Johnny instinctively distrusted people who studied when they didn’t have to. “Extra school?” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Melody twitched; it might have been a shrug. “I like learning.”
Johnny glared at her like she was eating a ham sandwich at an animal rights rally. “Like learning?”
Melody’s head shot up, and for the first time, she looked right at Johnny. “Well, it’ll give me a chance to hang out with people who aren’t obnoxious and crude.”
Johnny suddenly laughed, spraying Rob with bits of food. “Dude, she totally just insulted Leon!”
For the next two weeks, Melody became a fixture at our table. I’d like to say it was because my friends warmly accepted her, but I think they probably just liked the idea of talking without having to listen in return. Melody and I would work on our project during study hall, then eat together.
It wasn’t long before I realized that we had more in common than a love for obscure TV. We hated the same teachers, the same politicians, and the same music. We were both good at English and had a hard time in math. We began loaning each other books and CDs.
We never did anything outside of school again. I wasn’t sure why. It would have been easy enough to invite her along to the movies or for pizza. But I could never make myself pick up the phone and call her. It would have been too much like a date.
It was Buttercup Campbell who made me realize that this was a disastrous path.
Buttercup (that was her real name) was a freckle-faced, frizzy-haired, blue-eyed sophomore, whose innocence bordered on madness. To her, Zummer High was the place deep friendships were forged, teachers shared their wisdom with eager pupils, and the Zummer Bulldogs were not a train wreck of a football team. I’m not sure if she chose to ignore the fistfights, the dropouts, and the 1–9 football season, or if she was just unaware.
Buttercup was a reporter for the Bulldog Bugle, the school newspaper. The English department realized she was a perfect stooge who’d never try to write about anything upsetting, or even thought provoking.
She shot a candid picture of me one morning, managing to catch me with my eyes closed, my mouth open, and my hand on my balls.
“Say ‘cheese’!” she said long after I’d been blinded by her flash.
“What’s the scoop today?” I asked, blinking. I assumed she was getting man-on-the-street opinions on something in-depth, like Are parking permits too expensive? or Who’s your favorite teacher?
Buttercup smiled, nearly blinding me again with her braces. “I’m doing an article about dating at MZH!”
“Couldn’t you ask someone else?” Someone who was more of a ladies’ man. Dan Dzyan or Parking Lot Pete, for instance.
Buttercup was not to be denied. “Question one: Where do you like to take a girl on a first date?”
“The Taco Barn.”
“How much do you usually spend on a date?”
“Spend?”
“And how long have you and Melody been dating?”
That woke me up. “Wait! Melody and me? What are you talking about?”
The fifteen-year-old reporter gave me a sly grin. “C’mon, I see you two having lunch every day! And hanging out in the library!”
Yikes! She couldn’t print something like that. Even though it had a readership of twelve, I couldn’t let the paper list Melody as my girlfriend. People would see it. Maybe Melody would think I’d said it, think I secretly had a thing for her. And I wouldn’t exactly be able to write a letter to the editor demanding a retraction.
“Buttercup, listen. Melody and I are just friends. Nothing more. You’ll hurt her feelings if you say we’re dating.” Not to mention wreck whatever prospects I had. I still secretly fantasized that there was some girl out there who’d think I was neat. I didn’t need the paper saying I was off the market.
Buttercup looked confused, then smiled. “You know, Melody is awful sweet, Leon.”
Aargh! Why did every girl think everyone had to fall in love?
“Drop it, Buttercup.” How did one go about filing an injunction against a high school paper?
She frowned. “Fine. But can I ask you a serious question?”
“Shoot.”
“Do you think the lunchroom should offer more than one vegetarian option?”
11
HELL IS A MISSOURI SHOPPING MALL
I never enjoyed speaking in front of a group. While the presentation of our television and politics report was the easiest part of the assignment, I’d be glad when history class consisted of Mr. Hamburg yelling at us again.
