I’d promised to knock my head against the wall if I cried again for Spencer Pierce, but when he finished, I was teary-eyed, feeling something I couldn’t name although I knew it was sharp and potent.

  Running a hand through his dark hair, he glanced sideways at me, seeming almost embarrassed.

  “That was so . . . it was just so . . . good.” I wanted to find a better adjective, but my brain was too muddled to think straight. I said the word good quietly and reverently, though, hearing the awe in my own voice and hoping he heard it too. “Did you just learn that?” I asked, knowing if he did, he must have done it for me.

  Looking away, toward the ocean, he shrugged. His reluctance to answer made my stomach dip and my head spin. Was it possible he felt something for me? I would turn fourteen in a few months, but he was already sixteen. There were only two years between us, but those years made a big difference. Spencer could almost be mistaken for a man now. But I would never be mistaken for anything but a kid. My chest was flat. My hips were straight without a curve in sight. Calling me sexy would be like calling a telephone pole sexy.

  No, I thought, giving in to reality. I was his friend, that was all, and it took me over a year to get to this point with him. I couldn’t screw it up by reading too much into his words or actions. And I could never reveal how I really felt about him. I’d have to accept what we had and be happy with it.

  Swallowing against the burning inside, I repeated that last part, making myself believe it.

  I looked for him nearly every day, but Spencer came down to the dunes only occasionally as the chilly weather set in. He never brought his guitar again, and sometimes he brought a bottle of amber liquid that he would drink from, but he always brought Astro.

  When he was sober, he’d be a wiseass, teasing and joking with me. When he was drunk, he’d talk about his parents, especially his mother, who he said went to all his soccer games when he was a kid and took him to concert halls in the city to see various musicians he liked. His voice became strained with emotion when he spoke of her. I could feel how much he missed her in every word he spoke.

  Sometimes he winced when he moved, and my heart ached for him while my conscience hammered at me. But he wouldn’t welcome questions about his obvious pain and whether his uncle had caused it. Nor would he like my commenting on his drinking. But he was getting drunk regularly, which alarmed me, and I wondered how he got his hands on so much alcohol.

  Holding my tongue was getting harder, but I saw him so little, I didn’t want to put a damper on our talks or have him become angry with me again. One time, he’d accused me of looking at him with pity in my eyes, and he stormed off the beach. After weeks of biting my nails and not seeing him, I was both relieved and angry when he showed up again one day as if nothing had ever happened.

  Sometimes he wouldn’t want to talk about himself at all. He would ask me about my art and what I was working on as we watched the tide go out, leaving its wet imprint on the sand. I’d just discovered oils, learning how to prepare the canvas and mix the colors to mimic the images I saw in my head. As I prattled on and on about it, he listened to every word, asking questions, seeming interested.

  I always asked him to bring his guitar with him. I was dying to hear him play more, and I wanted to hear his amazing voice again. He’d casually agree, but he never did bring it, and one day I finally got up the courage to ask him why.

  “It’s toast,” he said, averting his eyes, picking up a handful of sand and letting it sift through his open fingers.

  “Toast?” I asked. “Your guitar is toast?” I was aghast at the thought of him not being able to play it.

  He shrugged. “My Pete Townshend impression got a little out of hand one night.”

  I scrutinized his expression. “Huh?”

  Spencer rolled his eyes. “Please don’t tell me you don’t know who Pete Townshend is.”

  “He’s in The Who,” I replied indignantly. Of course I knew that. “They write the theme songs to all those CSI shows.”

  A smile broke across Spencer’s face. Then he started chuckling. Soon he was laughing so hard, he fell back onto the sand. “Oh my God, Sarah,” he said, trying to catch his breath.

  I wasn’t sure what was so funny, but I was pleased to see him happy.

  “The Who wrote those songs long before that show,” Spencer said, sitting up. “And Pete Townshend was known for smashing his guitars onstage.”

  “Oh.” I smiled, understanding now. Then I squinted at him. “You mean that’s how you broke yours?”

  He wiped the sand off his arms. “Nah, I was joking. The truth is, the vampires got it.”

  “Spencer,” I complained, knowing he was making fun of my Twilight obsession. “Is your guitar really broken or not?”

  After a moment, he nodded. But before I could ask how again, he held his hand up. “It’s no big deal. Just an accident. It was old anyway.”

  He tried to sound casual, but his body language was telling me something different. I wondered if his uncle broke it or maybe even took it away from him. I was getting up the courage to ask him that, when he said “Would you ever jump out of an airplane?”

  I stared at him, wondering if I’d heard him right. “What?”

  He smiled. “It’s a game. I ask if you’d do something daring, and you say yes or no. If you say no, I get a point.”

  My eyes narrowed. Spencer was changing the subject, and he wasn’t even trying to be subtle about it.

  “Would you ever jump out of an airplane?” he asked again.

  Sighing, I decided to play along. “Would I have a parachute?”

  He nodded.

  “Then yes.”

  Laughing, he said, “Uh-uh. The game doesn’t work if you’re not completely honest. Don’t say yes if you don’t mean it.”

&nbs
p; “What?” I asked, offended. “You don’t think I mean it? You think I’d be too scared?”

  His look was teasing. “You just answered that awfully fast. Like you didn’t really think about it.”

  “For your information, that’s something I’ve thought about doing. I’ve wondered if it really feels like you’re flying before you pull that cord. So, yes, I would do it and I plan to one day.”

  I was telling the truth. My dad and I talked about it after we saw some people skydiving on television. Dad said he wanted to try it and I agreed. But we couldn’t tell Mom because she might have heart failure over it.

  “Okay,” Spencer said, holding his hands up in surrender and even looking a little impressed.

  “Would you do it?” I challenged.

  Without hesitation, he said, “Yes.”

  My smile grew as my mind was off to the races, thinking that we had yet another thing in common.

  “Your turn,” he said. “Ask me something.”

  I slanted my head at him, a little nervous at being put on the spot, wanting to come up with something really great.

  “And you can’t say bungee jumping or anything like that. It’s too close to mine.”

  I eyed him, trying not to let on that I was already thinking along those lines. Finally, I just blurted out the first thing I could think of. “Would you ever eat frogs’ legs?”

  He grimaced. “Frogs’ legs. What would be the point of that?”

  “It’s gross. That’s the point.”

  Spencer shook his head at me as if I was missing something. “You’re not playing right. Think about it. With skydiving, it’s a terrifying thing to do, but if you can do it, you get a rush and a sense of accomplishment, like you conquered your fears or something. Sorry, but eating a frog just isn’t the same thing. Think of something else.”

  “So you wouldn’t do it. I found something you’re scared to do, and now you don’t want to answer.” I eyed him smugly.

  “Fine.” He sighed and rolled his eyes in an exaggerated way at me. I couldn’t stop a giggle from escaping.

  “Am I on Survivor or something?” he asked. “I mean, is someone paying me to eat these frogs’ legs?”