by A. E. Cannon
I blinked in surprise. Where did that come from?
“Actually, I was going to say that your name is a real mouthful,” I said.
Scout’s mouth popped open. Then she whooped out a huge, husky laugh.
“A very nice mouthful,” I added suddenly.
To tell you the truth, mouths were pretty much on my mind just then, and I found myself wondering what it would feel like to kiss Scout.
The evening air between us grew very still. Everything stopped, even the sound of crickets. I leaned toward her. She leaned toward me. I wondered briefly if our noses would bump but decided I didn’t care.
To hell with noses, I always say!
So we kissed. It was a real kiss, too. Not a screen one.
When we were through, I leaned back happily in my bucket seat and looked up. I swear the moon winked at me before slipping behind a cloud.
Thank you, moon, I said in my head, for granting me my wish—a wish so secret and so deep that I didn’t know what it was.
Until now.
“Oh Ed,” Scout breathed.
And then she burst into tears. For real.
She burst into tears and she tossed me out of Ben’s car. Then she floored it all the way down the street, but not before she yelled, “I hate you, Ed! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
She wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
The next thing I knew, Quark was leaping over the low hedge between our houses like a giraffe on steroids and coming straight for me. He’d probably been standing out on his stupid front porch the whole time, watching everything.
I squawked in a very non-Sergio-esque way. “QUARK!”
He answered me with his fist. I’m pretty sure he meant to punch me in the nose, but his blow glanced off the side of my face instead.
“Aw, shit, Quark!” I yelped. “You slugged me in the freaking ear.”
“TRAITOR!” He spat out the word loud enough for me to hear it in spite of the fact I was rapidly going deaf in one ear. He paused to let it sink in. Then he spewed it at me again. “TRAITOR!”
The word rang to the ends of the street and back again.
I’d kissed Scout. The first girl of Quark’s first dreams of first love. The reality of what I’d just done hit me like a hockey puck to the chest.
“Quark,” I fumbled. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I TRUSTED YOU!” He roared.
I looked at him under the streetlight. Shaking. Wild-eyed and wild-haired. Nine years old again. Waiting for his mom to come home.
“Oh, Quark. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I started to pray to God with real intent that Quark would hit me in the other ear. God knew how much I deserved it.
Instead, my best friend did something that hurt even more: He flattened me with one last look full of pain before stalking back into his house.
THE EMAIL ELLIE WANTED TO SEND
SUBJECT: At last. Eyes opened.
To J.
Why wasn’t I suspicious?
I should have known that something was wrong when I started lying to my mother and my grandmother—the women who’ve given me everything, even when they didn’t have it to give.
At first I told myself I was just trying to spare them. I was fine! But I knew they wouldn’t believe that.
A college boy? I could imagine Grandma saying, You don’t want to get involved with a college boy, Ellie. Not yet anyway.
Mom would worry too. She’d had me when she was my age and she wanted things to be different for me.
So that’s why I lied to them that day you and I drove up Snow Canyon to Pine Valley. You wanted to visit Pine Valley because you’d read about it in a guidebook on western ghost towns. The old white church and the pioneer tombstones and the lilac bushes that have bloomed every spring for a hundred years intrigued you. We could spread a blanket and have a picnic and read love poems by Pablo Neruda together.
What high-school boy would think to do that? Whisk me away to a place filled with lilacs and ghosts?
No one I knew.
And what high-school boy would kiss me the way you did after you read to me, make me ache with desire for the sound of words and the feel of you on me like a second skin, both cool and warm?
Same answer.
I told Mom and Grandma that I was spending the day in the canyon with some of my college classmates, and because I had always told them the truth, they believed me.
I also lied to Claire and Maddy when they saw us at the Foodmart on our way there. Remember them?
“Hey!” I waved at them when they burst through the door. “What are you two doing here?”
“Dad has work in Veo, and he told us we could help!” Maddy said with pride. “He’s out in the truck, waiting for us.”
