Film at Eleven

by Bloom, Maggie

  So I was cutting through the field between the community center and the school, when I noticed something much more interesting than a paint-splattered wall: the oh-so-pregnant Carla Pearson—alone on the elementary school playground—swinging. The strangeness of the scene made me do a double take. And even though Carla and I were only sort of friends, I felt like I should stop and talk to her. I mean, she looked like she could use the company. And to be honest, I was feeling a bit lonely myself.

  “Hey, Carla. How’s it going?” I asked casually once we’d made eye contact.

  “All right.”

  “It’s pretty nice out here, huh?” I said, like a stupid, moronic, idiotic dope.

  “Oh, yeah. It’s warm.”

  I looked on from a safe distance while she twisted her swing around in knots until she couldn’t wind the chains any tighter, then let go and spun out in a cloud of dust. Of course, I almost puked just watching.

  “Doesn’t that make you sick?” I asked, incredulous. “I’m not even…uh…pregnant, and I’m about to hurl.”

  There. I’d said the word. It was out in the open. Now she knew I knew she was pregnant—not that any halfwit buffoon couldn’t have figured that one out, but still.

  “Not really. It’s not that bad,” she downplayed. “And it’s fun. You should try it.”

  I think not.

  “No thanks. I’m a wuss,” I admitted. “And a puker.” Carla laughed, and I settled in on the swing next to her. “Have you been sick?” I asked, nodding toward her swollen belly. I mean, now that the issue was out in the open, I might as well ask some pregnancy-related questions. Plus, in some freaky way, I was dying to know what it was like to be her.

  “A little. For the first few months,” she said so nonchalantly I almost thought we were still talking about the weather. “Then it went away. I’m lucky.” She shot me an I-know-something-you-don’t grin.

  “That’s good.”

  I kicked off the ground and pumped my legs, hoping to get enough air to land a successful jump. And it was probably a good thing I stopped staring at Carla, too, because I think I was making her uncomfortable. But honestly, it wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t help noticing that her long black curls were so glossy they sparkled, or that her skin was as flawless as any airbrushed supermodel’s, or that her normally perfect fingernails had been chewed down to the bone. As far as I could tell, though, the fingernail massacre was the only clue she might be in distress. Otherwise, pregnancy really agreed with her. The girl was radiant.

  Carla spun out a few more times while I tried to summon the nerve to catapult myself into oblivion—or at least past the sand pit around the swings. But after a minute or two of envisioning myself with a matching pair of broken legs, I eventually chickened out and returned to earth without jumping.

  So we were just sitting there, quietly rocking back and forth and raking our sneakers through the sand, when I decided to get nosier than anyone really should. “Can I ask you something?” I said, still staring at the patterns my shoes had carved in the dirt.

  “Okay…I guess,” Carla agreed tentatively.

  From the corner of my eye, I could see that she was looking down too. “How did you end up…you know? I mean, what happened exactly?”

  I swear, I almost laughed out loud at the moronic way I’d phrased the question. Hopefully Carla knew I wasn’t actually fishing for a lesson on the birds and the bees. I wasn’t quite that clueless.

  She sucked in a deep breath and sighed. “Well, I met this guy,” she started to explain. “He’s a friend of my cousin from Philly.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And, well, we just got together. It all happened so fast. It was like one minute I’d just met him, and the next minute we were a couple, you know?”

  “Oh.” I did know. Sort of. Because Mick and I had fallen for each other in the same whirlwind, desperate-to-be-together way. We just hadn’t had sex yet.

  Carla continued, “I thought he was in college. He said he was gonna be an engineer. He said he loved me.”

  I could tell by the way her voice was quivering that something had gone wrong. Something other than just the obvious unplanned pregnancy. But as much as I wanted to say something helpful or consoling, I was at a loss for words.

  She sniffled. “Anyway, it was all a lie. He’s an asshole,” she declared, with a disgusted snort. “And I’m probably never gonna see him again.”

  “Why?”

