by Cat Bauer
I flip back and forth between their two pictures. They are young, with big grins. It says they both “love to laugh,” but I can't remember the last time I saw either of them even smile.
“Let's look up your mother,” I say to Carla.
“She's not there. She was two years behind.”
“What about your dad? Wasn't your dad in their class?”
“I think so….”
“Look him up! Look him up!”
“Geez, take it easy, Harley. What is this obsession with my father?” Carla flips through the book to the S's.
“I thought your name was Van Owen.”
“That's my mother's name. My father's name was Shanahan.” She stops at the same gorgeous picture I've seen before. Her father has long hair and a devilish grin. “There he is.”
I take the book. “Sean Shanahan. Your father was a hunk.” I pronounce his first name See-an. “What kind of name is See-an?”
“Sean.” Carla pronounces it Shawn. “He was an Irish rogue.”
I read the saying under his picture: “ ‘Weathered faces lined in pain are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand.' Ooh. How romantic.” Next to the picture is chicken-scrawl handwriting. “Oh, wow. Look. He wrote something to my mother. I can barely make it out….”
Carla takes the book from me. She examines the handwriting. “It says, ‘Peppy. Well, playtime's fi … fi'—I can't read this. ‘Finally over. Time to start the game of life. We had some wild times together, didn't we, kid? You own a piece of my heart. I won't say good-bye 'cause I'll still be around. Make your life beautiful, babe. Love always, Sean.' ”
I am shocked. So is Carla. “Sounds like they knew each other.”
“Really well,” I say. “Do you think they slept together?”
“Don't be ridiculous, Harley.”
“Well, I'm going to ask her.”
“I'm sure she'll be thrilled to tell you.” Carla is sarcastic, but I let it pass. She is very sensitive when it comes to her father.
“Eet's not easy getting information from zee enemy.” I put on my spy voice and make her smile. “But vee have vays of making zem talk.”
“Harley, get down here.” Peppy's voice crackles over the intercom. What now? I ignore her. S'il vous plaît! I am doing French.
“HARLEY MARIE, NOW!”
I slam shut my French book. No wonder I'm getting a B. A person cannot concentrate with all the racket in this house.
I stomp down the stairs. I stomp into the kitchen. My mother is whipping potatoes in the mixer. I stand there. She keeps buzzing the mixer as if I'm not standing there like some kind of moron.
“WHAT?” I have to shout to be heard over the whir.
Peppy scoops the potatoes off the edge of the bowl as it spins around. “You come when I call you. What were you doing, painting?” Peppy says this like it's a dirty word. “God forbid you should come down here and help me with dinner.”
Her words are needles, and they sting. “As a matter of fact, I was doing my homework,” I enlighten her. “What, did you just call me down here to yell at me?”
“Watch your mouth.” Peppy turns off the mixer. She wipes her hands on her apron. She puts her hands on her hips and faces me. “I saw Mrs. Liechtenstein in the Acme today.”
“So?” I swear, it is impossible to keep a secret in this town.
“So, she tells me you owe her three dollars.”
“Yeah, so, I'll pay her back.”
“I already gave her the money.”
This really ticks me off. Peppy is always meddling in my affairs. This is my project. Mine.
“Why do you always have to stick your nose in my business?” I holler. “Why can't you let me have something of my own?”
“I don't like to owe people money.”
“You don't owe her any money, I do. I said I'd pay her back. I didn't even want to borrow the money. She made me.” It isn't worth explaining things to Peppy because she never listens anyway.
“What were you doing in the bank?”
“Something personal.”
“What?”
“I don't want to say.”
“Listen to me, Harley. You have to stop this nonsense. You are not adopted. You are not adopted.” She turns back to the potatoes. “Sometimes I wish you were.”
So there it is. Even Peppy looks shocked at her words. She spins around and tries to touch me. “I'm sorry, Harley. I didn't mean that.”
“YES, YOU DID!” I run out of the kitchen. I pound up the stairs and slam the door to my bedroom. Lily is on the floor, playing. She looks at me and starts crying. She always cries when I cry. I get blamed for that, too.