“Of course, some people say the real reason Nixon lost the debate was that he broke the number one rule of broadcasting.” I thumbed through my notes. “Thou shalt not be ugly on television.”
No one reacted. At the back of the room, Mr. Hamburg shook his head and wrote something in a notebook.
“And now, Melody will tell us about the role of television in modern politics.” Gratefully, I sat down.
Melody, much to my surprise, was quite an engaging speaker. She didn’t mumble, read too fast, or say “you know” every other sentence. Of course, she held her notes directly in front of her face, making eye contact impossible. Maybe she just didn’t want anyone looking at her face.
So Buttercup thought we were dating. Then again, Buttercup also believed in the tooth fairy. It was just a case of a romantically minded girl thinking we made a nice couple. I was sure no one else had jumped to the same conclusion.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like Melody. Hell, she was almost a friend. But I had a hard enough time fitting in at Zummer High. I didn’t want to be known as the guy who had to date Melody. It had been five years, and I still sometimes thought of her as the object of playground ridicule. Even if she could quote entire episodes of Family Guy.
Melody finished her speech, and the class applauded like trained seals. As she was sitting down, she smiled and winked at me. I glanced around to make sure no one had noticed.
Enough was enough. The project was over. There was no reason for us to hang out during study hall anymore. I’d fallen behind in my online video games anyway. Of course, I didn’t want to be a jerk and avoid her. Since she ate with us now, it wouldn’t be as awkward to invite her along next time we went to shoot pool or something.
When class ended, Melody walked with me to the door.
“Good job, Leon.”
I grunted. “At least it’s over.”
“Yeah. Hey, Leon, are you busy this weekend?” She was flipping through the book in her hand.
“Why?”
“I was wondering if you’d like to get together Friday. There’s a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the university.” Her voice was apologetic, like she was asking a huge favor.
Shakespeare on the weekend? No way. “Maybe some other time, Melody.”
She closed her book and looked at me.
“Okay. But…never mind.”
I knew better than to ask, but it was obvious there was something on her mind.
“What?”
Melody gave me a shy smile. “It’s my birthday Friday.”
Uh-oh. “Happy birthday!”
“And, well, I’d really like to see this, and I’ll have to go with my parents otherwise.”
Well, there was no way I could condemn her to a fate like that.
“Ah, hell, birthdays only come once a year. I’ll just work on that Mid East peace plan some other time.”
In English class last semester, we had to read part of a story about this Italian poet who went to hell. What stuck with me the most was the description of the souls of the damned: walking in endless circles, only dimly remembering that they were once human.
I’m not sure why, but I’d remember that every time I went to the mall.
Mid Rivers Mall was huge, though not so huge that there was anything interesting in it. One bookstore, one video game store, one music store. Everything else was clothes. Around me, consumers marched in their n
ever-ending pursuit to buy, buy, buy!
I was there to get Melody a birthday present. So what? It was her seventeenth birthday. You bought people presents. Of course, I’d never been much of a gift giver. The fake severed arm I’d gotten for Rob the year before was the only present I could remember buying for a friend.
I thumbed through my wallet. Forty-three dollars. Every cent I had, plus a “don’t tell your mother” advance on my allowance from Dad.
So what was I supposed to get her? Perfume or bath stuff was way too personal, and a gift certificate was too generic. No way would I attempt to pick out any kind of clothes.
I decided to get her a DVD. We liked a lot of the same movies, and it was a simple enough gift that no one could read anything into it. No card, no sappy sentiment.
After my purchase, I still had nineteen dollars. I was heading over to the food court when I ran into Amy. As usual, it surprised me that her presence wasn’t announced by a choir of angels.
She was wearing a halter top. Her arms, shoulders, stomach, and back were all on display. For a long moment, I relished the sight. I’d never seen so much of her skin at once, at least not in real life. I could even ignore that her eye makeup had gotten blobby, that her hair hung limp and loose around her face, and that she obviously hadn’t shaven her pits in a few days.
