by Gary Soto
"I gave him that banana," I bawled.
At the stop sign, the truck barely applied its brakes as it rounded the corner. By the glow of a streetlight, I could see my bike in the back. I considered swinging from the tree and running after the truck, but what would have been the use? I was fast, but not Superman.
"I know that truck," Joey announced. Even in the dark, I sensed a hot glow on his cheeks and fire in his eyes.
"Who are those guys?"
"That's Cory's half brother. He's in eleventh grade but my brother used to wrestle him." Joey turned to me. "Are you sure he's the one who stole your bike?"
I nodded. For a long time we stared at the place where the truck had recklessly skidded around the corner and listened for the sounds of the truck's popping exhaust.
I borrowed Joey's mom's cell phone and called Mom to ask if I could sleep over at Joey's. She agreed, but said she wouldn't take me to the hospital if I fell out of the tree and cracked open my head. Of course, this was sort of a joke, and I released a chuckle to suggest that she was a really funny mom. However, I could sense that Mom might be worried about my new status as a tree dweller.
I bedded down next to Joey. For a while we watched the stars slowly wheel westward. Then Joey got up and made that smoothie out of the banana and apple I had brought from home, adding portions of a pineapple and some sort of berry. That sweet brew was history in no time.
Then it was back to bed.
"Joey," I mumbled, near sleep. "Are we going to stay chimps?" I had my fingers crossed that we were just in phase two of our growth as human beings, that in a few months we would wake up and find new faces in our steamy bathroom mirrors. We would wipe the mirrors, and discover we were just regular boys.
"I think so."
"Really?" I had expected a more philosophical answer. I was too tired to worry. I yawned and pulled on the blanket—Joey was a hog when it came to sharing it. I folded my hands behind my head. Through the leaves I followed the flights of occasional airplanes, and had started inventing stories about the people in the planes when a shock ran through me.
I sat up and scratched my head.
"I know what to do," I mumbled. Joey, thumb in his mouth, was asleep. I lay back down as I played out my plan in my mind. It took me only a short while to lower my eyelids and slide down a roof into a happy dream.
Chapter 8
The next morning when I returned home on foot, I found Mom in the kitchen stirring a pot of oatmeal. She seemed nice and toasty in her fleece-lined robe, and her big woolly slippers added to this image.
"How did you sleep?" she asked. She raised a wooden spoon to her mouth, and her tongue, lizard fast, darted out for a taste.
"Pretty good but the birds woke me up," I answered. I would have broken the news about my stolen bike but I didn't want to spoil her breakfast. I poured myself a mug of milk and sat down at the kitchen table, where I took a knife and, in a swashbuckling manner, cut a chunk of coffee cake.
"Mom," I said. "I'm going to church." Last night I had remembered the church bumper sticker on Jessica's car and had a hunch that she would be there that morning.
"You're what?" Mom appeared confused.
"I'm going to church." My mouth churning a piece of coffee cake, I repeated my Sunday morning plans before I dipped another piece of cake into my milk. Crumbs floated on the surface, but there was no escape for them. It would be only a matter of time before I drained the mug.
Mom put the wooden spoon down and shifted her oatmeal to the back burner. She squeezed me affectionately.
"I'm proud of you! My little monkey is going to church all by himself."
"Yeah, Mom, I thought I would try it out." I grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl.
Moved by my apparent holiness, Mom spooned me a bowl of oatmeal and blessed it with a handful of raisins. Then she rushed from the kitchen and returned holding up a Sacagawea dollar.
"Take this for the offering." She dropped the coin into my shirt pocket.
After our breakfast dishes were steaming on the drainboard from a good scrubbing, I looked in the phone book for the name and address of the church. The sticker, I remembered, showed something like a cross with a red scarf. Maybe I could find the symbol in the church's listing in the Yellow Pages. When I did, I saw that Jessica was United Methodist. I didn't know the church, as our household belonged to St. John's. We seldom went to Mass, which, Mom said, was a sure sign we were Catholic.
I checked the address. "Easy," I whistled. "I know where that is."
