Double-Dare O’Toole

by Constance C. Greene

  “Sure, be glad to,” Fex said.

  “Hi, Fex.” Charlie played it smooth, acting as if he came to the general store every day of his life.

  “Hi, Charlie.” Fex played it just as cool.

  Mr. Soderstrom was almost entirely bald except for his luxuriant beard, which, Fex had noticed, collected all sorts of things: tobacco, cookie crumbs, bits and pieces of potato chips, of which he was fond. If some small creature ever got caught inside Mr. Soderstrom’s beard, Fex thought, it could probably survive for a long time, eating the stuff that collected there. He could almost see the small face peering out, nose twitching, as it caught the thousands of crumbs that daily filtered through. He imagined Mr. Soderstrom kissing Mrs. S.—as he called his wife—and having the creature pop out, sending her screaming, the daylights scared out of her. She’d never kiss him again without checking his beard first.

  “Peat moss,” Mr. Soderstrom muttered. “You have peat moss?”

  “Twenty-five-pound bags,” Angie said. “In the back. Four-fifty per.”

  Mr. Soderstrom reared back as if she’d struck him. “Four-fifty!” he roared.

  Angie shrugged. “Everything’s gone up,” she said.

  Sighing loudly, talking to himself, Mr. Soderstrom lugged a bag of peat moss to the cash register.

  Angie rang it up. “Add the gum to your bill?” she asked.

  “Gum? Gum? I didn’t buy any gum!”

  Angie pointed to Charlie, who had filched a pack of Wrigley’s spearmint and was passing out sticks like Santa Claus handing out presents.

  “The kid’s lightfingered,” Mr. Soderstrom grumbled. “Takes after my wife’s brother.” Then he felt the need to repeat himself. “My wife’s brother!” he roared, in case anyone had missed it.

  After the noise had died down, Angie pointed to Charlie and said, “I hardly recognized him, he got so big.”

  “They grow up too fast,” Mr. Soderstrom said gloomily. He’d confided to Fex that he had two teenaged children from his first marriage. “Like ’em better when they’re young,” he’d said. “If I could, I’d freeze this fellow right where he is now. Four’s a wonderful age. He thinks I’m great, I think he’s great. They grow up, they start finding fault with the old man.”

  He shouldered the bag of peat moss. “Oh, they grow up too fast,” he repeated, shaking his head ruefully.

  “Want some help?” Fex asked.

  “Oh, I’m not over the hill yet, my boy!” he cried. “Not by a long shot. Come on, Charlie. Get a move on. See you Saturday, Fex. Mrs. S. will let you know what time.”

  “So long,” Charlie said, deftly slipping another pack of Wrigley’s spearmint into his pocket.

  Angie lifted her shoulders.

  “What’re you gonna do?” she said.

  12

  Dinner that night was sweet-and-sour pork. Fex gorged himself. Jerry leaned on his elbow when his father wasn’t looking, pushing bits of pineapple around his plate, as if they were racing cars and the plate the track.

  “May I please be excused?” Pete said. When his manners were good, it was a sign of big things. Pete was going to a dance at the high school.

  “Who’s your date?” Mrs. O’Toole asked.

  “Date?” Pete mouthed the word as if it were distasteful to him. “Date? You must be kidding, Mom. Nobody has dates for a dance.”

  “In my day,” said Mr. O’Toole, “it was considered standard practice to ask a young lady to a dance. Otherwise you’d have to dance by yourself, and that might cause talk. Whom do you dance with if you don’t bring a date?”

  “We mess around, see what we can dig up when we get there,” Pete said. “The girls come in a crowd, we come in a crowd. Some kids disco. The rest sort of mill around, you know?”

  “No,” said Mr. O’Toole. “I’m not sure I do.”

  “I thought you liked that nice Butler girl,” Mrs. O’Toole said. “She seemed sweet the one time I met her. Why not ask her?”

  Pete rolled his eyes and said nothing.

  “Be home by eleven,” Mr. O’Toole said.

  “Dad!” Pete smacked his forehead with enough force to knock himself to the floor. “Dad, the dance isn’t over until eleven. Make it twelve? Please?” He shot a pleading glance at his mother, which she ignored.

  “I’ll compromise. Eleven-thirty. That’ll give you ample time. Especially as you don’t have to see a date to her front door.”

