Rowanne was in the Oliver! number, and Hector watched her from behind the rows of folding chairs. He was also scanning the crowd, still looking for Meadow, but without expecting to find her. He had been looking for her all day as he walked around with Lenny, Patty, and Phil. A couple of times he was sure he had seen her from behind, her dark, curly mop of hair, but each time it was another girl who turned around. A girl who had the dark cloud of hair, but not the dancing stars in her eyes.
He had mentioned Meadow to Phil. But little by little, the hope that she would be there turned into the feeling that she might not, and then the almost-certainty that she wasn’t coming. He wasn’t that surprised, really. Seldem Days would probably seem dumb if you weren’t from Seldem. It was dumb even if you were from Seldem. It was something he could make a joke about next time he saw her. Once he decided she wasn’t coming after all, Hector’s attention shifted to the festival events and his friends, and he started to enjoy himself.
He and Patty danced several athletic polkas under the big tent set up on the tennis court, to the music of Jimmy’s Polka Bandits. Phil and Lenny stayed over on the sidelines, shifting their weight from side to side or leaning back on the cyclone fence. You could tell just by looking that they had no intention of stepping out on the dance floor.
It was beyond Hector how anyone could hear this music without dancing. He had to count out loud to get it right, but he knew a few turns, and now he picked up a couple of new moves from watching the more experienced polka-ers spinning around them.
When the “Twirl Your Hankie Polka” was announced, he and Patty cast wildly about for something to employ as a hankie. Lenny loped over and pulled a folded cotton print bandana from his pocket.
“But we both need one,” said Patty.
Lenny smiled his funny little grin, tore an edge of the cloth with his teeth and ripped it into two pieces. He did this with an air of gallantry, and Patty and Hector were briefly impressed until the music started up and they had to dance or be trampled.
It was a minor miracle that Patty danced through the entire set of polka music without falling from or tripping in the platform sandals she had finally persuaded her mother to buy for her. But as they left the tennis court and stepped onto the grass, her foot came down and then down farther, into a rabbit hole. She tipped over and fell, letting out a yelp. The three boys helped her up and supported her, hopping, to the nearest bench, where they decided to wait a few minutes to see if her injury was temporary or more serious.
They happened to be not far from a booth where the Kiwanis Club was selling elephant ears, immense pinwheels of fried pastry coated in sugar, and cups of lemonade. Healing foods, thought Hector. He went over, bought one of each and started back. It was his intention to split the large pastry four ways, but he couldn’t resist first just taking a warm sugary bite from what was going to be his quadrant. As he did so, a familiar voice, coming from his left, said, “Whoa, Hector, better watch it. Those things can make you fat, you know.”
He turned and saw Dan Persik’s face.
And he saw Meadow, smiling her summer day smile as if Dan had said something that was actually funny.
He saw that they were holding hands. Also in his montage of awarenesses, he imagined how he must look, all sweated up from dancing and with a pastry the size of a hubcap dangling from his solitary mouth. He thought of how he disliked Dan Persik. And how he liked Meadow, a lot. He remembered how Meadow had said, “We’ll probably come.” He had assumed “we” meant Meadow and her cousin Robin. Did “we” mean Meadow and Dan Persik? Were they already a “we"?
Hector chewed his bite and swallowed it, because he had already bitten it off and there was nothing else he could do. He didn’t taste it. Swallowing without saliva was difficult. The doughy lump lodged in his throat. A sip of lemonade moved it only a fraction of an inch.
Continuing with his stupid joke, Dan Persik said, “Yeah, those things are full of calories.”
That’s a big word for you, isn’t it? thought Hector. Then he said, “Thanks for the tip. I’ll have to remember that from now on.”
And in some kind of a grand impulsive gesture, he tossed the elephant ear away as if it were a Frisbee. He didn’t even look to see where he was tossing it. He didn’t care.