The church was downtown. I looked up at the Porky Pig clock on the mantel. It was 9:35.
"I'd better hurry," I muttered.
I would have asked Mom for a ride, but she was sweetly content in her recliner, a blanket around her knees. She was tapping a finger as she waited for the San Francisco Giants, her favorite team, to come on television. They were playing back East.
I dressed in my best clothes, sprayed my throat with cologne, and brushed my teeth until they hurt. While I was slipping into my dress shoes, an idea came to me.
"My trike," I murmured. I realized that I would look absurd—a thirteen-year-old dressed in Sunday clothes riding a trike—but I needed a way to get to church pronto. My skateboard was lent out and my bike was stolen. If I stood up on the pedals I figured I could still get there faster than by walking.
I pulled the old trike from the garage, wiped its seat and handlebars free of dust, and spurted oil on the front and back axles. I swallowed my pride. If I pedaled really fast maybe no one would recognize me. My face will be a blur, I tried to convince myself. People will just think I'm big for my age.
A horde of kids along the way, plunging Popsicles into their stained mouths, recognized me. But what did I care? I was resolved to get to church on time. I guessed it would probably start at ten o'clock, but I was late by ten minutes. I raked the sweat from my brow and upper lip, shook at my shirt to cool my back, and strode into the church. But I braked immediately.
"Uncle!" I cried. Shouting on holy ground was probably bad form. I punished my mouth for its outburst by slapping a hand over it.
"Ronnie," Uncle Vic greeted. He was dressed in a brown suit and white shoes with silver buckles. His socks were orange. His tie was eggplant purple and rippled with wrinkles. I wasn't up on churchy fashions, but it was my feeling that Uncle was dressed weird. I wondered if he was color-blind.
"So this is the church you go to?" I sensed my mouth was hanging open and I closed it. "Mom said you were going someplace different."
"This is it!" He beamed at me and jokingly asked, "Who lowered your ears? Your haircut looks just awful!" Uncle was unaware of my sensitivity about my ears, but he knew who had run barber clippers recklessly around my head.
"It's good to see you!" he cried. He gave me a quick hug and patted my cropped hair. I presumed he was the usher when he held open the door to the sanctuary and gave me a strong push. I entered with my hands in semiprayer; the fingers were laced, but not shaped into a steeple. Music played while I lingered by the back wall for a few minutes. I scanned the members. Almost all the men sported the same kind of haircut that crowned my gourd. Everyone was singing with gusto and scenting the air with breakfast smells. I smelled ham and eggs, and waffles with little weenies on the side. The congregation was well fed, even sort of porky. One woman was so large that many children could stand in her shadow and be cool on a hot day.
The pastor, though, was a skinny man with a skinny tie. His singing voice was weak and his face plain as a piece of toast. But I liked him because he didn't embarrass me by announcing my sudden presence with a loud, "Now, who's this young man?" He just nodded his head in my direction.
I found a seat near the front. I spotted Jessica immediately, for she was at the piano—the girl was multitalented! Her pretty hands were on the ivories, except when she had to spank her sheet music back into place. It kept trying to close as she drummed out a slow song about rocks, flocks, and mighty winds.
The
song ended and Jessica stood up, smoothing the back of her dress. She started to take her seat in a pew, but paused when she recognized me, then maneuvered in my direction. As she sat next to me, she smiled.
"My uncle comes here," I confided. I knew I probably shouldn't whisper in church, but I needed to lay the groundwork for our conversation. Everything was going according to plan. I was sure I would have a chance to talk to Jessica after church. She bit and asked, "Who's your uncle?"
"I'll give you a hint. He's a barber."
"Oh, you mean Mr. Mendoza."
I nodded and ran a hand over my head to signify that he had just cut my hair. I then turned my attention to the pastor, who was standing behind the pulpit shuffling papers. His cough was theatrical. He wiped his eyeglasses, also theatrically, before he set them back on his face and began his sermon.
