I looked at the pad by the phone and saw Mom's tiny writing, as if a small bird had hopped across the page. “Yup, I see it.”
“Okay, well, I guess we'll see you tomorrow then. We won't be late.”
“Okay.”
“Night night.”
“Night.”
She left with a click, a disconnect, a last last chance.
I could see through the living-room window that it was now twilight, almost dark. A guy on a bike zipped past. I closed the drapes. The house was as still as church. The quiet made it creepy.
I went back to the oasis of the couch and pulled my feet up. (You never know what's under there, ready to grab your ankles.) I turned all my attention to the tv, my link to the outside world. There was a mouthwash commercial on. Guy and girl kissing cinnamony sweet. Guys were a mystery. I didn't know what to say to them. My skin goose-pimpled just thinking about it. But today Harry Long asked Warren Crocker about me. Harry Long handsome, exotic, long black hair flying on the lacrosse court, president of the Boys Athletic Association … that Harry Long asked about me! And I ran like a scared rabbit. Tomorrow I wouldn't. Tomorrow I would force myself to look at Harry and smile. (Oh, God.) I'd wear my green sleeveless dress and my hair down, instead of up in a ponytail. Maybe, someday, Harry would come over and we'd sit right here and watch tv. And if nobody was around, he'd take my face in his hand, tilt it up toward his, and we'd look at each other for one soft moment….
I reached back, grabbed a pillow from the couch, and pressed it against my face.
Soft hungry lips touch mine.
Heat flowed into my cheeks and surged down to my toes. The possibility of that kiss was awful and electrifying at the same time. I felt all mixed up inside. Like I was floating. There was a knock at the door.
I sat bolt upright. Could it …? Omygawd … Harry!? Maybe he'd found out where I lived.
I checked myself in the hall mirror, raked fingers through my hair, and scrambled for some witty thing to say as I opened the door.
It wasn't Harry.
It was a man in a navy Windbreaker and white shirt, with a trim haircut. A stranger.
“Hi,” he said, pretty friendlylike.
“Hi.”
“Sorry to bother you at night like this. Is your mother or father here?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Okay well … you know what, then? Thanks … I don't want to trouble you.” He turned to leave.
I just stood there like a dummy not saying anything. He turned back to me.
“I can't really ask you….” He let the “you” dangle.
“What?” I took the bait.
He looked up and down the street, then back at me. “Well, maybe it would be okay….” He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a leather wallet, and flipped it open. There was some kind of gold badge inside. He snapped it shut and returned it to his pocket. He lowered his voice, “I'm a police officer. I've been working in this neighborhood lately, undercover. I'm trying to catch this creep who's been looking in people's windows. You haven't seen anybody, have you?”
I took a step back and shook my head, saying, “No, no, I haven't seen anybody.” I started to close the door.
“No, wait!” His hands shot straight out, parallel to the ground, as if surprised. “I hate to ask this. You're just a kid….”
“What?” The night air was damp, musty smelling. My skin quivered.
“Well, I hate to ask, I really do….” He hesitated.
I waited.
“Okay, here's the thing. I've been trying to catch this guy in the act.” He stepped closer. “So I've been patrolling at night through the backyards around here.”
Oh, God. He's been patrolling. Here. My street. Coburg Road. The chill passed right through me. I shivered noticeably this time, but he didn't say anything.
“I wonder if you could do me a small favor.”
“What's that?” The potato salad began a slow curdle. He was so close now, I could see the threads of his frayed shirt collar.
“I need to draw this guy out. I think part of the problem is, I never know where he will be. If I could set something up, maybe he'd come out of the shadows and I could catch him. What do you think?”
“What do you want me to do?” My heart was pounding.
He smiled at me. We were in this together. A team. “Okay, if you could just go to your room and turn on the light. And get ready for bed, like you usually do. Take your time. Don't rush. And maybe, if we're lucky, he'll see the light, and even before you can take off an earring, I'll have the guy in the car.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “Okay.”
“This is great. Thanks a lot. I mean it. This really helps me because I've come up empty-handed so far and this might do the trick.”