But when he heard someone say, “Oof,” and saw Meadow’s eyes widen, he stole a quick peek. The elephant ear lay broken in the grass, at the feet of an elderly woman who was gingerly rubbing her throat and brushing sugar from the bodice of her dress.
“Score,” said Dan.
Hector watched from the corner of his eye as she looked around, said something to her husband, and moved on.
God, he thought. I could have killed her. Remorse and humiliation saturated the already existing lousiness of the situation. The only positive feeling he felt was a grain of relief, a huge grain, but still just a grain, that the old lady was okay. He glanced back at her to make sure she was still walking. She was.
What a complete and total idiot I am, he thought. What an ass.
He was still standing in a conversational grouping with Dan and Meadow. He had no idea what to do next.
“On the other hand, I think I’d better postpone my new diet,” he said. “It could be dangerous to other people’s health.”
And he exited, stage right.
Phil, just two yards away on the bench, had seen and heard it all as it happened. Hector sat down beside him.
“What an idiot,” Hector said. During his short walk to the bench, he had transferred the mantle of stupidity to the broad shoulders of Dan Persik. He had to do it. He could beat himself up later.
“ ‘Better watch out, Hector. Those things make you fat.’ He can’t even insult me in an original way.”
“You should have said, ‘At least my fat isn’t all in my head,'” suggested Phil, who had been thinking about it.
“I should have said—I don’t even know what I should have said. His stupidness is contagious. It’s like a disease. A cloud of contagion that infects everyone around him. That must be why girls drool all over him; they become stupid and they can’t help themselves.”
“Girls drool over him because he’s a hunk,” said Patty, joining in the discussion.
“A hunk of what?” said Hector. “What is so great about being big and strong and stupid?”
“And handsome,” added Patty. “Big, strong, stupid, and handsome.”
“What is so great about that?” asked Hector.
“Gee, I don’t know,” said Patty. Just a little sarcastically. “I guess it wouldn’t be anything like being pretty and twinkly and looking good in a halter top. Or having a nice tan—hey, there’s a reason to like someone.”
Hector saw what she was getting at, but he didn’t think it applied. He liked Meadow for her inner beauty. Which happened, in her case, to be accompanied by outer beauty. He thought her outer beauty might even be a result of her inner beauty. A time-honored line of reasoning that encompasses both truth and quicksand. He hoped his own inner self was somehow visible from the outside. It had to be, somehow.
“I’m a hunk in my soul,” he said.
“A hunk of what?” said Lenny.
“Fried dough,” said Hector. “Smothered in sugar.” It was an easy joke.
Then he added, “Faster than a speeding bullet. More powerful than a locomotive. Able to wipe out old ladies in a single throw.”
I’m a cartoon, he thought. My life is a cartoon.
Patty and Phil smiled, Lenny guffawed. They could see that steam was still coming out of Hector’s ears. Lenny asked Patty how her ankle was feeling. He helped her up and she leaned on his arm for support while she hobbled in a circle, carefully testing her injured leg.
Phil, watching them, said quietly to his friend, “You can make all the jokes you want, but that was her, right? And she’s here with that moron.”
Hector nodded as he found a sugary crumb on his face near his mouth, looked at it on his fingertip, and touched it t
o his tongue, where it dissolved in a brief sweetness.
Dan Persik and Meadow moved on through the fair.
Now and then Hector saw them go here and go there. When he did, he averted his eyes. But they would go back, just for a few seconds, the way fingertips return involuntarily to a wound to see if it still hurts, to find out whether it feels any different than it did a minute ago. It felt the same each time he checked.
Dan and Meadow were having a good time. They weren’t doing it to spite anyone. It’s just fun to be a healthy beautiful young person walking around on a sunny afternoon with another healthy beautiful young person. A lot of fun. They shared their golden selves with the world, and the world smiled back.
The warm apple dumpling booth stopped Dan in his tracks.