  “God, where should I start? Um, because he’s really twenty-four. Because he’s in the service. The Army. Because he’s married. Because he already has three other kids. Like I said, he’s an asshole.”

  Shit. I wasn’t expecting that kind of drama. I mean, if I’d written a fictional worst-case scenario for her situation, I doubt I could’ve trumped her seriously screwed-up reality.

  “I’m sorry,” I lamely said. “That sucks.”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  A few uncertain moments of silence passed before I changed the subject. “Can I ask you something else?”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  “Would it be okay if I took your picture?”

  Carla scrunched up her face in an are-you-for-real squint.

  “It’s for my photography class,” I explained, tugging the camera out of my bag. “You look so pretty, and the lighting is just right. It would make a perfect picture.”

  Instead of responding to my question, she said, “It’s a boy, you know. But I’m not keeping him.” She looked like she was about to burst into tears. “I’m putting him up for adoption.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. You can take the picture if you want. I’ll go like this,” she said, leaning away from the setting sun. “Just give me a copy sometime, okay?”

  “Yeah. Definitely,” I agreed. “Of course.”

  So as a light breeze tried unsuccessfully to stir her raven curls, I snapped maybe the only bittersweet photographs of Carla Pearson and her unborn baby boy.

  Nine

  FOR some annoying reason when you’re waiting for something important to happen, time pretty much grinds to a screeching halt. And October fifth, the day Mick was supposed to get his license, was no exception. Because even though it was time for school to get out, time for me rush to the Oglethorpes’ and save Snickers and Baby Ruth from peeing on the carpets, maybe even time for my cell phone to ring with the call I’d been praying for from my sweet, sweet Mickey D, the stubborn minute hand on the clock wouldn’t budge a millimeter. It figured.

  Finally, though, after what seemed like a century, the damn bell rang like it was doing me a personal favor. But instead of hanging out to chat with Jessie (who thankfully was off Lars and back on Mr. Morrison), I made a break for it.

  Until…

  “Flora! Flora!” Lars called.

  Great. I’d purposely taken the deserted hallway behind the cafeteria—and miles away from the bus loop—just to avoid getting bogged down by random bullshit. But now Nordic Boy was stalking me like I was a trophy animal he wanted to stuff and mount. And even though I knew better, I let him catch me.

  I turned around slowly, feigning surprise. “Oh, hi. What’s up?”

  Lars thrust open the heavy double doors, and we escaped into the sunlight. “I wanted to ask you if you’d like to have an ice cream with me,” he said with an upbeat smile.

  I frowned to brace him for disappointment. “I don’t know…” I said, sort of wishy-washy.

  He kept at it. “Vivian said the ice cream parlor is closing next week, and I haven’t tried it yet. I thought you might like to join me.”

  Well, that sounded reasonable. And Lars was right; Yummies usually shut down for the season around Columbus Day. Still, I had more important—if not more delicious—things to do.

  “I really…uh…don’t think I can,” I said, letting him down easy. “I have to work.” As far as I was concerned, it was an ironclad excuse. But for some reason, Lars didn’t seem to be buying it.
r />   “We could go when you’re finished,” he offered. “I don’t mind waiting.”

  Now the sensible thing to do, not to mention the smartest move as far as my reputation was concerned, would’ve been to hold my ground and refuse the boy outright. But since we’d sort of become friends—and only friends—after he saved me from the Plastic Twits, there was nothing stopping us from hanging out. It was perfectly fine. A-okay. Peachy keen.

  “Boy, you’re persistent,” I teased.

  He grinned like he knew he had me. “Then you’ll come?”

  “I guess I could. Can I meet you at Yummies in an hour?”

  He shook his head. “You shouldn’t walk alone,” he said flatly. “I’ll take you to work, then we’ll meet again when you’re finished.”

  I looked around, half expecting a vehicle to materialize out of thin air. But when nothing happened, I asked, “Walk, you mean?”