“Hey, Leon, help me take these to my car.” She thrust two large clothing bags at me. No “please.” No polite request. Just an order like you’d give to a hotel bellboy.
Amy grabbed the rest of her purchases, and I followed her. My eyes were firmly fixated on the bare spot between her naked shoulder blades. I wanted to grab her from behind, bury my face in her neck, feel that blond hair cascade over my face, touch that soft skin.
“Nice day, isn’t it?” I squeaked.
“Whatever.”
Amy had a cigarette lit the second we hit the parking lot. The wind was blowing toward us and I caught a face full of smoke.
Her car was a lot newer than mine. Amy unlocked the doors with the remote, then dropped her bags onto the ground. Without a word, I began loading everything into the backseat. Maybe she’d at least tip me.
“Amy, could I…?” She was already in the front seat. She dropped the cigarette out the window and started the car.
“You’re welcome,” I muttered, turning away.
“Leon!”
My head shot back around. Amy was leaning out the car window, smiling at me.
“You’re still mad at me for standing you up last week, aren’t you?” Her voice was slightly mocking, as if I was unreasonably upset.
Of course I’m angry, you bitch! Just because I’m not a football player or the class president doesn’t mean you can blow me off like that! Did it ever occur to you that I have a life? That maybe I had other things to do? The world doesn’t revolve around you, Amy Green. You’re no better than me.
“Of course not, Amy.” I was leaning on the edge of her door. It was pretty hot out and the metal was singeing the flesh on my hand, but I didn’t jolt away.
She patted the seat next to her. “Get in the car, Leon.”
I expected Amy’s car to smell like peaches and body lotion, but it actually stank of smoke and stale fast food. There were burn holes in the upholstery and ashes all over the seats.
“Leon, you’re a nice guy. And I didn’t mean to just blow you off the other day.”
A cooler guy would have shrugged, as if she was barely worth getting upset about.
“It’s okay, Amy. It doesn’t matter.”
She squeezed my shoulder. I felt a shock run through my body.
“Leon, when you called my home, what did my mom tell you?”
I thought back. “That you’d gone out with some friends.”
The smile vanished from her face. “Well, that’s not true. My dad came in from out of town and took me to dinner.”
Why was she telling me such a bogus story? Her mom wouldn’t have lied to me.
“You see, Leon, my parents split up last year. It got pretty bad there at the end.” Amy pulled a cigarette pack out of her purse, but it was empty. She threw it onto the floorboard.
“At any rate, Mom acts like Dad never existed. She won’t talk about him, not even to me. She should have told you I was out with him, but instead she lies to a complete stranger. It really pisses me off sometimes.”
I fought the urge to drape my arm around her bare shoulders in a friendly gesture. At least she had ditched me for a semilegitimate reason.
“I’m sorry, Amy.”
“Nothing to do with you.” Amy stared at the steering wheel, her face blank. “But I’m not as self-centered as you might think. And I really didn’t mean to cancel on you like that.”
Press the advantage? “Well, maybe I could give you a call.”
She shook her head. “Leon, I’m not really dating anyone right now. My parents are still fighting over alimony and visitation, all that crap. You don’t want to get involved.”
Actually, the idea of an emotionally fragile, needy Amy appealed to me. I pictured her crying with her head in my lap. Just let it all out, Amy. Just tell Leon all about it.
With an inner sigh, I returned to reality. “I just meant, if you ever need to talk, give me a ring. I’m a good listener.”
Amy reached over and hugged me (a sisterly embrace, but still). “Maybe I will.”
Exit Leon, stage right. I waved as she pulled out of the lot.
So Amy was my friend. And Melody was my friend. Samantha was my friend (whether she liked it or not). So many girls were my friends. It was like I was a homosexual who still liked women and had no dress sense. Which isn’t like being a homosexual at all, I guess.