“Whoa,” he said. He said “whoa” a lot. Or maybe it was “Wo.”
“I have to have one of these. They’re amazing. Have you ever had one?”
“No,” said Meadow. “But I don’t think I can eat anything else for a little while.”
“I’m not really hungry, either,” said Dan. “But these are so good. And if I don’t eat one now, I have to wait a whole year.
“I have dreams about these,” he said to the three grandmotherly women who were serving. They cackled merrily. One of them handed him his paper plate, already capsizing with warm, soggy dumpling. Another said, “They do seem to have a powerful effect on people.” The third called out, “Enjoy!”
“I think I have to sit down to eat this,” said Dan. “It’s leaking all over the place.”
They scanned the picnic tables for an opening, spotted one, and made their way toward it. The only people sitting at the table were Russell Kebbesward and his little sister, Annette. Russell was in a band uniform; Annette was still dressed as a ragamuffin orphan. She had been in the “Food, Glorious Food” number.
Meadow greeted them and asked if Annette was Russell’s sister. There was a resemblance. She noticed Annette’s costume, and the two girls fell into a conversation about the history play, and then about Oliver! Watching Dan eat had been entertaining for a while, but Meadow was beginning to get a little bored with it.
Dan was immersed in the perfection of his dumpling. The tartness of the apple, mellowed and softened by baking; the hot, gooey cinnamon-sugary apple juices inside the tender flaky crust; the melting ice cream … he scarfed it down. And then, too late, his stomach reminded him of what was already down in there: Hot dogs. Chicken. French fries. Corn on the cob.
His stomach’s burgeoning size crowded his heart, especially the underdeveloped kindness lobe. He felt annoyed that Meadow was talking to Annette. Annoyed that he was sitting with Russell Kebbesward.
Russell was trying to eat a chicken dinner without getting grease on his band uniform. He thought he should say something friendly to Dan. Meadow had been friendly when they sat down, and Dan had made a grunting noise that might have been friendly. Now Meadow and Annette were talking. He thought he should say something to Dan. Now that they were in the same guitar class and everything.
“Have you been practicing your guitar?” he asked.
“Huh?” said Dan, when he realized Russell had spoken to him.
“Have you been practicing your guitar?” Russell repeated.
Dan looked at him, briefly, as if Russell were a rock he had stubbed his toe on. Then he reached across the table, gently put his hand on Meadow’s arm, and said, “I’m done. Let’s go.”
There was a barely perceptible subdermal movement near his tailbone. There was a slight bray in his voice.
It was all still reversible.
Later, sitting in the grass waiting for the fireworks to get started, Hector absentmindedly pulled up a daisy and began picking the white petals off, one by one. Whatever natural light was left to the day had retreated to the daisies scattered in the dark grass and to white shirts sprinkled through the crowd. He pulled the petals off till they were gone, and all that was left was the yellow-gold circle, dimmer than the white, but still visible.
It was funny, he thought, how up until you pulled the last petal off, it was beautiful. A symbol of love. But once your fortune was told, it didn’t remind anyone of love anymore and it wasn’t beautiful. It was a mutilated flower. A deflowered flower. Something to throw away. He yanked up another one and did it again. She loves me, she loves me not. The words said themselves automatically in his head. Halfway around, he changed the words to she loves me not, she loves me not, she loves me not, she loves me not, she loves me not, she loves me not, she loves me not, she loves me not, she loves me not, she loves me not, she loves me not. There. The perfect emblem for him. He slid it into a buttonhole of his shirt.
Despite his mood, he couldn’t help noticing a catchy rhythm going through his brain. When he paid attention, he heard the words that ran through it:
she loves me not,
she loves me,
she loves me not,
she loves me,
she loves me not, she loves me not, she loves me not,
she loves me not.
The faint voice in his head was singing with a Caribbean accent. The rhythm had maracas, it might be calypso. Or a samba. Something Latin, he really didn’t know. He tried to hear the melody, to guess what the chords might be. He was thinking A—D—A.