He turned and all but skipped down the steps. When he reached the bottom, he pulled an apple out of the pocket of his Windbreaker and took a big bite. “Dinner,” he said, grinning up at me. I smiled back. He saluted me with the apple, said, “See you,” and headed off along the sidewalk. I closed the door and locked it.
I went down the hall, insides awash in some kind of sick euphoria. I was working undercover, alone in my own house. I turned on the light. My perky little bedroom was like a daisy in a field, all yellow and girlish. A poster hung on the wall behind my bed, a child's painting of a big flower, with the hand-painted words War Is Not Healthy for Children and Other Living Things. My floral bedspread matched the ruffled curtains, right out of Seventeen magazine, now the scene of a secret police operation.
I wouldn't allow myself to look at my window. I stood in the center of the room, not knowing what to do. Get ready for bed, like you usually do, he'd said.
I reached up and undid my shell necklace and slipped it into my hand. The hard edges of the broken shells dug into my palm. This was really happening. I walked over to my dresser and twirled the necklace into the china cup that held my jewelry. I didn't look in the mirror; I was afraid to see my own face. My eyes tugged in the sockets to look over at the window, but I stared into the jewelry cup, at the pile of hair elastics on my dresser top, and at the fly floating in a half-empty glass of Kool-Aid.
I sat down on my bed, with my back to the window. I undid my sandals and took them off slowly. I was doing this for the police. Me. They picked me to help with this. Me, of all people. This was pretty cool, wasn't it? My nose started to run.
I popped the buttons on my blouse, one by excruciating one. Pop, pop, pop, until all ten buttons were undone. I stood up, going through the motions as if I were in a play. I wondered what was happening outside my window. Had the policeman I didn't even know his name caught the guy by now? Are they out there fighting each other? Is he hurt? Dead? I couldn't hear anything. My window was thankfully closed. This gave me the tiniest morsel of comfort.
I pulled at one sleeve and then the other, and my blouse fell away. There I stood in my white bra. I wasn't usually too conscious of my breasts. They're a tad larger than I'd like, but not so much that I gave them much thought. Now they felt like two colossal watermelons strapped to my chest. But I was helping. I needed to do this if they were going to catch the guy. I wiped away an unexpected tear with the back of my hand.
The tears leaked out of the corners of my eyes and dribbled down my face. I reached behind me … he was a policeman … he wouldn't ask me if it wasn't important. … I grasped the clip at the back and tried to undo the hook and eye. It wouldn't budge. I tugged, but it wouldn't give. He wouldn't ask if it wasn't necessary, and I… tugging … I can … tugging … I can do this.
I could not.
I snatched up my blouse from the floor and hurled myself to the wall. Stuffing myself into my shirt, I fumbled with the buttons. Please close. I reached out and yanked the curtains shut, all but tearing them right off the rod. I slammed off the light and ran from room to room, making sure every window and door was locked. I could hear myself wailing, but felt like I was watching the hysterics from a dis
tant corner.
Back in the living room, my breath heaved out in great weeping sobs. I made for the safety of my couch and sat there, numb. I thought I would crawl right out of my skin. Every creak, every movement of the wind, was the man trying to get in. I prayed hard that the good policeman had found the bad boogeyman outside and, by now, were miles from here on their way to a big concrete jail cell. Please let him be caught and far away. I'm alone here.
I needed something normal, so I turned on the tv. A comedian laughing, telling a joke. I couldn't hear a thing. I hugged the Harry Long pillow and buried my face.
The early-morning light found me slumped over the pillow, with one foot on the floor. I guess, at some point, despite everything, my body insisted on falling asleep. But I'd had my foot ready in case I needed to make a run for it. That thought made me laugh a little, and my mood lifted as the sun came into the room.
I got brave and walked into my bedroom. I went to my closet and took out the green sleeveless dress. Then, as if it was nothing, I went to the window and tucked the curtains carefully behind the brass hooks that held them open. I took a breath and looked out.