While it didn't last long—ten minutes, the time it took me to eat two Life Savers—I couldn't absorb a word. I was too conscious of Jessica beside me. She was beautiful as a flower—no, lots of flowers set in a vase next to a crystal fruit bowl filled with bananas and apples. I could swear that the blood in me was rushing at super speed. Although when I'd met her at the awards banquet I'd been more interested in the cookies, now I couldn't blame Joey for liking her. She was not only beautiful, but she could do backflips, play the piano, and probably engage her mind in lots of other things. She also smelled good.
I turned to see if I knew anyone else and gulped when I spotted Mrs. Fuller, the gossip. She waved at me and hoisted a smile that was closer to a scowl.
"What's wrong?" Jessica asked.
"Nothing," I answered. My mouth was dry; most of my moisture was now on my face in the form of sweat.
I then nearly jumped when I noticed the two teenage boys who had scammed me and stolen my bike. They were down the row, slouched in the pew with their feet out in the aisle. I saw their dirty tennis shoes with the blackest of shoelaces, which had me musing whether their heartless souls were like that, too. Then a revelation struck me and moved the contents of my breakfast in my stomach—it was that strong. Was it possible that we humans were like shoelaces? You can either be tied up properly, or dragged through littered gutters.
Jessica touched my forearm again to point out that an elderly gent was reaching toward me with a wicker basket.
"Oh, I'm sorry." I produced the Sacagawea dollar from my shirt pocket and dropped it into the basket.
Once again I turned my attention to the two teenagers. They had locked their gaze on me, and it was anything but angelic. I figured if they were there, Cory would be somewhere in the church, too. The warthog mouthed a word in my direction, or was he getting ready to break into song?
Jessica had moved from my side back to the piano. She began to pound out "Rock of Ages." We sang that one and another about storms, and then the pastor descended six carpeted steps from the altar. He asked, "Birthdays! Who's celebrating a May birthday?" I imagined a cake with a hundred candles.
"Come on, don't be shy," the pastor called cheerfully. "Come on, ladies. Boys! Mr. Roskin, I know your birthday's in May."
There was some shuffling in the pews and rattling of church bulletins. Soon six churchgoers of varying ages stood in front—and one was Cory! There he stood in a white shirt, bow tie, and blue blazer. His hair was combed, his face scrubbed, his mouth solemnly closed. His pants rode high, revealing orange socks, which made me think that maybe I missed a fashion phase.
Cory's eyes slid in my direction. He furrowed his brow, confused by my presence. He mouthed a word. What did he want? He formed a complete sentence that was something like Wait for me.
I mouthed back, Why?
I received no reply because Cory's mother glared at him to knock it off. I was familiar with that kind of motherly look.
The congregation sang "Happy Birthday." The birthday crowd received orange pencils.
"You are older...," the pastor announced with his arms out. One of the women frowned at this exclamation.
"...and wiser," the pastor heralded. "We'll have cake in the basement."
Service broke up like a football huddle, and the yawn that had been building inside me finally materialized. But I was polite enough to hide it behind a hand, and with that yawn-scented hand I shook hands with an elderly gentleman with hearing aids in both ears. He seemed glad to see me.
Before there was a rush to the door, I pulled Jessica aside and asked if I could see her later.
"Why?" she asked.
"It's about Joey, the guy who climbed into the rafters."
Jessica beamed and told me to come by her house around four. She would have to eat Sunday lunch and finish her homework before her mom would let her do anything else. She gave me directions to her house, but I knew already.
My exit from church wasn't a cinch. Jessica left when her mother called her, and then a gloved hand latched onto my arm. The hand belonged to Mrs. Fuller.
"Greetings," she sang. She smelled heavily of perfume.
"Hi," I answered weakly.
"It's good to see you in church."
I gazed around and pronounced, "It's a neat place."
Mrs. Fuller clutched my forearm. Behind a face caked with makeup, she observed that I was such a growing boy. Her eyes locked knowingly on me as I realized she was recalling So Now You're a Teenager.
"You know, we have a youth group. You should join."
I imagined the warthog as the leader of the youth group. One of our activities could be going through people's glove compartments while everyone was in service.