I turned to you then. “I used to babysit these two when I was in middle school.”
“She was our favorite babysitter ever!” Claire said.
“I can imagine,” you said, and winked at me. I nearly melted. Then you excused yourself and slipped away to the restroom.
“Who’s that?” Claire asked.
I wanted to turn cartwheels and shout out the truth. Instead I said you were a friend from the college.
“Phew!” said Maddy. “I was afraid you were going to say he’s your boyfriend.”
I laughed. A little too loudly.
“No boyfriends for me, silly girl!” I paused. “But why are you glad he’s not my boyfriend?”
Maddy wrinkled up her nose. “Because he’s too old.”
“He is not!” I said.
“Yeah,” said Claire. “He is.”
A horn blared outside.
“That’s Dad!” Maddy said to Claire. “I’ll get the drinks and you get the chips.” They scampered away like cats at feeding time.
I stood here, stung. Twenty-two is not THAT much older than sixteen.
Or so I thought.
With eyes wide open,
Ellie
Scout’s Take
I told him I hated him. Not just once either. I told him multiple times.
He’ll never speak to me again. Ever ever ever.
I strip off my Reel Life uniform and throw it onto the pile of clothes in my closet. Then I flop down onto my bed in my underwear and sob into my pillow.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?
For months I have dreamed of the moment when Ed (finally) looks at me “with desire.” And he did. He so so SO did. Tonight. More than once. He even kissed me as we sat together listening to Annie Lennox purr “Love Is a Stranger” on the radio in Ben’s car.
Okay. Before I go on here, I want to stop for a minute and think some more about The Kiss. I’ll leave it to the romance writers to fill you in on the mechanics of the thing. Instead, I want to concentrate on how it made me feel.
Ed’s kiss was like eating raspberries straight from the garden—sweet and hot as the summer sun—raspberries that burst on your tongue and stain your lips with scarlet juices so that you can still taste the memory of the fruit long after the fruit is gone.
I love raspberries and I loved Ed’s kiss, which made me feel strong and beautiful.
UNTIL IT MADE ME FEEL GUILTY.
And now I understand why I told Ed that I hate him—he made me forget all about Ellie.
Here’s the part I didn’t mention when he looked at me “with desire.” While Ellie and I were shelving DVDs, she said she thought it would be fun if the two of us started hanging out and asked for my cell phone number and email address. Then she confessed to me that she might like Sergio, otherwise known as Ed.
So what would you do if someone shared a secret like this with you? Would you go out THAT VERY NIGHT and start kissing THAT VERY BOY?
And here’s another thing.
I hated Ed because after all these months he has finally given me what I wanted.
And now I am even more afraid.
FROM THE LAB BOOK OF QUENTIN ANDREWS O’ROURKE
References to t
he moon turn up in the most unlikely of places.
For example. I was flipping through a book of poems tonight and found the archaic term “moon-cursor,” which comes from the seventeenth century.
The footnote explained that a moon-cursor was a decoy—a boy who offered to lead travelers to safety by the light of his lantern on moonless nights. Only instead of taking them to the nearest inn, the moon-cursor led them straight to a gang of thieves waiting to rob them.
Moon-cursor.
Thy name is Ed.
JUNE 20
ED’S TURN
So here’s how things stand when I go to work: Both of my best friends totally hate my guts.
Gee. Ain’t life grand?
I punch in and check the schedule to see if Scout is working with me. She’s not, and to tell you the truth, I am really glad. I definitely need some time to figure stuff out.
Unfortunately, I am working with T. Monroe, who’s telling me (again) about the time he turned himself into the police when he discovered he was going five miles per hour over the speed limit in his minivan.
“Really, T. Monroe?” I say to him through clenched teeth. “I didn’t think it was aerodynamically possible to break the speed limit in a minivan.”
At the moment I hate T. Monroe for being such a self-righteous minivan-driving moron.