  “You boobed that one,” Fex said under his breath.

  Later, he leaned on the bathroom door, watching Pete lavish his father’s after-shave on his face, then do the same with hair tonic, coating each strand of hair with great care.

  “How come you didn’t ask a girl to the dance?” Fex asked.

  “You think I’m taking some girl out and have us sit in the back seat while the old man drives us to the door?” Pete squeezed toothpaste on his brush. He was going all-out tonight. “I know guys who do that. Once. Only once. They sweat buckets. The girl’s making conversation with the old man, and the guy sits there like some super nerd. No dates for me until I get my license. Then I get behind the wheel and spin over to the chick’s house and load her inside and take off. Once you got wheels, your sex life begins,” he finished, leering.

  Fex figured if he kept his mouth shut, he might learn something. “Oh, yeah,” he said noncommittally.

  “You know about sex, baby brother? The birds and the bees?” Pete admired his muscles in the mirror. “You ever make out with a girl?” he said.

  “I’m not even twelve yet!” Fex protested. “Whadya want?”

  “By the time I was your age”—Pete’s hands were suspended over his coiffure—“I was an old hand at making out. Some guys got it, some don’t.”

  “Who’d you make out with?” Fex said.

  “A gentleman never tells.”

  “Do girls like to make out? Did she like it, the girl you made out with?”

  Pete rolled back his lips and studied his gums in the mirror. “Girls, sonny, girls,” he said at last. “You better believe they did. All of ’em,” he said, leering again. “But you need practice. You don’t just all of a sudden lunge at a chick and say, ‘This is it, babe.’ She might deck you. You gotta be subtle.”

  Fex held his breath, afraid the sound of his breathing might stop the flow of Pete’s advice.

  Who do I practice on? he asked himself. Just who?

  “Practice makes perfect,” Pete continued. “You put the moves on a girl, you better know where it’s at. For instance.” He stared hard at Fex. “You know how to French kiss?”

  “French kiss? I don’t even know how to American kiss,” Fex answered.

  “O.K. for you, wise guy. Think you’re funny, think it’s a big joke,” Pete said angrily. Fex hadn’t meant to be funny.

  “I speak from experience, remember. The best teacher, right?” Pete put on his blue sweater, his face flushed. “You gotta know the ropes before you can swing, kid. Take it from one who knows. You gotta know the ropes before you can swing.”

  He whipped off his blue sweater and changed to his tan one. It’s lucky he only has two sweaters, Fex thought, watching, or he’d never make the dance at all.

  “But where do I start? I mean, how do I start?”

  Pete frowned. “Maybe she’ll do the starting. Maybe she’ll put the moves on you. If she’s hot for your bod, that’s probably what’ll happen. Women’s lib, you know.” Looking very wise, Pete changed back into the blue sweater.

  “It’s all in the timing,” he said, pushing up his sleeves. “If her folks hang around, the little brother wants you to assemble his model airplane, you’ve had it. But if they go off to play bridge, watch the tube, then you’ve got it made.”

  “I do?”

  “Sure.” Satisfied at last with his appearance, Pete made for the door. He left a strong odor of hair tonic, toothpaste, and after-shave in his wake.

  “That’s when you blow in her ear. Put your hand on her leg and blow in her ear.
Then see what happens. Well, I’m off. Don’t wait up.” And he was gone.

  Fex sat where he was, pulling himself together. He heard the front door slam, heard Pete whistling as he went down the walk. Then, moving as quietly as a burglar out for the flat silver, Fex went downstairs. His mother and father and Jerry were still in the kitchen. He could hear them talking and laughing. He went to the dictionary to look up French kiss. It said, “See soul kiss.” He looked up soul kiss. If it said, “See French kiss,” he’d have to throw in the towel. But luck was with him. The dictionary defined soul kiss as “An open-mouth kiss in which the tongue of one partner is manipulated in the mouth of the other.” Fortunately, “manipulate” was spelled exactly the way it sounded. It meant, “To handle, manage, or use with skill,” the dictionary said. As he understood it, that meant you put your tongue in the girl’s mouth and then used it with skill. Sort of like a Water Pik, Fex told himself, making a face. Gross. Really gross. Forget it. I’m not getting into any of that stuff.