  “Yes. Why not? It’s quite lovely outside. And I enjoy your company.”

  I’d like to blame my weakness on, well, anything but the truth. But as much as it pains me to admit it, my feelings for Lars were starting to change.

  “Okay,” I finally agreed. “Let’s go.”

  Lars just grinned.

  “So why don’t you tell me something about Iceland—in case I go there someday?” I prodded, as we sprinted along in lockstep. “I mean, I don’t want to end up looking like a dope or anything.”

  He chuckled. “It’s very unlikely that someone as charming as you could ever look like a dope,” he said, still laughing at the thought. “But I’ll let you in on some secrets, just in case.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, did you know that Iceland—and particularly Reykjavik, our capital—is very cosmopolitan and chic?”

  “No. Not really,” I admitted, questioning his definition of chic. I mean, as far as I knew, the word might apply to places like Paris, or Milan, or maybe even Tokyo. But Iceland? It was barely on the regular map, let alone the map of culture and couture.

  “It’s true,” he assured me. “We have a long tradition of participating in the arts. Almost everyone writes, or paints, or sculpts, or sings, or plays an instrument. I play the guitar and write poetry—oh, and song lyrics too.”

  Well, I could vouch for that firsthand: Lars Johannsson was definitely a poet. And I guess I hadn’t paid much attention before, but now that he mentioned it, it was pretty obvious that he dressed a little sharper than the rest of us, like he was ready to hit a trendy nightclub at the drop of a hat.

  “That’s cool. Sounds like a real interesting place. I bet you’re bored stiff out here in the middle of nowhere.”

  “No. Of course not. I’m enjoying myself quite a lot,” he promised. “The people are enchanting.” He shot me a quick, mischievous wink, which I could only assume meant he was referring to me.

  “Well, this is it,” I said, with a wave toward the Oglethorpes’ front door. “It usually takes me about an hour to walk the dogs, so I guess we can meet back here then—unless you just want me to meet you at Yummies,” I offered one last time.

  “Absolutely not,” he insisted. “I’ll be right here in one hour.”

  “All righty. You win,” I said. “See you then.”

  And a mere forty-five minutes later, after countless checks of my voicemail for Mick’s nonexistent message, the pups and I emerged from the edge of the park.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” I called, as Snickers and Baby Ruth charged ahead like raging bulls, bouncing me along behind them like a limp rag doll.

  The puppies didn’t respond in the slightest, so I gave their leashes a quick jerk, which might have actually worked if I’d put any real muscle into it.

  Out of nowhere, though, my concern for the runaway puppies was overshadowed by a much more serious problem. A scary, mangy, snarling wild-dog problem. And the problem was prowling right toward Snickers, Baby Ruth, and (gulp!) me with a look of evil destruction in its eyes.

  All I can say is, forget what I said before about wanting a magic button to escape awkward social situations. If there ever was a time for such a fantastic device, this was it—the real deal. Because honest to God, I had no freakin’ clue how I was going to save the puppies—let alone myself—from being ripped to shreds right there on the sidewalk.

  So as I stood paralyzed by fear, the mangy mongrel circled Snickers and Baby Ruth and—in what seemed like slow motion—growled them viciously to my feet, where they twisted around my legs and tripped me to the ground.

  And even though what happened next sounds like some unbelievable coincidence right out of a soap opera script, that doesn’t make it any less true. The puppies were holding their own in a dangerous game of chicken with the blood thirsty mutt when (okay, here’s the unbelievable part) Lars showed up.

  “No! No! Stop!” he shouted anxiously.

  Even though I couldn’t see him, I recognized his voice right away from the accent. And he must have been running pretty fast, too, because the pounding of his feet on the pavement echoed in my ears like someone was dribbling a basketball on my brain.

  “Stop! No! Back!” he continued yelling.

  All three dogs were barking and growling with such intensity that I thought one of them might explode.

  I tried to sit up, but Lars gently pressed his palm to my chest and forced me back to the ground. “Stay down,” he instructed in a whisper. “Don’t move.”