A—D—A—something.
CHAPTER 26
Somewhere Else
What they decided was to go to the bus station, get on the first bus that came through, and get off at the next place it stopped, no matter where it was. They would spend a few hours there, then come back. It was an experiment.
They thought of it while they were excavating last autumn’s rotting dead leaves and maybe the rotting dead leaves from the year before that from Mrs. Bruning’s deep window wells so there would be room for this year’s dead leaves. They were talking about Seldem versus California. Debbie thought California had to be better. More interesting.
“It has to be,” she said, raking the leaves over to join the ivy they had pulled away from the downstairs windows.
“Not necessarily,” said Peter. “You can be bored or interested anywhere. I get bored in California. But it is interesting to go someplace else. I really like how when you go somewhere for the first time, everything seems unusual. Should we do the gutters next?”
“We probably should,” said Debbie. “Hold on a second and I’ll help you with the ladder.”
She finished herding her pile up to the growing biomass and set down her rake.
“There’s nothing unusual here,” she said. “It’s very usual.”
“Not to me,” said Peter.
“Name one thing,” said Debbie. “One unusual thing.”
“Okay,” said Peter. He thought for a minute. “People here say ‘yinz.’ ”
“That’s not how you say it,” said Debbie. “It’s ‘y’ns.’ Almost like there’s no vowel. Or it can be like in ‘book.’ Not everyone says it, though. I don’t. You think that’s interesting?”
“Kind of,” said Peter. “I’ve never heard people say it anywhere else. There are other things that are probably more interesting. That’s just an easy one to point out.”
They had propped the ladder against the old house, and he climbed up to empty the gutters. Fistfuls of decomposing vegetable matter started dropping to the ground like slime bombs. Debbie stepped out of the way. She could rake them up when Peter moved on to the next section.
A few minutes later he said, “Okay, I have one. People here build houses on hillsides that are practically vertical. They’re like cliff dwellers. And there’s this gas station between my aunt’s house and here that’s sort of built into the base of a hill that was cut away for the road to go through. It’s made of stone, too, so it looks like it’s part of the cliff, and it looks old, like an archaeological ruin. But there’s a Sinclair sign on it, and pumps out front, and it has windows, and tires piled up on the side. It’s like you’re filling up your tanks at Stonehenge, or Mac
hu Picchu.”
Debbie knew exactly what kind of places he was talking about, and she thought they were interesting, too. But they weren’t in Seldem. They were still Somewhere Else.
“I wonder how far from where you live you have to go,” she said, “before it gets interesting.”
“I don’t think you have to go very far at all,” said Peter. “I mean, think about it. You just go to someone’s house for the first time, and it’s different. Not always, but it can be.”
“So, if you went to another town, even nearby, it might be even more different.”
“Maybe the same amount of difference,” said Peter. “It could be interesting, though. It could be fun.”
“You could go on the bus,” said Debbie.
“Where?” asked Peter. He was climbing back up now.
“I don’t know,” said Debbie. “Anywhere. You could just get on a bus, the first bus that shows up, and get off somewhere. The first stop.”
She said it hypothetically. She said hypothetical things all the time. In theory, she was the adventurous type.
Peter didn’t know about the hypotheticalness of Debbie’s life. He thought it was a brilliant idea that should be acted on. And he was ready for a break from his grandmother’s rotting house.
“Let’s do it,” he said. “Let’s do it tomorrow.”
So they did.
As they studied the bus schedule taped to the window of Jim’s Bargain Store, which also happened to be the bus station, Debbie noticed that all of the buses heading north stopped to pick up passengers in Birdvale, and that the ones going south stopped in Hesmont.
“I think we need to go farther than one stop,” she said. “I go to those places all the time.”
They decided that half an hour would be about the right amount of time to spend on the bus and, checking the timetable again, they picked the town of New Bridge.
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