As you can easily tell, I’m having a very bad day—a bad day that only gets worse. Remember that guy in the locker room who I snapped with my towel? The guy who looked exactly like Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger? The guy I hoped to never ever meet again in this life? Or the next?
SURPRISE!
Well, he just sauntered into the store. No kidding.
The false Arnold strolls casually to the counter where I am working and gives me one of his false-Arnold smiles.
“I’m looking for some dude named Sergio.” He says this like he’s issuing an invitation to a rumble. It’ll be me and him and our boys. The Sharks and the Jets at Pioneer Park on the west side of Salt Lake City. Midnight.
I gulp, hoping he won’t recognize me. “I’m a guy named Sergio. See? It says right here on my name tag.”
The smile stays on Arnold’s face, but his eyes narrow as he holds out his boxing glove of a hand. “I’m Rick. Mary and Ellie’s Rick. I understand we’ve both done time in Brazil.”
Rick. Senhor Rick.
My stomach drops like a loose elevator on its way straight to the cellar of a very tall building. I cannot believe this. Rick is False Arnold—the guy I once assaulted with a wet towel.
“Pleased to meet you, Rick,” I lie, offering my hand. Rick casually takes it, mangles it, and returns it to me—a mere shadow of the hand that it used to be.
“Como vai?” he says, leaning across the counter so that his face is just inches from mine. I feel his hot breath.
Lucky for me, I’ve been prepped for this one. “Oh you know. Same as always.”
Rick pulls back a little and studies me like I am material for the world’s easiest pop quiz. He rattles off line after line of fluent Portuguese, then finishes up with an easy smile.
“Sim,” I say. I attempt to laugh lightly, but instead I accidentally make a snorting noise. Also, I am sweating. Heavily, like Ed and not like Sergio.
“Sim?” Rick’s eyebrows shoot up in mock confusion.
I nod.
“But I didn’t ask you a yes-or-no question. I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.”
But of course he does understand. Perfectly.
Just my luck. The United States of America is probably full of amazingly stupid bodybuilders who don’t speak a single word of Portuguese. Why does Mary the Big, Bad, Mean Roller Derby Queen have to know a smart one?
LIFE IS SO UNFAIR.
“Houston,” Rick says, cracking his oversized knuckles, “we’ve got a problem.”
“Apollo 13. Tom Hanks. 1993.” I buzz in with the correct response. If I were handing out Oscars, I’d present one right now to Senhor Rick for Best Adaptation of a Famous Screen Line for Personal Use.
Rick chooses not to be diverted by my friendly game-show banter. “Mary asked me to check you out, Sergio.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “I guess she has a right to be suspicious.”
I don’t say anything, just bow my head like some poor stupid dog who knows he’s gonna get the crap kicked out of him by Arnold S.
Rick shoves his Arnold S. face back into mine. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, dude, but I want you to count Ellie out.”
I swallow and nod, fear and shame coursing through my veins like salmon swimming upstream.
“I’m giving you a choice,” Rick went on, “because I’m fair like that. Either you come clean with her, or I’ll do it for you. Okay?”
“I’ll tell her myself,” I say.
“Is that right? Well, I’m the kind of guy who appreciates details,” Rick says. “Exactly when will you clear up this misunderstanding?” He cracks his knuckles again, which reminds me of bones breaking.
My bones.
“This afternoon,” I promise. No birds like stars then. No picnics with banana fritas for dessert. No moonlight.
I stand up straight, square my shoulders, and look Rick straight in the eye. “Tell her to come by. I get off work at four.”
Rick nods slowly. “Okay then.” He backs up and looks me over. Is it just my imagination, or do I see a glimmer of respect in his eyes?
Nah. It’s just my imagination.
“We’re protective of Ellie, Mary and me,” Rick says. “You aren’t the first guy that’s lied to her.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Seems like I’ve heard you say those words once before,” says Rick. “You had a gym towel in your hand that time.”