  Okay, I could do that.

  For a few more seconds (which seemed like an eternity), he worked to separate Snickers and Baby Ruth from the mangy mongrel, shooing the puppies aside with one hand while blocking the attack dog’s bites with the other. And I thought he’d successfully saved us all from bodily harm, I really did, when…

  “Ouch! No! Back!” he just about growled.

  I have no idea how the mutt reacted, but Lars had definitely scared me half to death.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, trying to sit up again.

  “Shh. Stay down,” he repeated. “It’s leaving.” He sucked in a pained breath. “Ow. Shoot.”

  That was it. I was done playing the damsel in distress. Obviously, Lars was hurt. And it was my fault. I had to help him.

  I pushed myself up off the grass. “Let me see. What happened?” I said, tugging at his sleeve. I could tell by the way he tucked his hand under his arm that something was wrong.

  Ignoring my question, he had the nerve to ask, “Are you hurt?”

  “You’re hurt,” I said in disbelief. “Let me see.”

  Reluctantly, he gave in. “It’s not very bad. Just a small bite.”

  I wasn’t convinced. I mean, technically he was probably right, since there wasn’t any gushing blood or hanging skin or anything. But there was a clear bite mark near his wrist that looked like someone had pressed a set of plastic vampire teeth into his skin. What really freaked me out, though, was the way the thing was already bubbling up and turning weird colors. It was disgusting.

  “I think you’d better get that checked,” I said, wincing.

  Lars narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think so. Aren’t we going for ice cream?”

  Was this guy for real? How on earth could he be thinking of ice cream at a time like this? I still had to get Snickers and Baby Ruth back to…

  “The dogs!” I screamed.

  I whirled around in a panic, begging God to cut me some slack on something at least. I mean, it was bad enough that my elbow killed from the fall and Lars was ready to start frothing at the mouth at any moment, but now the dogs were missing too?

  “Over there,” Lars said, gesturing back toward the park.

  Sure enough, the puppies were goofing around in the grass with a Golden Retriever. Lars and I jogged over, snatched up their leashes, and took off for the Oglethorpes’—all the while looking over our shoulders to be sure the mutt hadn’t returned to finish us off.

  “Do you think they’re okay?” I asked, when we were safely back on the Oglethorpes’ lawn. Until then, I hadn’t thoug
ht to check if the dogs had been hurt.

  Lars bent down and ran his hand over Snickers then Baby Ruth. “They appear fine,” he reassured me. “I doubt you need to worry.”

  Well, that was a relief.

  “Okay…just let me bring them in, and then we can go to Yummies,” I said, hardly believing the words as they left my lips. “And thanks for rescuing us. You’re my new hero.”

  As soon as I got the puppies settled, I rushed back to Lars’ side. And while we walked, he brought me up to speed on his family back in Iceland. Of course, he wanted to know all about me too, but for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him anything but the bare minimum. After all, Mick was the only one who was entitled to know me so up close and personal, and I intended to keep it that way.

  “Holy…” I mouthed, as Lars and I crossed the street toward Yummies. There must have been at least two or three entire sports teams camped out for banana splits and hot fudge sundaes.

  Lars was impressed too. “Wow, is it always like this here?”

  How naïve. And funny. I had to admit, the boy did have a few charming qualities, even if he was a little hard to discourage in the romance department.

  I chuckled. “Actually, no. This is pretty unusual. I’ve never seen more than, oh, maybe five cars here.”

  “Oh,” Lars said, looking disappointed. I guess maybe he’d been hoping for an outrageous story to tell his buddies back in Iceland. Sadly, though, I’d squashed his dream.

  “What do you want to do?” I asked, figuring I was probably already running late. I mean, God forbid I didn’t make it home in time for my SAT prep course.

  Confused, Lars said, “I’m sorry?”

  “Well, the line’s really long, and I sort of have to get home by a certain time. See, I have this thing to do for the SAT, so…”