Blaze

by Laurie Boyle Crompton

  “No we’re not!” I say, “I mean, we are, but it’s no big thing. No alcohol, just the boys and a few of my friends.”

  Mark gives me a smirk that melts my insides to radioactive sludge. “Hmm,” he says in a deep voice. “House party? When is it?”

  Oh, God. He cannot be thinking of coming.

  “Our mom has the overnight shift on Saturday,” I say, then shoot over my shoulder to the boys, “which means she’ll be home by 6:30 Sunday morning, and the house must be spotless.”

  Dylan and Josh are so excited I can almost see radiation waves emanating from their bodies. Even Ajay is paying attention instead of focusing on his DS. Only Andrew seems to take the whole thing in stride. He says, “I can’t stay too late. I’ve got church Sunday morning with my mom.”

  As the others are distracted with calling Andrew “Choir Boy” and butting him with fake finger-horns held to their heads, I steal a glance at Mark. He’s watching me with that sly smile of his, and I get so flustered I nearly crash the minivan. “I’d love to come hang out Saturday, if that’s cool with you.”

  I cannot believe the cretins’ tawdry adolescent fantasy has just morphed into an opportunity to spend time with Mark beyond the smelly bowels of Superturd. Plus, I see a way to entice Terri and Amanda to actually show up.

  “Sounds good.” I shrug, hoping Mark can’t hear my wild heartbeat. “It’s casual. You can bring a friend or two if you like.”

  Mark nods happily, and I realize I should clarify that I don’t need him to bring a date to my house. I glance from the road back to him, trying to gauge whether he’d really use our party to hook up with some slut. Like for instance ‘Wiggles’ of catherinewigglesisaslut.com fame—the diseased girl at our school with a whole website devoted to her slutty exploits.

  I add, “You can bring some extra pop if you do decide to come.”

  His grin doesn’t falter, and I feel reasonably reassured he’s not using our soirée for a cheap date. No matter what happens, I tell myself, nobody had better even consider having sex on my mother’s bed. I try to picture Dylan, with his shaved head and glasses, managing to seduce Amanda or Terri and nearly laugh out loud at that possibility. I have a pretty good imagination but still can’t work up an image that bizarro.

  “DUCKS!” Mark yells at the top of his lungs.

  I curse myself for daydreaming. “Ducks don’t count,” I say.

  Ajay chimes in, “They do when they’re big white ones hanging out on a farm.”

  “Those ducks are clearly farm ducks,” says Dylan.

  “Here we go again,” says Andrew as Mark speed-counts the cluster of ducks and I push my Subatomic Sweatmobile of Fate to fly as fast as she can.

  • • •

  “I cannot believe you talked us into this,” Terri says as she and Amanda walk through my front door that Saturday night. Terri is wearing tight jeans and a fitted black shirt that betrays her hope that Mark will bring along someone interesting. Preferably male. The possibility of making time with some of Mark’s friends finally convinced the two of them to gamble on the more likely scenario of a gang of adolescents drooling on their cleavage in-between rounds of Wii sports.

  Terri has this whole pretty, petite, pixy-thing happening with her short dark hair and freckles and a laugh that makes guys want to take care of her. And Amanda is just gorgeous in the truest sense of the word. Her figure is more female superhero than anorexic supermodel, but let me tell you, human boys go gaga for her juicier physique. Looking down at my green striped Adidas T-shirt, I realize that if I wanted to impress Mark, I really should have uglier friends.

  “Is Mark here yet? Did he bring any hot guys?” Amanda asks breathlessly as she hands me a pillow-sized bag of generic potato chips. “This is the biggest bag I could find.”

  “Um. Hello to you too.” I usher the two of them into the house, where the boys are already huddled around the television in the den. Our main floor has two bedrooms in the back. One of those is my mom’s, which I’ve had the foresight to lock before any of the guys arrived, effectively dashing Dylan’s unimaginable fantasies. The other has been converted into a den and has the huge flat screen Dad won for being the top salesman at Electronics Empire just before he left. Mirrors on the walls give the illusion the room is a nice big den, rather than the lame converted bedroom it is. Josh and I each have rooms upstairs, but they’re barely bigger than the twin-sized beds they hold. Plus, they have low sloping ceilings angled with the roof of the house. Those ceilings are constantly doling out blinding-white head whacks, and I walk a little hunched, even when I’m not in my bedroom.