Can this possibly get any more humiliating?
“Apologize to Ellie,” Rick said. “And if you don’t, I want you to remember something.”
“Yes?”
“I’ll be back….”
It’s a couple of minutes before four, and T. Monroe is asking me if I think it’s blasphemous for a believing person (like himself) to watch actors (probably sinners) portray Christ (definitely not a sinner) on the silver screen.
“I wouldn’t know,” I say. “I try not to think about stuff like that, and frankly I think it would be better for your mental health if you didn’t either. You’re driving yourself crazy over phantoms, T. Monroe. Save your guilt for something real.”
“Such as?” he huffs. Clearly T. Monroe does not want to be beaten in the Guilt Derby.
“SUCH AS SCREWING OVER INNOCENT PEOPLE WHO TRUST YOU!” I snap. “NOW THAT’S A REAL SIN!”
I’m on edge, as you can clearly tell.
“Hi, everybody!” Ellie breezes through the door as if on cue, bathing both T. Monroe and me in one of her radiant Ellie smiles.
T. Monroe looks like the heavens have parted and he’s just seen a vision. He greets Ellie, full of Christian love and fellowship.
I smile weakly at Ellie, conscious of the fact that she won’t be wanting smiles from me soon enough. “I gotta punch out and then I’ll join you. We—we need to talk.”
Ellie gives a light, unconcerned shrug as she twirls her beautiful long hair with her beautiful long fingers. For all she knows, I could be planning to ask her if we could swap banana frita recipes.
“Rick said you wanted to see me about something,” she says.
I swallow and nod (also weakly), then leave her standing with T. Monroe while I fly to the back office to punch out. I throw open the office door and jump—eek!—in surprise. I thought Ali was gone, but here he is sitting at his desk.
He swivels around. Deliberately and slowly. For the first time ever, he takes his sunglasses completely off to look at me, only I get the distinct impression that he’s looking through me—directly into the dark heart of Ed McIff, where strange and unknown evils lurk.
I turn away from his gaze and find my time card.
“What are you about, baby
?” he asks as I punch out. His voice sounds like distant thunder rolling down Mount Sinai.
I slip my time card back into its slot and turn around to face him. Also deliberately. Also slowly. I look at him straight. Eye to eye. Ojo a ojo.
“I’m getting ready to take care of a little personal business, Ali,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow night at the party.”
He nods like he’s not sure he believes me and returns to business of his own.
From the time Rick left until the moment Ellie walked through the door, I have been stewing about how to tell her the truth. Should I buy her a nice dinner first, then break the news? Or should we go for a walk, possibly past a grocery store where I can go inside and buy her a rose from the cooler? Should the two of us return to Liberty Park, where we can remember our first kiss and also feed a few ducks?
Would any of this make her feel better?
Or am I just stalling?
As soon as we walk outside into the parking lot, I decide to tell her the sorry truth and get it over with. A hot breeze picks up and an empty Burger King bag skitters past our feet. I sigh. Telling her the truth beneath a remorseless sun in a parking lot seems appropriate somehow. A dreary setting for a story with a dreary ending.
“So what did you want to tell me, Sergio?” Ellie asks, her face glowing. She reaches out and tenderly smoothes back the hair that has fallen into my face, and I realize that I am truly hating every guy who has ever lied to her—especially myself.
I take her wrist gently and hold her eyes with mine.
“Ellie, I am a fraud.”
She’s still smiling, but confusion steals like a cloud across her sunny summer face.
“My name isn’t Sergio. It’s Ed. Ed McIff.”
“But your name tag…,” she falters.
“It belonged to someone who worked here before I did.”
“So you’re not really from Brazil,” she says slowly, tasting the bitter implications of her words.
I shake my head. “No, although I know somebody who lives in Brazil. Ben. Scout’s big brother.” Like THAT matters. I give it a try, however, because I am just desperate enough to fill the chasm growing between us with talk, no matter how lame.