The backyard was empty the way it always looked. Just your average backyard, with one plum tree, two strips of flower beds, and a wooden picnic table. Except the picnic table wasn't where it was supposed to be.
It had been moved out from under the plum tree, dragged up close to the house, and placed right in line with my bedroom window.
The green dress slipped out of my hand and pooled on the floor. I sank onto the bed and thought about what I was seeing. I didn't want to believe it. I lay back and rolled onto my side, away from the window.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. You could be dead.
On the picnic table, sitting there plain-as-you-please, was an apple core.
Issues
TED STAUNTON
I did not know I had maturity issues until last month, when my sixteenth birthday happened to match up with the Valentine dance at school. I did something dumb that led to me throwing up on the principal's shoes. It didn't help that she was in them at the time.
The principal was pretty cool about it and so were my parents. Still, after all the apologizing and the automatic suspension and the way I felt like a dead rat in a blender all weekend (not to mention cleaning the shoes), I had a nagging feeling that maybe I needed to requalify on the trust factor.
Remember, sixteen means driver's license. Which means freedom. Oh, yes, yes, yes. Thinking about getting the car is right up there with thinking about the amazingly flexible girl on page forty-three of the magazine my brother does not know that I know is in the back of his closet. And getting the car is actually within reach, if I'm responsible. No way would I let blowing odiferous chunks on the principal's shoes screw up my chances, especially since I was signed up to take my Driver's Ed. course on the March break.
So when Mom said that she and Dad were invited to Aunt Beth's for spring skiing at the beginning of that week, it was my chance to show I could do better, that I was mature and responsible.
“It's not that we don't trust you, Josh,” Mom said. “It's just that you've never been on your own before.”
True. Before, it was always my brother and me. He's at university now. Where he's probably very mature. Hah.
“That's okay. Trevor can stay over.” Trevor is my best friend. We have a band called Flush Puppies. “And we wouldn't be up really late because we've got Driver's Ed. We could call his parents if we need to. We want to do some songwriting anyway, so the quiet would be good.”
My parents mulled this over.
“And … it would give me a chance to show … I can be mature?” The ending wimped out, but it worked.
Which is why I'm on the porch on Sunday afternoon, waving good-bye. They'll be home Tuesday, after supper. Tonight, I'm on my own. Trevor is set for Monday night.
When the van turns the corner, I go sit in the old blue Toyota we got from Grandpa. Soon, this could be mine. Oh, yes, yes, yes. I just have to prove my maturity I practice my move from accelerator to brake and back, which is not comfortable in socks. My feet get cold and I go inside.
Without my family, I can feel the silence. The furnace ticks. The house is gloriously empty yet stocked with essentials: chips, microwave popcorn, hot dogs, buns, pizza pockets, ice cream, chocolate sauce, peanut butter, bread, cookies, chocolate milk, iced tea, cereal with extra sugar, and fruit and veggies for emergencies. I must watch four horror movies, play a soccer video game, and pick some tunes on the guitar. Oh, yes, yes, yes, I'm free. If it wasn't for driving, I might never go outside again.
I don't go out till Monday morning, when Trevor arrives to pick me up for Driver's Ed. I have a little problem even then because I've stacked the dining-room chairs against the front door. There were noises outside at three in the morning.
When I finally get the door open, a few snowflakes swirl in. Trevor is standing there shivering, in a hoodie and surfer shorts. His mom is waiting in the car.
“What took you?” he says.
“I was shaving,” I say.
“What's with all the chairs?”
“Mice,” I say.
Being Mr. Responsible, I have my keys and lunch money. I lock the door behind me.
Driver's Ed. is at our school. Mornings are in the classroom and afternoons are on the road. Trevor and I have agreed to be in the same car. Then I see Sarah Riley She is right up there with driving and the girl on page forty-three. She is gorgeous, has major brains, and a great sense of humor. This I know because she practically always laughs at my jokes. I've wanted to ask her out ever since she broke up with her university boyfriend at Christmas, but she was sick for a while, then we had exams, and then there were my maturity issues.