“Hey, Mom, I’m home! Did you…”
Mom looked up from the novel she was reading. “Have you been smoking, Leon?”
“No!” Mom’s eyes bore into me. “I, uh, was hanging out with a smoker. That’s probably what you’re smelling.”
“I see.”
I opened the fridge door to avoid Mom’s accusing gaze. No one could smell your sins like a mother. It was disturbing.
“So, Leon,” she continued, in a milder tone, “I got an interesting letter from your school today.”
I dropped the soda I was grabbing. “It was all Johnny’s idea!” I babbled. “He swore it was water based and would wash right off!”
“What? I’m talking about the school newsletter. What are you going on about?”
“Nothing. Newsletter, you say?”
She scowled at me, then laughed and shook her head. “Yes. So the spring formal is next month, I see.”
I took a swig of my soda. “So?”
“I was just thinking that if you’re going, we probably should see about a tux for you.”
I crushed my can before remembering it wasn’t empty. “Mom, I’m not going.”
She handed me some paper towels. “You say that every time there’s a dance. Leon, someday you’re going to wish you did more in high school than hang out at the Taco Barn.”
Mom didn’t understand me at all. She honestly believed I was alone by choice. Of course, I didn’t think she had the slightest idea how unpopular I was when I was in junior high.
“Mom, drop it. There’s no one for me to take. No one. Understand?”
“Fine.” She smiled. “Oh, Melody called. She said to pick her up at six-thirty this Friday, unless you wanted to have dinner first.” With a smug grin, she returned to her book.
12
“IF WE SHADOWS HAVE OFFENDED…”
Melody lived in one of the few remaining agricultural belts in our school district. In other words, way out in the sticks. It wasn’t easy trying to read her directions and drive on the narrow two-lane road at the same time.
This was not a date. I was picking up a friend to see a show and maybe grab a bite to eat. Just the same as I’d do with Rob, or Johnny, or Samantha.
Of course, Johnny always said a successful date included the three Fs:
film, food, and…
A deer ran across the road and I nearly rolled my car trying to avoid it.
Melody had informed me that her family owned a couple of horses, and therefore I would not be able to drive past the heavy iron gate, which now barred my route to her driveway. “Just honk your horn,” she had advised me. “My dad will open it for you.”
I sounded the horn, the one part of the Buick that didn’t cry out “I’ll fail within the year!” There was a moment of silence, and a figure emerged from the distant house.
Melody’s father was a handsome guy. Rugged, a country boy through and through. He had the leathery skin, the big hands, and the muscular frame of someone who did physical labor for a living. He was dressed in faded jeans and a work shirt that appeared as if he’d actually worked in it. And he was smiling at me.
I wondered why that seemed so odd to me. Probably because I’d never had a girl’s father smile at me before. Sure, they’d shoot me a manly grin, but their eyes always said, “So you’re the punk who’s going to take my princess, my baby girl, my reason for living, and try to feel her up like some common streetwalker.” If you’ve ever dated a teenage girl, then you know the look.
Melody’s father unlatched the gate and waved me through. Keeping a careful eye on the two chestnut horses that warily watched me from near the driveway, I drove up to the house.
After I parked the car, I was struck with one of those moments that don’t seem awkward until you lived it. There I was at the house, but Melody’s father was still coming back up the driveway. Should I go ahead and knock or wait for him? Which way would make me look less like a tool?
Melody’s mother solved my dilemma by opening the front door. “You must be Leon,” she said warmly. “Please, come in.”
I was escorted into a well-lit, rustically decorated living room. Most of the furniture was made from hand-hewn wood. Antique farm implements decorated the hearth of a stone fireplace. A shotgun hung over the mantle. In the corner sat an old, well-used piano.
“Melody’s still getting ready,” said Mrs. Hennon, directing me to a sofa. “May I get you something to drink?”
Playing With Matches Page 6
