True Love Way

by Mary Elizabeth

  For Andrea.

  This was always for you.

  The uncomplicated explanation: my mind can’t be trusted.

  It’s betrayed me.

  How sad.

  “Who do you think she is?” I ask.

  This girl and her parents showed up fifteen minutes ago in the moving truck that’s now parked in front of the empty house next door to mine. With light skin and long brown hair, she’s dressed in ripped-up jean shorts and a faded black T-shirt with a design on the front of it I can’t make out.

  “I don’t know,” my best friend, Herb, says. He wipes beaded sweat from his top lip.

  I rock back on my heels, keeping my bike steady between my legs as gravel crunches beneath my road-worn Vans. The end-of-summer sun hammers down on us from clear mid-afternoon skies.

  Kyle, my other best pal, rolls by on his skateboard, briefly blocking my view. “I’ve never seen her,” he says.

  “She must be new.” Herbert halts his bike beside mine and taps his hands against his handlebars to the same upbeat tune that’s been stuck in his head all week.

  The house next door is white with yellow trim, and it’s been vacant since last September. The previous owners, the Pimentels, were here one day and gone the next. My parents don’t like it when I eavesdrop, but I heard them say, ‘Mrs. Pimentel took Mr. Pimentel for all he’s worth after she caught him dipping his deep sea fishing pole into somebody else’s ocean.

  There have been a few people by since the For Sale sign went up. Unless they’re originally from Castle Rain, no one ever stays long. We haven’t had newcomers in a while.

  “This place is nothing but townies and old people,” my older sister, Risa, always says. “Fuck Washington.”

  “Do you think she’ll be at school tomorrow?” Herb asks.

  I shrug.

  From the back of the U-Haul truck, a man who looks to be about my father’s age appears with a large box in his arms. Beside him, a short, thick woman with long hair, like the girl’s, dangles a set of keys in her hand. She has pep to her step, practically floating.

  If fat people could float.

  “Penelope,” the woman calls expectantly. “Do you want to be the first to unlock the door?”

  The girl doesn’t answer. The lady with the keys loses her smile, and the man with the box scowls.

  “She’s rude.” Kyle scoffs. “I hate her.”

  I walk my bike from the street to the sidewalk in front of my house. My best friends stay back, kick flipping and tail whipping while I do nothing more than watch.

  “Pen,” the lady tries again, making the keys sing, swinging them harder than the first time. Her arm jiggles.

  No response.

  “Penelope,” the man stabs. “Don’t ignore your mother.”

  Posted on the steps in front of the house, the girl, Penelope—Pen—whatever, is in her own little world. She has a black Discman on her hip and earphones in her ears. With a melody of her own, the new girl next door bobs her head back and forth, oblivious to her parents. Her eyes are hidden behind sunglasses with circular green lenses. At first I think she’s mouthing the words to whatever song she’s listening to, but then she blows the biggest bubblegum bubble I’ve ever seen.

  My heart does a weird jump-skip-bounce thing.

  Pink gum pops, covering her nose and chin. One swipe of her tongue is all it takes to clean up her face. She continues to chew, nod, and ignore.

  “Dillon,” Herb whines. “Let’s go, dude.”

  I look back at my friends, not as interested in riding bikes all over the town like I was this morning … like I have the last three months. Kyle’s face flushes pink, and Herbert’s forehead glistens as sweat rolls down his temples. They wait, but impatiently.

  “It’s the last day of summer,” Kyle adds.

  I turn toward the new people. Toward Pen.

  “It’s just a girl,” Herbert teases.

  Penelope pops another bubble. Her mom walks past her, shoving the key into the doorknob herself. The man with the box, whom I assume is her dad, places the cardboard package at his daughter’s feet. Her name is written across the side of it in black marker: Pen/ Fragile.

  She finally understands and pulls the earphones from her ears. As she stands, wiping dust from her bottom, the girl with the green glasses spots me staring.

  I’m greeted with another bubble.

  My cheeks scorch red, embarrassed because I’ve been caught gawking. Instead of burning rubber down the street, I lean forward and rest my arms on my handlebars. The object of my weird fascination kneels and lifts the box. She disappears into the house just as her mom comes back outside.