She lowered her face to my ear and asked in a minty whisper, "How come you were talking to the Bentley girl? Is there something between you and her?"
"She's helping me with homework," I lied.
With that revelation, Mrs. Fuller smiled and revealed lipstick on the front row of her sharklike teeth. She was smelling blood. I think it was my blood.
"Oh, is that right?" she responded. She waited for me to tell her more. I tried to get away politely, but her hand gripped my arm. Dang, she was strong. Anchored in boxy shoes and with her weight behind her, she was a mighty force. With her other hand, she fanned herself with the church bulletin, circulating her perfume around my face. I recognized the scent. It was called Morning Glory.
"You will come back, won't you?"
"Yeah, I will, but I gotta go now."
Mrs. Fuller frowned. "You mean 'have to go.'" She proceeded to straighten my tie—I had the funny sensation she was going to close it like a noose.
"Yes, I have to go," I exclaimed.
"You are a growing boy."
"Yes, but I have to go," I repeated, and got away when Mrs. Fuller snapped open her purse to look for a comb. She said that my hair was standing up wickedly as horns.
I waved to Uncle Vic as I scampered from the church, breathing hard. I expected Cory to be waiting for me, or his half brother and his friend standing at their truck and calling me to get in for a one-way ride to the country. Instead, in the blinding light of a spring day, I found my bike leaning against the lower steps. I rocked on my heels. It was that Sunday I began to believe in miracles.
"You're back," I greeted in song. I ran down to my bike. The chrome handlebars added shine to my miracle.
Chapter 9
I sped away with a halo of sun beaming down on me. I was happy, even blessed, for I did shake the pastor's hand, avoid the warthog and his friend, and donate my trike to the church rummage sale. And I finally spoke face-to-face to Jessica. I'm sure she pondered my purpose between bites of birthday cake in the church basement.
I figured that I had five hours before I would meet up with her. What should I do? I didn't want to see Joey because my mission wasn't accomplished yet. I worried that if I returned home, Mom would put me to work digging up weeds in the flower bed. Or she might assign me to wash the windows clean of winter's shadowy dirt. Or maybe take a broom and get the spiderwebs off our dead extra car in the driveway—Dad had sold the engine before he too
k off with that woman in a sports car.
I rode aimlessly until my curiosity drew me to a yard sale. A man in overalls sat on an overturned bucket surrounded by stuff that he had dragged from his garage. He rose on his gimpy legs when he saw me coming. He ran a hand over his whiskery jaw. A transistor radio in the front pocket of his overalls was tuned to the Giants baseball game.
Most of his merchandise was pots and pans, large print Reader's Digests, a coffeepot, a child's guitar with no strings, old sleeping bags, and dresses as spacious as tents. The dresses, I supposed, belonged to his wife.
"Can you use a set of screwdrivers?" he asked.
I told him no.
"How 'bout a birdcage?" He informed me that his wife had been fond of canaries. He kicked the grass and stated, "She's gone."
I guessed that his wife had passed away. I could have asked when or how, but it was none of my business. Her dresses were on the lawn and twelve or so pairs of shoes were parked in a line.
"Nah, not really, sir."
"Birds make nice pets. When you talk to them, they sing back. I'll throw in the birdseed."
Still, I deflected his efforts to sell me a birdcage and his insistence that a pair of rusty roller skates would build up my legs and bring me hours of happiness. He tried to convince me that a cookie jar would be an ideal gift for Mother's Day and that a battery-operated handheld personal fan would be a dream come true for my father.
"I'm just looking, sir," I confessed to the man, who then said, "Hey, then, how about if you help me." He pointed toward his roof. "I got to turn on the water valve on my cooler. Too old to get up there."
My last trip up a roof had brought me bruises and dark memories of crushed daffodils. I shaded my eyes as I took a step back to view the roof's pitch. It didn't look so steep, and the old guy needed help.
"You got a ladder, sir?"
"No, but I can boost you up from the back of the house."
"How will I get down?"
The man posted his meaty hands on his hips. "Why, you jump. You're young. Like a kitty cat, you got nine lives in you."