Armstrong and Charlie

by Steven B. Frank

  In Mr. Mitchell’s classroom, Armstrong’s arm usually rests on the table or in his lap, too heavy to lift. But here it floats right up. Cody calls on him.

  “Well,” Armstrong says, “first you got the kind a volcano spits up. They start out as lava, but when that cools, rocks start to form and these they call igneous. The shiny kind. Then there’s ones come from layers of sand resting on each other and over time getting packed down tight. Toss ’em against the wall and they crumble. That’s the sedimentary. And these here”—​he bends down and picks up a rock, turning it over in his fingers—​“the river makes. They’re called metamorphic, and they make good skipping stones when the river’s calm.”

  Armstrong flings a rock toward the river. The rock gets swallowed up by the fast-moving stream.

  “Well, guys,” Cody says, “I think I can take the morning off. You already got yourself a guide.”

  Armstrong smiles. I notice one of the Carpenter girls in the back looking at him. She’s got blond hair and topaz eyes. The hair cut short for spring. It’s Jodie St. Claire.

  “Hands off, Charlie Ross.”

  Keith hovers right behind me, looking in the same direction. He tells me he asked Jodie to go steady and she said yes.

  Cody loops his arm through the air, motioning for us to follow. We make our way up a winding trail to the highest point at Clear Creek: the camp’s observatory and weather station. The observatory is a converted water tank, with a fat telescope aimed at the sky.

  “We’ll be back here tonight,” Cody says, “to have a closer look at the stars.”

  Otis nudges Alex with excitement. He can’t wait to see the stars up close.

  “Might not see much, Cody,” a voice calls from across the room.

  Armstrong is standing in front of three round gauges—​barometer, wind speed, temperature—​giving the forecast. “Pressure’s dropping. We could get a storm tonight.”

  I feel a tap on my shoulder. In his old playful way Keith springs toward me, and I jump back.

  “Two for flinching.” He grins and slugs me twice on the shoulder. He nods toward Armstrong. “You never told me the new kid’s so uppity,” he says.

  Uppity. It sounds like a word to put someone down.

  “He’s all right. Actually he’s—”

  “A know-it-all is what he is. You should’ve kicked his ass the first week of school. If he gives you any trouble up here, me and Randy and Tim’ll take care of him.”

  Keith smiles like he’s looking forward to a bad thing.

  Armstrong was right about the forecast. By dinnertime it starts to rain, and the stargazing gets postponed. Instead we’re going to watch a movie about coyotes, hawks, and other predators of Southern California. As we go through the cafeteria line, word spreads that some of the Wonderland girls have scoped out a toolshed near their cabins. The invitation is on for spin-the-bottle.

  During the movie, I slide down low in my chair and crawl out the back door. I walk the path to the shed, taking in icy breaths of air and puffing out steam. It’s around seven at night. I shut my eyes and picture the streetlight in front of my house turning on. Then I push open the door to the shed.

  Leslie Maduros is there, holding a flashlight in her lap. So are Denise Wynn, Melanie Bates, Susan Campbell, and Jason Vale. I think Jason’s a little disappointed when he sees me walk in, since he was the only boy.

  The rain is drumming on the tin roof and there’s no heat in the shed, so we make the circle tighter and the mood is just right … except we have nothing to spin. We look around for a substitute bottle. The rakes, shovels, axes, and hoes are too heavy, too big.

  “We could play spin-the-shoe,” I say. But my idea is a dud.

  The door opens. Leslie shines her flashlight on a pair of lopsided glasses.

  “What are you guys doing?” Shelley says, sipping chocolate milk from a carton.

  “Playing spin-the-bottle,” I say. “Except we don’t have one to spin.”

  “Can I play?”

  I scoot over to make room for her.

  “Sorry,” Denise says, “we’ve got enough girls.”

  Shelley shrugs like she’s used to being kept out of a circle. She sits by herself on the other side of the shed.

  “We could get a rock or a twig from outside,” Leslie suggests.

  “A rock won’t spin straight,” Jason says. “And a twig’s too easy to control.”

  Across the shed, I notice Shelley leaning all the way back to get the last sip of chocolate milk. I never knew her skin was so white.