  “Fex! Telephone!” his father called.

  “Thanks, Dad. Hello,” Fex said into the phone.

  “Hi. Want to come over and watch TV? I’m baby-sitting. There’s going to be a cool program on about the spirit world. Mom says it’s O.K. if you come over for a while.”

  It was Audrey. Asking him to come over and watch TV. Her parents were obviously going out.

  “Sure,” Fex said after a pause. “I guess so.” He hung up and studied the toe of his sneakers. The left one had a rip in the fabric. If he taped the rip, he could wear the sneaker a lot longer. On the other hand, if the rip got bigger he’d have to buy a new pair. He decided to try the tape. Painstakingly he put three strips of tape over the hole.

  Jerry came in. “I can’t decide whether I want to watch TV or practice,” Jerry said.

  “Why not do both?” Fex asked. Jerry looked puzzled. That’s what I’m doing, Fex thought. “Both!” Fex said aloud. “I’m going to Audrey’s to watch TV, so the joint’s yours.”

  “How can I do both at the same time?” Jerry said. “You’re nuts.”

  Fex didn’t answer. He ran down to tell his mother and father where he was going. As he rushed out into the gentle night air, he heard Jerry starting to make his coyote-caught-in-a-trap noises. Halfway to Audrey’s he slowed down. He didn’t want to look too eager.

  13

  Emma answered the door. She was naked, as usual.

  “Hi,” she said.

  Emma was Audrey’s sister. Half sister. Audrey’s parents had been divorced when she was little. Four years ago her mother had remarried. Emma was three.

  “Where’s Audrey?” Fex said. He was used to Emma by now.

  “Taking a bath,” Em said. She wasn’t completely naked. On her feet she wore a pair of ancient black rubbers. They were enormous. She maneuvered the rubbers as if they were skis and she were preparing for a downhill run. She pointed them in the direction she wanted to go, then followed them.

  Emma walked nonchalantly past Fex on her way outside. The old lady who lived next door was probably stationed at her window in her nocturnal vigil. Fex knew she’d threatened to call the authorities several times if Emma continued to walk around unclothed.

  Fex watched as Em made her way majestically across the lawn. If the mosquitoes discovered her, she’d be a goner.

  “Go in if you want,” she called over her bare shoulder. Em had a mind of her own.

  “Oh, Lord.” It was Audrey’s mother in her robe, with curlers in her hair. “Will you get her please, Fex?”

  “Shall I just grab her or what?”

  “Here.” She handed him a wilted half sandwich. “It’s mayonnaise and ketchup, her favorite. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. Try, would you?”

  Feeling a fool one more time, Fex caught up with Emma. It wasn’t hard. She wasn’t making very good time. He held the sandwich just out of reach.

  “Mayo and ketchup, Em,” he said, suppressing a desire to add, “Yum-yum.” There were certain lengths to which he would not go.

  Emma came to a halt. The rubbers quivered in the still evening air. She put out her hand. Fex moved the bait out of her reach.

  “Please.” She smiled at him.

  “Your mother wants you inside,” he said. Emma sighed. She knew when she was licked. She turned toward home, handling the rubbers as if she were the ship’s captain and about to bring the Queen Elizabeth into port. One rubber fell off. Em sat down on the grass to put it back on. She managed. It was a rare sight, seeing her get to her feet. Slowly, holding out the sandwich like a bone before a reluctant dog, Fex, with Emma bringing up the rear, inched his way toward the house.

  With his foot on the top step, Fex glanced toward the old lady’s house. The curtains moved as if caught in a strong wind. Fex smiled. Lucky he got Em back in so fast. Who knows? The old lady might’ve called the fire department. She had, more than once.

  Fex lifted a hand and waved in her direction. The curtains stopped swaying and fell into place. Like most spies, the old lady didn’t like to be caught in the act.

  “Hello, Fex.” Audrey’s stepfather greeted him. “You here to help tend the Mighty Mite?” That’s what he called Emma. He was a nice man. Audrey called him Tom, which was his name. Her real father had also remarried and had three kids. Audrey had a passel of half brothers and sisters. They all got on together. She liked her stepmother, too. Fex was envious. He would have liked to have had a half brother or sister or two. His family was too ordinary, he thought. It would be pleasant to have a mixed-up family.