  Amanda gives an exaggerated sigh at the obvious lack of post-pubescent manpower in the den. I head into the kitchen to heat up some pigs-in-blankets and mini pizza bagels. I hid the party snacks from Mom in the back of the freezer, but it was a pretty safe bet she wouldn’t poke her head into the world of quickie food preparation anyway. I feel a twinge of guilt as I think of her working so hard. There’s actually a small chance she would’ve let us have this little get-together if I’d asked, but then she’d be worrying about it, and she really doesn’t need the extra stress while she’s at work. Plus, there’s the chance she would’ve said no, and then I may have been caught with a stupid bag of mini pizza bagels because I couldn’t go back on my word with the boys. I guess Josh is right about forgiveness being easier than permission, but I seriously hope I never have to ask for Mom’s forgiveness. She is not the forgiving type.

  When I enter the den, the boys have Terri and Amanda surrounded as they explain the nuances of Lego Star Wars. I can tell we’re all in trouble by the way Amanda flips her smooth dark hair at them. She naturally flirts with everyone—I’m talking all ages as well as both sexes. She flirts without even meaning to. But flirting with these boys is playing with nuclear fission. They don’t need encouragement to fall completely in life-long love with her.

  About ten minutes later I open my front door to see Mark standing there in a white button-down surf shirt. I’m relieved he doesn’t have a slutty date on his arm. Instead he has two bottles of pop and Stuart, a buddy from the varsity soccer team. Stuart is one of only three black students in our school, which makes him a semi-celebrity. I feel somewhat hip and urban having him here at my house. I mentally kick myself for not inviting more people our own age but don’t even know who else I could’ve asked.

  When the guys step into the den, there’s a palpable shift in the room’s energy. The four younger boys wilt at seeing better matches for all females present. Fantasy time is over. As always, Andrew is a sport and right away takes the opportunity to pump Stu and Mark for soccer tips. Then, just leave it to Dylan to turn a nice casual gathering into something awkward.

  Stu is explaining how he manages to consistently pull off some difficult soccer play as he stands in front of the television, twisting his body to demonstrate.

  “Forget how you move on the field,” Dylan interrupts. “What’s your best-scoring move with the lay-dees?”

  I give Dylan an involuntary parental-type stare-down, and he blocks it with his hands. “What? I’m just looking for a little advice for a loooove connection.”

  “Dude!” Ajay laughs. “You can go ahead and drop the macho routine. Everybody here knows you’re gay.”

  “Hey, Ajay,” Dylan shoots back. “I’ve got a little something I’ve been holding for you.” He stuffs his hand into his front jean pocket and when he pulls it out he’s flipping Ajay the bird.

  “Oh, yeah?” Ajay holds up both his middle fingers. “And here’s your change.” Flipping each other off is sort of an ongoing thing, but I can tell by the look on Terri and Amanda’s faces that the boys aren’t exactly racking up bonus points.

  I grab a guitar. “Who’s ready for Rock Band?” I thank the video game gods for creating a game that makes me seem cool for spending all my free time playing Wii with my little brother. We take turns rocking out for the next half-hour.

  It seems like everyone is actually hav
ing a halfway decent time. That is, everyone except Amanda, who is tightly tucked into the corner of the couch. I don’t blame her for seeming put out. She’s been trying to engage the entire mass of testosterone into a seven-way flirting extravaganza, and now she’s being upstaged by a video game. Not to mention crude hand motions and politically incorrect gender-preference taunts. I’m pretty sure the younger boys consider their moves flirting with her, but Amanda isn’t aiming for the drooling thirteen-year-olds. She has her sights on Mark’s friend, Stu. And Mark, apparently, I think as I watch her lean over and whisper in his ear.

  He gives her a small half-smile, and she bursts into hysterics. I can’t imagine what she could’ve said to him, but it’s probably not something promoting me as his future girlfriend. I try to wave at Amanda, to indicate in some way that I need her to cease and desist all flirting behavior immediately. She lightly touches the small of Mark’s back. My target is quickly moving out of range.