  The door opens again. Alex Levinson fills the frame.

  “A Space Food Stick!” I say. “Alex, got one on you?”

  “I ate the last one this morning.”

  There’s a loud pop, like a balloon getting stuck by a pin. We all turn to see Shelley bending over and picking up the flattened milk carton she just stomped on.

  “Hey, guys. Whatcha doing?” Janelle Parson drifts in.

  “Playing spin-the-bottle.”

  “Can I play?”

  “Got anything to spin?”

  “Why not use your flashlight?”

  Leslie sets the flashlight on the floor and gives it a spin. Its beam whips around like a strobe light.

  When it stops, one face swims out of the darkness: Jason Vale’s. As Leslie scoots toward him, her knee bumps the flashlight, and suddenly it’s real quiet in the shed. I don’t know what’s worse, the kiss I can’t see or the one I can in my mind.

  Meanwhile, Shelley is pulling the pencil from behind her ear and twisting the point against the flattened milk carton. Soon a hole opens and the pencil pops through.

  “Your turn, Charlie,” Jason says. I shine the light at him, his lips still moist from Leslie’s kiss. I feel a little sick inside and hope the light goes past Leslie to land on some other girl.

  The beam whirls around and around and around once more before it lands on Alex Levinson. A boy-to-boy spin is an automatic do-over. On my next try the beam stops between Jason and Alex. I follow the light to the far end of the shed, where I can see Shelley sitting by herself, drawing an arrow on one side of her milk carton. She pushes the pencil tip back through the hole and twists it between planks in the floor. Then she loads her middle finger under her thumb and flicks a corner of the carton. The waxy cardboard twirls around and around, a perfect homemade spinner.

  Her spinner stops and Shelley looks up. The arrow is pointing at me.

  Armstrong

  That’s one thing I forgot to pack: a flashlight. But Otis brought one, and soon as the movie’s done we head outside for a walk. See a low light coming from a shed over by the girls’ cabins.

  “What you think they got going on in there?” Otis says.

  “Only one way to find out.”

  When we pull open the door, it’s obvious what they got going on in there: spin-the-flashlight.

  “Got room in that circle for two more?” I say.

  There’s a little pause. “Sorry,” Leslie says. “Circle’s full.”

  I told Ross he’s stuck on the wrong girl. But now the right one says, “There’s room in mine.”

  Otis and I sit beside Shelley. Looks like she made herself a spinner out of a milk carton. Girl might not be so handy with a handball, but she’s handy with her head.

  “Still your spin, Charlie,” Leslie says over at the other circle. She drags a ChapStick across her lips and gives Ross a glossy smile.

  The door opens. A couple of Carpenter girls come in, both of ’em fine. One is a blond girl I noticed before. The other’s got a little flap of bangs on her forehead like something you might want to peek under.

  “Spin-the-bottle,” the blond girl says. “Cool.”

  They sit over by Shelley.

  From the other circle I hear somebody say, “Charlie, aren’t you going to spin?”

  Ross seems to think about that. Then he says, “They’re short a boy in that circle.”

  And he slides over to ours.
r />   Charlie

  Otis spins first. Shelley’s carton whirls around and around. When it stops, the arrow is pointing at Jodie’s friend, the girl with the bangs.

  She smiles at Otis and says, “I’m Nancy.”

  “I’m Otis. What sign are you, Nancy?”

  “Pisces.”

  “Libra. This oughta be a good kiss.”

  He puts a hand on her arm and pulls her gently toward him. They kiss like it’s not their first time.

  “Your turn, Charlie.”

  Shelley points at the spinner she made. I close my eyes and get a nervous feeling. I spin. The carton whirls around. I open my eyes.

  It’s Shelley. She takes hold of my sweatshirt and tugs me toward her. Our mouths collide. Our teeth clink.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers, and then it’s just our lips touching.

  The funny part is, they’re kind of soft. And warm. And moist in a good, not gross, way. Her breath smells sweet—​watermelon and lime Now and Laters aren’t her only flavor. She likes banana, too.

  She runs her fingers through my hair. I get a warm feeling down my neck.