As we come in, Sarah is helping Matt sit down. Matt is not disabled or anything, he's hard core. Among other things, this means he wears girl's jeans for extra tightness. There is some definite stitch-popping as he bottoms out.
“Stink,” Matt says, being Christian and not a swearing guy.
Trevor calls, “Hey, Matt, did you just enter the rrr-i-ip zo-o-one?” Trevor always bleats like a sheep for his punch lines.
“Stink, I hope not.” Matt angles up his butt; it's Boxers on Parade. “Stink.”
“Don't worry,” Sarah says, “no one will notice. I had that happen to me once, with the same jeans,” which just goes to show how nice she is. She smiles at me, ignoring Trevor. “Hi.”
I smile back, maturely. “The perils of hard core,” I banter, thus showing I am sensitive and cool enough to rise above silly trends. I am also floating six inches off the ground, thanks to her smile. I have to ask her out.
Sarah laughs and sits down beside Matt. I sit down beside her. Trevor parks it beside me. “Incoming,” he announces, and farts.
I spend the rest of the morning veering between the rules of the road and wishing I'd been there to help when Sarah split her jeans. She keeps turning to Matt, clearly to avoid Trevor, who is panting all over her. Much as I hate to, I'm going to have to ditch him for the afternoon.
And Sarah, oh, yes, yes, yes, makes it happen. At lunch, while Trevor is showing how he can fit an entire pizza slice in his mouth, she whispers to me, “I asked if you and Matt and I could be in the same car. I don't want to be mean or anything, but Trevor keeps saying he wants to drive with me and I don't think that's such a good idea.”
“No problem.” I give her a sympathetic nod and take a small bite of my own slice. A mature, polite, small bite. I make sure to wipe my hands, on my jeans.
Our time together does not start well. I've forgotten my learner's permit. It's Trevor's fault really, because he rushed me this morning. Our instructor says we'll drive over and get it.
We get there and I run into the house. I head for the den, making a mental note to turn off all the lights later. I'm going so fast, I don't see the magazine on the carpet, still open to page forty-three. I step on it and shoot forward, catching the toaster
cord with my shin. I'd brought the toaster into the den for easier toast-making. There is a blue flash as the plug yanks from the wall outlet and the toaster topples off the coffee table. I, meanwhile, plow a sensitive area of my lower self into a corner of Dad's recliner chair. My wallet is on the seat.
I limp back out to the car.
“You okay?” everyone asks.
“A-1,” I flute.
During the afternoon, there is a lot to concentrate on, while my crotch is still feeling as if it lost an argument with a cement mixer. Plus, Sarah is watching as I adjust the seat, check the mirrors, fasten the seat belt, shift to DRIVE no, wait press the brake, shift to DRIVE-no, wait start the car, press the brake, shift to DRIVE…. Freedom is complicated.
Still, by the time Trevor and I get back to my place, I'm feeling better. I have driven around town without hitting anything. My only mess-up was pulling out the cigarette lighter instead of turning on the windshield wipers. Plus, I have spent time in the backseat of a car with Sarah Riley We were ten inches apart and restrained by seat belts, but still. I could feel the chemistry. Tomorrow, I'm definitely going to ask her out; tonight is PFGT: Parent-Free Guy Time.
We squeeze in past the chairs. Trevor puts down his guitar case and bleats, “I hereby declare this a pa-a-a-nts-o-o-optional zo-one.” Since he is already wearing shorts and his boxers hang to his knees, it doesn't make much difference, but I understand. In a PF environment, the just-boxers approach to life is way more sensible.
“Cool,” I say, and take my cords off. In fact, it is cool. I crank the thermostat.
“Excellent,” says Trevor, padding into the kitchen. “I must have he-ee-at. Did you get iced tea? As your attorney, I advise you that we need iced tea.” I hear the ca-snk of a can being opened. “Ah …,” Trevor says, then, “man, I gotta whiz.”
He's off. Being majorly hungry, I scarf a quick six cookies before cracking a tea for myself. The sound of a flush rolls down the hall.
“How come all the lights are on?” Trevor asks, heading into the den.
First Times Page 5