  “Dillon, come on,” Herb pleads. “Are you sweet for the girl, or what?”

  “Shut up,” I say, rolling my bike onto the street. “Let’s just go.”

  “Talk to her,” Kyle teases daringly. His dark blonde hair falls in his eyes, covering the gash on his brow from the fall he took earlier today.

  I shake my head, trying not to smile. The itch to look back to see if Penelope’s come out of her house is stronger than my urge to run Kyle over with my bicycle for messing with me. I don’t do either.

  “You talk to her,” I say.

  Herb rides onto the sidewalk and jumps off the curb. He lands on his front tire, bouncing twice before setting the rear wheel down and pedaling in circles around me. “Why? You’re the one who wants to kiss her.”

  “I don’t wanna kiss her,” I say. The sound of the moving truck’s doors opening and closing tips my curiosity.

  Are they leaving? Is she leaving? Did she forget her gum in the U-Haul?

  “Whatever you say,” Kyle jokes.

  I stay back while my friends race down the road, kicking off our last long ride before the sun sets and the streetlights come on, ending summer vacation. It’s been a good one—exploring the woods, building jumps, and swimming in the ocean. Herb, Kyle, and I drove our mothers crazy and gave our street neighborhood a run for its money. We spent every day together, wreaking havoc and causing a ruckus. I’m not ready for it to end, but I want to know more about the girl who showed up out of nowhere.

  But I’d rather hide curiosity than deal with crap from my buddies. I press on my neon orange bike pedals, rotating the greasy silver chain, spinning the treaded tires, and push myself forward. Right away my heartbeat quickens, gearing up for the rush I get from using muscles that are beyond tired from riding as fast as I do. The right side of my mouth curves before the left, and the warm wind stings my eyes.

  This is where I belong.

  Before I get too far, I give in to curiosity and look over my shoulder. Penelope steps out of the house onto the porch in front of a stack of five or six boxes. Instead of picking one up, the girl with Chucks the same color as the sunglasses on her face actually waves at me.

  I ride faster.

  Girls are weird, even pretty ones who can blow the coolest bubbles I’ve ever seen.

  After exhausting every ounce of daylight, I start my ride home. Guided by the yellow-orange hue from the streetlamps, I pedal slowly down my street alone. The night’s warm, salt-scented and thick, but the burn from the sun is gone. A cat runs across the street in front of me. Someone’s sprinklers turn on, misting my face as I roll by. I can hear Jeopardy! playing from a television.

  I move my bike impossibly slower as I approach my house, stretching out my last few minutes of freedom. The moving truck next door is gone, swapped with a silver Chrysler. I don’t see any more boxes on the porch, and there’s a wooden plaque above their door that reads The Finnels’.

  Penelope Finnel.

  Pushing my bicycle up the driveway, the security light above the garage powers on, lighting up my entire yard and some of the one next door. A
t the same time, Penelope’s dad walks outside, letting the screen door accidentally slam closed behind him.

  He sees me and says, “I’ll have to fix that.”

  “Yeah,” I answer, unsure of what else to say. I lean my bike beside my house.

  My new neighbor rests against his porch post. He has to be over six feet tall with dark brown hair and thick eyebrows that make him look scary. Even from here, lit by the security light only, I can see dark veins in his hands and the massive amounts of fur on his arms. Unlike his wife, he’s lean. Like his daughter, his skin has been touched by the sun.

  “It probably needs a bolt,” he grunts. “Like everything else in this damn house.”

  I think about this for a second and decide to help. “I’m sure my dad has a bolt you can borrow.”

  Pen’s dad looks over at me. His heavy eyebrows come together, like he’s squinting. “That’s a bright light, boy.”

  I nod. “Yes, sir.”

  “I bet it shines right into my room.”

  I look up at his house. Before tonight, every window was dark. Now they all glow, and even though the curtains are closed, I see a few shadows pass by. I wonder which room is hers.

  I hope it’s the one across from mine.

  “I can’t have that light shining in my room, boy,” Pen’s dad says in a deep voice. “Some of us have to be up early.”