  Standing up, I dump the rest of the Tostitos into a bowl and ask if anyone wants more salsa. There’s a smattering response of “yes” and “sure,” as most everyone stays focused on the television screen. From across the room, Mark smiles at me with one side of his mouth. My heart starts freaking out as I crumple the empty Tostitos bag, grab the salsa bowl off the coffee table, and flee from the den. Terri catches up to me in the kitchen.

  “Remind me again why I agreed to come here?” she says. I climb on the counter, rummaging through the top cupboard for the salsa I hid way in the back.

  “You needed a break from your sisters, for one thing,” I say. “Plus, two of the males in that room are hot. Oh, yes, and also, I begged you. And you love me.”

  I grab the unopened jar of salsa and swing around to sit on the counter. Terri crosses her arms and leans her butt against the cabinet beside me. “So, did Amanda get carried away with the tooth-whitening strips again or what?” she says.

  I laugh. “I’m pretty sure her teeth would glow in the dark if I hit the lights.”

  “And what’s the deal with her and Mark?” Terri goes on. “I thought you liked him.”

  I shrug and kick my heels lightly against the lower cabinets. “I dunno.”

  Terri reaches up and grabs me by the shoulders. “You cannot let her keep doing this to you!” Terri does have a point. Amanda has a long history of becoming suddenly and glowingly interested in the boys I like. It happened so many times I tried to set her up once by acting as if I liked Ryan Bruchner. Honestly, it was a bit too much to pull off, seeing as how I’m not all that great at acting. Plus, no human being, or synthetic humanoid for that matter, could ever have a crush on the guy. He’s not horribly deformed or anything, it’s just that everything about him is wrong. For instance, when he walks he keeps his entire upper body stiff and tilted forward. It looks even stranger than it sounds, and kids imitate him all the time. I didn’t fool Amanda, so all that ended up happening is Ryan now thinks he and I are friends. I’ve never had the heart to set him straight. After a year and a half of the charade, I suppose we’re pretty much friends by default anyway.

  Terri pulls me off the counter and spins me toward the den. “You need to get in there and do something!” she commands.

  I turn to her, tuck my head into the space between us, and whisper, “I have no idea what I’m doing.” Terri’s eyes are soft, and I wonder for a moment why she’s never had a boyfriend. Probably a feminist thing. I look down at the floor tiles.

  She sticks one finger under my chin and tickles it softly for a moment, before stabbing it with her nail, making my head snap up to meet her gaze. Without blinking, she calls into the den, “Hey, Mark!” At his distant “Yeah?” she sings out, “Would you mind coming in here and opening this jar for Blaze?”

  With that, she snatches the jar of salsa off the counter and drops it calmly into my hands. “Guys love playing rescuer,” she whispers into my neck. So much for the feminist theory. She pulls back and winks as she moves toward the den.

  Oh, my god, he’s going to think I’m a total spaz. I look at the jar. A total spaz with weak muscle tone. With that, I start tightening the lid as hard as I possibly can.

  “Well, now.” Mark’s voice is suddenly right beside me. “The fact that you’re turning that lid the wrong way could be part of the problem.” He surprises me so much, I actually drop the jar I’ve been sabotaging. I watch it fall in some weird slow-motion-flipping action. Our floor tiles are ceramic, which means that if a glass jar of gooshey salsa taps it with the slightest force, I’m looking at a huge mess. I flinch, preparing for the sound of shattering glass, but inches above the floor, Mark’s hand closes in on the spiraling jar.

  “Easy there,” he says, smoothly opening the jar and handing it back to me. With my heart pounding, I pour the salsa into the bowl and wonder what I should do next. I ask myself that ultimate flirting question: What Would Amanda Do?

  “You want me to bring in the—”

  “Would you like to see my dad’s—”

  We’re interrupting each other. Lovely.

  “So, what’s with the—”

  “X-Men Spectacular number four—”

  “Okay. You’ve obviously got something interesting to share.” Mark smiles beautifully. “Out with it, Blaze.”

  Oh God, this is all wrong, is all I can think. “Oh, nothing, it’s silly,” is all I can say. And then I can only stand there, shuffling my feet as I look with scorn at the bowl of salsa in my hands.

  Finally Mark says, “All righty then…” He’s leaving already, I think. I totally missed my window. “How’s about you show me that collection of comics you told me about?” he asks. “It’s here, right?” And just like that, everything shifts back on track.

  “You sure?” I ask, squinting up at him.

  “Sure, I’m sure.” He bops smoothly. “Where are they?”