  “We playing spin-the-bottle here, or seven minutes in heaven?” Armstrong butts in.

  Shelley’s lips pull away from mine, but our eyes keep looking at each other. Even though it’s dark here in the shed, I suddenly remember that her eyes are peppermint green.

  Peppermint green is my new favorite color.

  Armstrong spins next and lands on Otis. “You know I love you, Otis,” Armstrong says, “but you had a sloppy joe for lunch, and I ain’t kissing that.”

  He spins again and lands on me. “I love you too, Ross. But it’s more of a brotherly love than a lip-to-lip thing.”

  The next spin lands on himself. He smiles, brings his arm to his lips, and starts kiss-kiss-kissing himself with loud smacks and a soft moan.

  The girls in our circle all laugh.

  Then Jodie St. Claire moves the milk carton a quarter turn so the arrow is pointing at her.

  From across the shed, Leslie shines her flashlight on Armstrong and Jodie. Their lips come together and apart, together again and apart, like they’re tasting something neither one has ever tried. They must like it, because soon their heads are moving in a slow orbit all their own. Down below, in Jodie’s lap, their hands form a black and white braid.

  From somewhere outside, a transistor radio plays “Delta Dawn”.

  Music and wind suddenly blast through the open door. The music snaps off, but the wind keeps blowing.

  Keith stands in the doorway, watching the end of the kiss.

  “I’ve been looking for you, Jodie,” he says.

  “Well, you found me.”

  Keith looks at her. He looks at Armstrong. He looks at me.

  “I sure did,” he says, and backs out into the rain.

  Armstrong

  I didn’t know she had a boyfriend. I especially didn’t know it would be him.

  · 14 ·

  A Lion Comes Out

  Charlie

  “I FELT LIKE THROWING UP.”

  “You’d throw up even if a white guy kissed her.”

  “No. I might be jealous. But what I feel now is gross.”

  We’re in the boys’ bathroom for shower hour. I step out of a cloud of steam and reach for my towel.

  “What do you think, Charlie Ross?” Keith says. “Wasn’t it disgusting for Armstrong and Jodie to kiss?”

  It’s a cheap camp towel, too small to wrap all the way around me. I try to tuck in the corner, but it comes undone.

  “Charlie?”

  “Huh?”

  “I said, don’t you think it’s gross for them to kiss?”

  Randy, Tim, and Keith wait for my answer. I think back to the shed. To the way Armstrong and Jodie kissed. Like they were older than the rest of us, and in their own private world.

  “I guess I would be upset,” I say, “if somebody else kissed my girl.”

  Maybe if I were wearing a decent-size towel, I could have said more.

  Armstrong

  Soon as the lights go out in our cabin, I toss one of the walkie-talkies up to the top bunk.

  “Say, Ross,” I say into mine, “I know you’re glad you joined our circle. Over.”

  “I had an okay time,” he says into his. “Over.”

  “There must be something wrong with the reception down here. Over?”

  “Okay, so maybe I’m a little in love. Over.”

  “With that pasty-skinned, four-eyed, freckle-faced, stumble-toed, pencil-behind-the-ear Shelley Smelly Belly Button? Over.”

  “Yeah, with Shelley. Over.”

  “I told you she was fine. Over.”

  “What about you and Jodie? Over.”

  “She’s fine too. No doubt about that. And she kisses real sweet. But I know my first taste was my last. Over.”

  “Why? Over.”

  “Figure it out, Ross. Over.”

  “’Cause she’s taken? Over.”

  “That’s part of it. Over.”

  I stare at the wood slats over my head, the ones holding up Charlie Ross’s bunk.

  “I suppose Surfer Boy’ll try to kick my ass,” I say. “Over.”

  I wait for Ross to answer. Wait some more.

  “Good thing I got you to back me up,” I say. “Over and out.”

  Charlie

  The sun breaks through the next day, but we don’t get to see the owl swallow a live rat. It’s probably still digesting its last meal and won’t eat again till after we’re gone.

  There isn’t any fight between Keith and Armstrong, either. The only fight we see is one between Keith and Jodie, and the only punch thrown is hers—​straight from a paper cup into his face. Their relationship ends in a splash.