  “It only turns on when people walk past it,” I answer. I stick my nervous-sweating hands into my pockets.

  “What about animals?” he asks.

  “We don’t have any animals, sir,” I reply.

  Mr. Finnel laughs loudly, booming amusement into the sticky night air. “I mean raccoons, kid. Cats, stray dogs, possums … Will cats, stray dogs, or possums turn on the light?”

  “Umm…” I start, uncertain if animals will trigger the light. I don’t want to lie, but I don’t want to talk to him anymore either.

  Then the screen door opens and slams shut again, and standing beside the light Nazi is Penelope. Her hair is up now, and from what I can tell, she’s not chewing gum anymore. Her knees are dirty, and her shoes are untied. The Discman isn’t on her hip, but her green sunglasses are still on her face, even though it’s nighttime.

  Suddenly, Mr. Finnel’s voice scares me out of my own head. “What are you looking at, boy?”

  Definitely over six feet tall, the daughter Nazi isn’t leaning against the porch post anymore. He’s standing in front of his daughter, blocking my view of her.

  I straighten my spine and speak too loudly, too quickly. “Nothing!”

  He laughs at me again, but his eyebrows are more serious than ever. From behind her father’s arm, Penelope peeks out. I can’t stop looking at her.

  Mr. Finnel’s laughter stops. “See something you like, boy? Do you think I’m cute?”

  “Wha … what … no,” I stutter. My heart stops. The guy hates me.

  Finally, she speaks, soft-spoken and small. “Don’t embarrass me, Dad. You’re so embarrassing.”

  The heart Nazi puts his arm over his daughter’s shoulders and guides her down the steps to the walkway leading to the Chrysler.

  “The boy next door is weird, Pen. Don’t talk to him,” he warns her with amusement in his voice. “He offered me bolts.”

  She slaps his arm playfully. “Stop. Let’s go get the pizza.”

  Once they reach the car, Mr. Finnel politely unlocks and opens the car door for the girl who wears sunglasses at night. I’m standing in the center of my front yard, staring like an idiot. My hands are still in my pockets, and my heart’s found its beat again. I should go inside, but I can’t get my feet to move.

  Then Pen waves at me.

  I smile.

  The grin Nazi shuts the car door and faces me. His chest almost seems to inflate, and his eyebrows grow angrier. But behind all his boldness, there’s a smile he’s trying not to show.

  “I’m watching you, boy.”

  Once I’ve taken a quick shower, I sit at the dinner table with wet hair and shove my mouth full of spaghetti. My sister sits beside me with tiny braids littering her head and lips stained pink from the Blow Pop she had before dinner. Risa’s eyes are red, and her smile is lazy. Our parents, who sit across from us, question the skunk smell that oozed from her room earlier.

  Risa Decker is this town’s very own freak—slash—free spirit. With Kool-Aid colored curls and a nose she pierced herself with a sewing needle, my older sister only wears clothes she finds at thrift stores and once tied herself to the tree in the front yard when the city wanted to trim its branches.

  She’s tried to convince me on multiple occasions that she’s Janis Joplin reincarnated, with a flare of Muddy Waters.

  Which is weird, because Risa was born before he died. I asked Mom.

  Risa is five years older than me, but I’m pretty sure I’m smarter.

  “It was incense,” she vows. Risa starts to laugh, but covers it up by coughing.

  I roll my eyes and take a bite of garlic bread.

  My dad, a small and gentle man, points his fork at his only girl. His glasses sit high on his nose. “It better have been.”

  Mom, smaller and gentler, nods. “You can be open with us, Risa.”

  My older sister looks at me and winks. “I know, Ma.”

  I drink my glass of milk in one gulp.

  My dad spins sauce-covered noodles around the fork he was just pointing toward my sibling. “You’re Dillon’s role model. He’s entering a tough age, so the last thing he needs is his sister corrupting him.”

  Before our father can go off on one of his lectures, Risa brings up the girl I haven’t been able to get off my mind.

  “Did you see a new family moved in next door? I think their daughter is your age, D.”

  I nod and swallow hard. “Yeah, I saw.”

  Mom lights up. “I thought I saw a moving truck parked out front.”