  I point to the basement door. “Down there, but I think the light’s burned out.”

  He stands, looking at me and bopping gently.

  “Give me a minute. I’ll fetch a flashlight.”

  As soon as my back is turned, I have to let out the giant geeky grin I’ve been holding in. This is obvious, clear confirmation that Mark is interested in me. As I drop off the dish of salsa in the den I catch Amanda’s eye and put up a mental force field to avoid melting from her death-ray glare. Sheesh, if anyone should have dibs on Mark it’s me. I’m the one who’s been minivanning his cute ass back and forth to games with a third of his team.

  I find the flashlight in the closet, click the rubber button, and am relieved when it lights up. Mark grins, takes the light from me, and holds it under his chin, giving his face a sinister look. He laughs maniacally, “Mwa-ha-ha-ha.”

  “Creepy,” I compliment. Taking back the flashlight, I lead the way down the stairs. The darkness swallows all but the reedy beam emanating from my fist.

  “This place is huge.” Mark takes control of the flashlight and waves it from corner to corner. It’s also pretty ghastly. I never come down here at night. Even with Mark shining the light all around, there’s so much darkness, I have to shake off the urge to hang onto him. Then I realize that’s probably exactly what Amanda would do and boldly clutch his arm.

  “Shine it over here,” I tell him, wishing I’d kept control of the flashlight. We make our way past old boxes and a few black garbage bags filled with moth-eaten traces of our childhood. “Here they are.”

  Mark shines the light on the six large, white file boxes. Dad’s comic collection. I bend down and carefully pull the lid off the closest one. I’m pretty familiar with which issues are where and carefully pull out Silver Surfer #2 from the 1987 series. The cover is purple and red, with the Surfer watching his former lover Shalla-Bal as her translucent dress blows in the wind. Keeping the comic book encased in its plastic, I hand it to Mark.

  He gives me the light and nods appreciatively as he turns the issue over in his hands. We both laugh at the tacky ad for Hostess fruit pies on the back cover. “M
ay, I?” he asks, fingering the plastic flap that’s taped shut. A pain shoots through my lip, making me realize I’ve been biting it. I don’t want him to think of me as a total geek, but I can’t possibly convey to him the value and importance of these comics.

  “We really shouldn’t,” I say. “They need to stay in mint condition, and it’s a little musty down here.” So much for keeping the geek concealed. “They’re more valuable as a complete series, and besides…” I sigh and give him the real reason for my hesitation. “My dad’s coming for them soon, and if he finds out I wasn’t careful with them he’ll murder me.”

  Mark looks amused. “Well, now,” he says, “you’d certainly leave a fine-looking corpse, wouldn’t you?”

  I want to tell him he doesn’t have to use that sort of line with me, but he moves closer and my heart does a crazy loop-de-loop before I can speak. Holding the comic reverently between his palms he offers it back to me with a shrug. I need to undo his disappointment and get back on track for making him my boyfriend.

  “Well…” what am I saying? “It is one of my favorites.” I train the flashlight on the plastic pouch, and he uses one finger to break the tape that seals it against the damaging air of our basement. “Just be careful, it’s delicate,” I warn. Mark lifts the flap.

  He respectfully leafs through the pages as I aim the flashlight on the comic, listening to the gang cheer and groan overhead.

  In the 1987 series the Surfer is released from being a prisoner on Earth, and in issue #2 he returns to Zenn-la and his first love, Shalla-Bal. I blush in the darkness as Mark pauses on the spread of the lovers embracing. “Boy, Silver Dude’s got all the smooth lines, huh?” With false drama he reads the comic aloud, “So many times the thought of this day is all I had to sustain me.” He holds up the panel of Shalla-Bal and the Surfer kissing. “And apparently Silver Dude’s smooth lines work too.”

  I hope Mark can’t see how red my face is in the light reflecting off the page as he leafs through the rest of the issue. I’m anxious to get the comic back into its protective plastic home. He turns to a page that has Shalla-bal walking alone in the garden after the Surfer leaves. Mark’s voice deepens as he reads, “Man is meant to strive… to yearn.” His eyes meet mine intensely for a moment before he continues, “Perhaps the taste of danger is what we need.” He moves closer and I have a fleeting moment of full-on excitement as he puts his palm gently on my cheek.