  “We’re going across the street to the Kellmans’ to play bridge,” Audrey’s mother said. “Read Em a Curious George story before she goes to bed, will you? That always calms her down.”

  “She knows Curious George by heart,” Audrey said. “Hi, Fex. I can hardly wait to see this program. It’s about the spirit world and how dead people come back and give messages to their loved ones.”

  Fex tried to conceal the shudder that ran over him. He wasn’t keen on knowing more about the spirit world. But he’d just as soon no one, especially Audrey, found out.

  “Don’t forget to lock up when Fex leaves, Aud,” her mother said. “We won’t be late. We have our key.”

  Audrey took Em up to bed. Downstairs, Fex paced. It was now or never. Practice makes perfect, doesn’t it?

  “She wants you to make her a boat out of newspaper,” Audrey said when she came down. “Like the one Curious George makes.” O.K. He’d make the kid a paper boat.

  He made her three. Em clamored for more. He told her no, three was it.

  His mouth was filled with saliva. No matter how often he swallowed, it wouldn’t go away. He ran his finger around the collar of his T-shirt. It felt tight, as if his neck had expanded.

  “This is going to be cool,” Audrey said, adjusting the color. She plumped down beside him on the couch.

  “Want some potato chips?” she asked, holding out the bag. He shook his head. He couldn’t eat anything. His tongue felt swollen in his mouth, as if it had been bitten by some strange off-course bee. With his mouth filled with saliva and his tongue taking up the rest of the space, he better forget the French kiss. Start someplace else.

  “Blow in her ear,” Pete had said. Fex looked at Audrey. She needed a haircut. Ordinarily her ears were in plain sight. Now they were shrouded in hair. How could he see where to blow?

  I’m not up to this, he thought sorrowfully. I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. A picture sprang into his mind, a picture of him biting off a piece of Audrey’s ear and trying to chew it. Her ear was tough. He started to laugh, then he felt sick.

  Eerie music came from the TV set. Someone screamed. He hoped it hadn’t been him. Audrey chomped on potato chips, spraying crumbs.

  “Neat,” she murmured, scrooching down as the announcer’s juicy voice told them they were about to be introduced to something marvelously weird.

  You ain’t seen nothing, bud, Fex thought. Tentatively he moved his arm so
it rested on the back of the couch. He let his fingers walk unsteadily toward their goal.

  He touched Audrey’s neck. Gently he let them stay where they’d landed. She took an absentminded swipe at the spot, eyes riveted on the TV. Fex moved closer. He let his other hand rest lightly on her denimed knee, as if by accident. Things were going better than he’d expected. Credits flashed on the screen: credits to the director, the actors, the producer. A long list. Audrey jumped up and ran to the kitchen. Fex felt as if God had given him a reprieve, as if he’d been on death row and the governor had just commuted his sentence. She came back with a bag of Cheez-O’s and two Cokes.

  You mean I have to start all over again? Fex asked himself. Man, there’s more to this stuff than they let on. Much more. He felt like a paratrooper about to make his first jump.

  Again he let his hand creep up on her. His arm went around her neck. She looked at him from the corner of her eye, which glowed red in the light from the TV set.

  “What’s up?” she inquired.

  He grabbed her around her neck. Her little bones lay so close under her skin it seemed possible they might pierce through and scratch his hand. Her face was turned to him, incredulous. He opened his mouth and aimed for hers. He missed. His mouth skidded off her slick cheek like a car off an icy road.

  His face plunged into the soft, rough fabric of the couch. He could hardly breathe. He felt as if he were being smothered. Maybe Audrey had decided to kill him.

  “You’re cuckoo,” he heard her say. Her voice sounded faraway. More screams came from the spirit world, followed by moans.

  “That’s all you are is cuckoo.”

  He lay still, wondering what to do now.

  He wished for nothing but escape. He longed to run for cover, to dig a hole and hide. For a long, long time.

  Silence engulfed him. She must’ve turned off the TV. Slowly he raised his head. He knew he was being watched.

  Emma stood in the doorway in her nightgown. For a minute Fex didn’t recognize her. He wasn’t used to seeing her in clothes.

  Eyes glowing like two beacons in the darkness, Emma said, “Wotcha doing?” In her long white gown she looked like a plump little wraith.