I turn on the stereo and crank it up: John Lennon singing “Mother.” His mother was killed when he was a little older than me; his father left when he was a small boy. At the end he just screams the words, which is what I feel like doing right now. I stand in front of my easel, then pick up my paintbrush and plunge it into some angry orange paint.
“We're playing a couple of tunes at Midtown Lanes in Wynokie tomorrow night, if you wanna go.”
Johnny is walking me home and my heart is pounding. It is crazy to get affected like this. He's just a guy. I say, “In a bowling alley?”
“It sounds weird, I know, but they've got this separate lounge. They let us play there, even though we're underage.”
Wynokie is the next town over, not within walking distance. “I don't know. It's kind of far….”
“If you can get there, I'll get someone to take you home.” Johnny puts his arm around my shoulders. We walk in the same rhythm. “I have to set up the mikes, so I'll be there already.”
I guess this sort of qualifies as getting asked out on a date. I'm not sure, since I've never been on one before. Meeting Johnny at a bowling alley is not the same as being asked to go to the movies and have pizza at Tony's, but it's close.
“I'll see if I can get a ride,” I say.
“I hope so.” Johnny squeezes me and gives me a kiss. “It's just me and Reed and a drum machine, but it should be good.”
I do listen to other music besides John Lennon, like Coldplay, Beck, and Natalie Imbruglia; I love indie labels, and sometimes I even get in the mood for show tunes or Mozart. But I think Johnny and Reed play folk music that sounds like Bob Dylan in the sixties, which is not high on my list. But I am dying to see Johnny in action, so I call Carla.
“I don't wanna sit in some bowling alley with a bunch of butt-cracks and watch you drool all over Johnny.”
“Come on,” I beg. “There'll be lots of people there, lots of guys. And Johnny'll be busy playing. I'll only be able to talk to him on his breaks.”
“You know, Harley, you're really pushing it. I'm feeling like I'm only here if you want something from me.”
“Oh, please. What about when you first met Vic? You were worse. And you didn't even like him.”
Carla knows I got her. She laughs. “Yeah, you're right.” She pauses, then: “All right, I'll go.”
I wash and dry all the dishes, then approach the door to my parents' bedroom. “I'm going bowling with Carla tonight, okay, Ma?”
“Bowling? You want to go bowling?” My mother is not in the family room because my father is watching the news over and over again on different channels. Peppy camps out in the bedroom, ordering junk from the shopping channel.
“Yeah, it's good exercise.” I can't tell her about Johnny because then she'd never let me go. I swear, I always get tortured if I want to go somewhere. You want to go to the movies? Do three piles of dishes, dust, and sweep the kitchen. You want to go to the mall? That's one car wash, two loads of laundry, and clean the bathroom. Peppy stares at the television set and does not answer me. “Well, Ma?”
A really ugly hair comb with white silk flowers has come up for sale. Peppy opens her pocketbook and takes out her credit card. She reaches for the phone. “Ask your father.”
I sigh and walk into the family room and stand next to Roger, in his Ba
rcalounger. The winning lottery numbers are on the screen and he checks his ticket. “Mom said I could go bowling with Carla, okay?”
My father does not look up. “Not on a school night.”
I knew he would be like this. Roger is very predictable, and I am ready. “Please, Dad. I've done all my homework and washed and dried the dishes and put them all away.”
“No, Harley. Not on a school night.”
“WHY?”
“Because I said so.” My father crumples his numbers into a ball and throws it across the room. He punches the remote. Flash! Flash! Flash! The channels fly by.
“That is not a good reason!” He does this just to be a cretin. The doorbell rings. It is Carla, I am sure. I stomp to the front door and throw it open. I am almost in tears. “My father won't let me go,” I tell Carla.
“Can you believe it?”
“Why?”
“Because he says so.” I do my whiny Roger impersonation. “What a jerk.”