  “That’s right.” Dad, having eaten his last bite, sits back in his chair. “I heard the house was purchased.”

  “Yep,” my sister continues. “Rumor is, it’s the new football coach at the high school. They moved here from Utah or some shit.”

  Mom drops her utensil. “Language.”

  “Anyway,” Risa goes on, “you should ask her if she wants to ride bikes with you to school tomorrow, Dillon. She’s pretty. Maybe she’ll be your girlfriend.”

  Dad shakes his head, all wannabe-puffy chested and red in the cheeks. He’s soft, unlike the bushy-browed man next door.

  “He’s too young to be dating. Don’t you agree, Dawn?”

  Mom nods. “Totally agree.”

  Pushing my empty plate forward, I shove my chair back. The idea of dating was gross to me this morning, but now it kind of makes me mad that my parents think they can tell me what to do. Plus, my sister needs to mind her own business.

  “I ride bikes to school with Kyle and Herb. The girl’s not pretty. And Mr. Finnel said your security light is too bright, and he’s worried possums will set it off,” I say, walking away from the table.

  I’m at the stairs before my dad, Timothy, the dentist, calls out like he does every night, “Make sure you brush your teeth, Son. You don’t want the tooth bugs to bite.”

  Both of her parents walk her to the door, and after a hush-hush conversation in the hall with Mrs. Alabaster, our eighth grade teacher, that includes sighing gestures from Penelope and grumpy faces from her dad, the new girl walks into the room. She’s hidden behind yellow-framed sunglasses and a peace sign is painted on her face.

  Mr. Finnel spots me through the small window in the door and gives me the stink eye before he walks away.

  “Everyone, give Penelope Finnel a warm welcome to Castle Rain Middle School,” Mrs. Alabaster announces from the front of the class. “This is her first day with us. Please, be kind.”

  Half-grumbled greetings and whispers about the new girl meet the instructor’s request. I make it a point to wave, but stop when Herbert starts making kissing noises
from the seat behind me. Shoving my desk back, I smash his fingers between plastic and wood.

  “Mr. Decker, please, raise your hand.”

  I do as I’m told, and every pair of eyes in room twelve turns toward my seat. As blood drains from my elevated hand, numbing the very tips of my fingers, I’m not worried about the funny looks I get from my classmates or the sound of Kyle’s laugh two rows over. It’s the unsure expression on Pen’s face that has me questioning myself.

  There’s no way she knows I stayed up all night thinking about bubble gum and the green pair of shades she had on way after the sun set.

  With her bottom lip between her teeth, Penelope holds her black book bag to her chest and glances in my direction, giving no indication she remembers that I’m her neighbor.

  “Take the empty seat beside Dillon.” Mrs. Alabaster motions for Pen to move along. “I’m sure he won’t mind making your first few days easier until you get the hang of things, right?”

  I lower my hand as my cheeks flush. “No, ma’am.”

  “No, ma’am,” Herbert mimics in a teasing tone.

  The entire class starts to laugh. Penelope lowers her head, and long, dark hair curtains her face.

  “Enough!” the teacher demands. “Let’s not embarrass ourselves and show Miss Finnel that we are not a wild bunch, shall we?”

  The silence that fills the room is almost worse than the laughter. The new girl keeps her head low as she takes a few careful steps away from the front of the class. The squeaking sound of her shoes on the tile floor is like nails on a chalkboard, and some of the laughter picks back up when Penelope trips on Pepper Hill’s bag she keeps on the floor beside her desk.

  “Sorry,” Pen whispers. She kicks her foot free.

  Pepper scoffs, lifting her ugly pink glitter bag from before the new student’s feet. She flips her blonde hair over her shoulder and mumbles, “Watch where you’re going, Paula.”

  “It’s Penelope,” sudden bravery speaks up. She lifts her chin, uncovering her face.

  As if Pen hadn’t said a word, the Mean Girl wannabe hangs her book bag across the back of her chair with a grin on her face and turns away from another person she’s decided isn’t worth her time. Conceited and ugly-hearted, Pepper has this opinion about a lot of people in our class, so it doesn’t surprise me she’s treating Pen this way.