  The one between Armstrong and Jodie ends just as fast. They’ve been sitting at separate tables in the cafeteria, at opposite sides of Cody’s science circle, and in far-apart saddles on the daily horseback ride at dusk to Pine Hill. Whatever else they might have been pretty much ended the minute Keith walked into that shed.

  I’ve been luckier. At breakfast I eat my Quisp cereal with one hand. The other is under the table, holding Shelley’s. I’m not a very good listener during Cody’s talks on the food chain, water cycle, climate zones, or mating habits of reptiles. I’m into a mating habit of my own, with my left knee pressed against Shelley’s right one. I hope Mr. Mitchell isn’t planning to test us on this stuff.

  During the rest of the week, we cycle through the camp’s “wheel of wonder,” which consists of five different science activities: botany bingo; animal improv; nature walk with a naturalist; microscope mysteries; and blind scientist, in which you have to guess the animal by touch alone.

  When it’s my turn to wear the blindfold, they hand me something slippery and cool and too thick for my fingers to reach all the way around. I feel it moving through my soft grip, winding up my arm and along the back of my neck. My whole body goes numb with fear. “It’s a s-s-snake,” I stammer.

  Afterward, to calm myself down, I go into the aviary and hold a dove.

  After that, I hold Shelley’s hand.

  Thursday morning we all take a walk to the archery range. The counselors put us into ten teams, Wonderland kids and Carpenter kids all mixed together. I wind up on a team with Keith and Randy; Armstrong lands on one with Jodie, Shelley, Denise, and three other Carpenter girls. Win or lose, he’s happy as the only boy.

  It comes down to our team against Armstrong’s. Guess who fires the winning shot.

  Not me.

  Not Keith.

  Not Armstrong.

  Not Otis.

  It’s Shelley! She’s what Cody calls a “knacktural.” Has a knack for finding the dead center of a circle.

  That night, our last one at Clear Creek, Armstrong and I hike up to Pine Hill alone. We lean against a fallen tree trunk, our hands pillowing our heads, and look up at the sky. Instead of clouds, it’s all stars.

  One str
eaks overhead. “Shooting star!” Armstrong says. “Old Mr. Khalil told me a legend about shooting stars. Every time you see one, that’s a new soul coming to be born.”

  “There’s no proof of that.”

  “Damn, Ross, why spoil the idea? It’s a legend, is all.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “It’s hard to believe in stuff like that after you’ve lost someone.”

  It’s cold out and we shift a little closer to each other. I can feel the sleeve of Andy’s parka through my own.

  “Okay if I ask how it happened?”

  I’ve never really talked about how Andy died. People asked me if I wanted to, but it was always grownups, never kids. So I always said no.

  “Number seven,” I say.

  “Seven?”

  “Of the leading causes of death for kids aged ten to fourteen. Number one is unintentional injuries. He died of number seven: chronic low respiratory disease.”

  “What is that?”

  “Asthma. Andy had bad allergies all his life. It’s why he never went to summer camp. Why we couldn’t have a dog. Or carpeting in his room. What’s weird is that the one place he could breathe easy was his darkroom. Everywhere else he suffered. He took shots and pills, but the pills made him tired all the time.

  “My dad brought home a vaporizer from Ross Rents. Andy would fall asleep with it puffing cool mist into the air. My job was to keep water above the line until his breathing eased. My other job was to tell him stories. Stories about us, he’d say.

  “So I’d tell him about the time the house across the street caught fire twice in the same night. Or about the neighbors who came home drunk and stole our plants. Or the naked lady who knocked on the door. I’d tell him about the night the car broke down on the way to Mammoth and our dad had to walk two miles in a blizzard to bring back help. Mom, Andy, and I sat in the car telling silly knock-knock jokes. The laughter kept us warm.

  “The stories, Andy said, helped him breathe.

  “Around a year ago, the doctor wanted to try a new medicine. An inhaler instead of pills. For the first few months it worked great. Andy was the old Andy. Taking pictures from trees. Spending time with his girlfriend at their fort. But then he started getting asthma attacks. They got so bad he’d have to spend a night in the hospital.