I see Carla's mother get out of the car. She's wearing deep red lipstick and tight jeans. She is one of those moms that everybody says to Carla: “That's your mother? She looks like your sister!” Carla's mom is cool; you can talk to her; she's pretty understanding. Her name is Veronica, but she lets us call her Ronnie, not all formal like Ms. Van Owen.
“Hello, Ronnie,” I sniffle. “I'm sorry you came for nothing.”
“I will talk to your father,” she declares, and marches into the house, straight into the family room, the two of us right behind her. My father is startled when he sees her. He pushes down the footrest of the Barcalounger and stands up. He is flustered, and I feel vindicated.
“Roger, I'll drive the girls and pick them up.” Ronnie smiles like she's flirting, and my father goes for it.
“I don't know, Ronnie. On a school night?”
My mother emerges from the bedroom. “Hello, Veronica,” she says with an edge. Peppy has problems with other females, I've noticed. She particularly hates Ronnie. She calls her that woman.
“All right,” says my father. “But be home by ten o'clock.”
“I don't know, Roger….” I can almost hear Peppy sharpening her claws.
“I'll take good care of her, Peppy.” Ronnie winks at me.
“Harley can take care of herself, Veronica.” Peppy looks like she wants to grab Ronnie by the waist of her tight jeans and toss her out the door.
It is a mother tug-of-war and I am in the middle; their eyes yank me back and forth. I move fast. I give Roger a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Dad!” He looks surprised. It's like an espionage plot trying to get out of here, I swear.
As I dash out the door, I hear my mother lower her voice: “That woman …”
The parking lot is jammed with pickup trucks and old Volkswagens. Men with beer bellies and bowling balls weave their way through folkies dressed in jeans and flannel. People hang outside, smoking and talking. Ronnie drops us at the back of the lot so we will not be seen being driven by a parent; she is very understanding that way. “I'll be back at nine forty-five,” she says. “No smoking.”
We go inside. It's bright and noisy. A big sign says KIWANIS CLUB VS. AMERICAN LEGION! There are nine lanes and they're all packed. Bald men wearing baseball caps slam balls against the pins. Women with blue eye shadow drink beer from cans, hooting and clapping. Carla and I stand there and blink.
“Oh, wow,” I say.
“Come on,” says Carla. “The lounge is over here.” We make our way past the teased hair and WalMart shirts and into the back. The lounge is another world, dark and tiny, jammed with granny skirts and flannel. I am glad Carla is here because I know no one. Everybody is older than us.
Up front, squeezed into a corner on a little platform, are Johnny and Reed, sitting on stools, strumming guitars and singing. It's sort of hard to hear them, though, with the Kiwanis yelling in the other room. I try to catch Johnny's eye. He sees me, I'm sure. I smile and wave. It seems that he is looking right at me, but he doesn't nod or anything. Strange.
“There's a table in the back,” says Carla. We squish through the crowd and sit on two plastic chairs. There is a half-eaten bowl of peanuts on the table. A wrinkled lady with stiff platinum hair piled on top of her head swaggers over, holding a tray. She's wearing short shorts and has a bad case of varicose veins. “Coke only, girls, without ID.”
I have a few dollars from babysitting. I will treat Carla to a soda. It's the least I can do. “Two, please.”
Johnny and Reed sound good, I guess, if you like folk music. They write their own songs. To tell the truth, the music is a little boring. People are not really listening; they are talking and laughing and coughing. Every so often a roar comes from the other room when someone gets a strike. Carla yawns and looks at her watch.
Finally Johnny speaks into the mike. “We're going to take a short break. We'll be back in a few.” Johnny and Reed pull their guitars over their heads like they are taking off T-shirts. Now is my chance.
“I'm going to say hi,” I tell Carla.
“I'll stay here.” She takes a sip of her Coke and flips her hair. If there are any single boys around, Carla is definitely a target.
I push my way through the crowd to the front. Johnny is not on the little platform. I look around the room. And then I see him: sitting at a table next to Prudence Clarke, laughing.
My face goes numb. I am such a fool. I want to get out of here. I want to get out of here right now. Instead I stand, staring at them, this awful totem pole with a twisted look on my face. I feel someone grab me by the elbow. I turn. It's Reed.
“Are you okay?”
I know my cheeks are red, but it is dark inside the lounge, so hopefully he can't tell. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, I am so stunned. Then I think, Well, who the hell does Johnny think he is, inviting me to come and then sitting with Prudence? I will not retreat. This is war.
“Reed!” I force a smile and kiss him on the cheek. “I was just coming over to say hi to you and Johnny.”
Reed grins back. “For a second there, you looked like you were going to be sick.”
“Too many peanuts.” I link my arm through his. I fight the urge to crawl back to my table and hide under the chair. I flip my hair like I have seen Carla do a million times. I point to Johnny and Prudence. “Want to walk over with me?”
If Reed is surprised, he doesn't show it. He walks me to where Johnny and Prudence sit, deep in conversation.
“Look who I found, Johnny,” says Reed, pulling a chair out for me to sit in. Reed seems to be enjoying the situation.
Johnny is flustered. “Prudence, you know Harley, right?”
Prudence is not wearing her thick black glasses and looks very pretty and blond. She seems annoyed. “Actually, we've never been formally introduced.”
I will not let her get away with this. “Now, Prudence, that's not true,” I scold. “We met at the senior show. After the last performance.”
Prudence actually looks down her nose. “Oh, really? There were so many people there that night, I must have forgotten.” She smiles, all teeth. “Sorry.”
Well, I know how to handle this chick. “You were so wonderful in that show, Prudence. You really are an incredible singer.” I put on my most sincere phony voice. It works.
Prudence is thrown. She stammers, “Why … why, thank you, Harley. That's sweet of you to say.”
I stand up. “So … nice to see you all, but I've got to get back to my friend.” I smile at Johnny. “You guys sound great.”
Johnny stands up next to me. “Hey, thanks for coming.”
I wink at him. “No problem.” And then, I don't know what comes over me, but as I turn to leave, I knock my arm against Prudence's soda. The can spills over and Coke splatters all over Prudence's tight white sweater. She jumps up and shrieks.
“Ow! Oh my God! My new sweater!”
“Oh, I am so sorry, Prudence!” I watch the dark stain spread into the shape of Mexico across Prudence's
chest and I feel avenged. “I am such a klutz! But if you put water on it right away, it won't stain.” I grab a napkin and dab at Prudence's sweater. She rips it from my hand.
“Give me that! I can't believe it. I just bought this yesterday!” Prudence wails and screams like the Wicked Witch after Dorothy threw a bucket of water on her.
Reed laughs. “Oh, relax, Prudence. It's soda, not battery acid.”
I decide to make a quick exit. “I'm sorry, Prudence. I'm really sorry about your sweater.” I leave Prudence glowering and dabbing water on her stupid white sweater. I squeeze through the crowd, back to my table. Carla is surrounded by three older guys.
“Everybody make room for Harley!” giggles Carla. One of the guys offers me his chair. I collapse into it. That little performance took up a lot of energy. Carla turns to me. “You look pale, girl.”
“I'll tell you later.”
Carla introduces me to the guys. “Harley, this is Duane and Rich and, uh, uh, now don't tell me.” She giggles, playing the dumb girl. I swear, sometimes I think I don't even know her. The guys just grin and eat it up. “Wait … I know: TROY!”
The boy called Troy is gorgeous. “Would you girls like to go for a ride?”
I look at Carla. She shakes her head a tiny bit. “We would love to,” she says. “But not tonight. We've got to get home by ten.”
“What happens then?” asks Troy. “You turn into a pumpkin?”
Carla giggles again. “Worse. Asparagus.” She sure can charm them.
“Well, you've still got five minutes.” Troy glances at his watch.
“Five minutes!” I say. “What time is it?”
“Five to ten.”
“Oh, no!” I jump up.
“My mother is going to kill me!” Carla moans. “She's waiting outside.”
We grab our jackets and push toward the door. Troy chases after us. “Give me your phone number,” he says to Carla, and she does. “I'll call you.” He smiles at her, and I am jealous.
