“It’s not a date,” I informed my father. “Just a party. It starts at eight.”
“No problem,” he says, “no problem.”
The sun was dipping behind the hills. We couldn’t find a pumpkin place. My father stopped at a farmhouse to ask. They gave him directions that took him about an hour to write down. The sky was red.
By the time we found the pumpkin place, it was dark. Actually, the place was a cider mill, with a wagon full of pumpkins outside. So, did we just grab a pumpkin and head for home? Oh no. We had to go into the place (“Smell that! Smell those apples!” swooned my father) and look around at the homemade pies and cider and wooden crafts.
The cider was being made in a pit. There was a railing around it, and you could stand there and look down at this big wooden press that was mashing out the cider into a wooden vat. A man was dumping bushels of apples onto a conveyer belt that led to the press. I have to explain all that because of what happened next.
My mother was looking over the donuts when Toddie tugged on her sleeve. “Mom, I think I gotta throw—” Before he got to “up,” his hand shot to his mouth, his body sort of rippled, and his eyes bugged out. “Wait!” my mother yelled. She grabbed him by the arm and started jerking him around, this way, that way, desperate. Then she spotted the railing and jerked him over to it just in time for Toddie to pop his head between the two rails and barf, smack-dab into the cider vat. The apple-dumper man below just stood there at first, watching the barf come down till it splattered in the vat. Then he let out a curse I didn’t think country people knew and lunged for a button on the wall. The conveyer belt and the apple press suddenly stopped. Then he started frantically yanking out stuff and shutting off other stuff, all the time cursing and glaring up at the railing.
By then the only one at the railing was Megamouth, and the more she laughed, the louder the apple-dumper cursed. Meanwhile, Toddie and my mother were outside, and my father was talking to the cashier. Here’s how it went:
FATHER. Uh, excuse me. Is the manager in?
CASHIER. Not just now. Can I help you?
FATHER. Well, uh, something, uh, unusual—unusual—just happened.
CASHIER. Oh?
FATHER. Yes. Uh, my son—my young son—just, uh, got a little sick.
CASHIER. Oh?
FATHER. Vomited. In the, uh, apple cider, uh, vat, uh.
CASHIER. Oh!
FATHER. Yes.
CASHIER [pointing to pit]. There? In the vat?
FATHER. Yes, uh, at least I believe so. [Calling to me] Greg, it was in the vat, wasn’t it? [I nodded]
CASHIER. Well, uh, I don’t think I know just what to do.
FATHER. I suppose I don’t either. Too bad the manager isn’t here.
CASHIER. Yes, it is.
FATHER. I guess the cider in the vat must be spoiled now, hm? Safe to say that?
CASHIER. Mm. I guess it’s safe. To say.
FATHER. Lot of cider in there.
CASHIER. Mm.
FATHER. [Pauses, looks all around, smiles, looks at watch, takes out wallet, pulls little white card out of wallet] Well, look, since the manager’s not here, why don’t you give him this card, my business card, and have him call me. I’ll be glad to pay for anything.
CASHIER. All right. Thank you.
FATHER [clapping, rubbing his hands together]. All right. Fine. Say, how’s your refrigerator working these days?
CASHIER [taken by surprise]. Oh—fine, thank you.
FATHER. Washing machine?
CASHIER. Fine.
FATHER. Well [points to card], stop in and see me. I’ll see that you’re taken care of. [Walking away] That goes for your manager too.
We left then, but Megamouth kept coming up with reasons why we should go back, so I would be late for the party. First she tried to tell my father that barf is lighter than apple cider, so he should go back and tell them to just skim the barf off the top; that way he wouldn’t have to repay them for a whole vatful. Then she reminded him that he forgot to get what he went there for: his pumpkin. He slowed down to turn around, but my mother said, very calmly and firmly, “Do not stop this car. Do not turn back. Keep driving.”
But then, finally, we did have to stop—we ran out of gas. I jumped out, took my father’s wallet, and ran halfway back across the state till I came to an old grocery store with a gasoline pump outside.
Well, to make a long, long story short, it was almost ten o’clock when I got to the party. Sara opened the door. “Where have you been?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I was out with my parents. We just got back.” I was trying not to pant from running.
“This late?”
“Yeah.”
Sara kept saying things to me and I kept saying things back, but I wasn’t paying much attention. Behind her the party was going on: records, laughing, popcorn sailing. Poff and Valducci were there, and others I knew, but I wasn’t paying attention to them either. Because sitting on the arm of an easy chair by the fireplace, slouched back, talking to two girls, was Jennifer Wade.
I felt something on my arm. Sara, tugging. “Greg, wake up. Give me your jacket.”
Then, like a dream: I was taking off my jacket, and there was a car horn in the night outside, and I was clenching my fist, and Jennifer Wade was getting up from the arm of the chair and she was coming toward me. She was smiling. She was wearing a jacket, lavender, with white fur.
She came right up. She spoke. “That’s my dad, Sara. Gotta go.”
“Already?”
“Yeah. The pits, huh?”
“I’ll say. Boy, some party. This goob gets here late and you’re leaving early.”
Jennifer turned, looked at me, smiled. The most beautiful smile I ever saw. “Well,” she said, laying her fingers on my arm, “at least you have a date.”
They both laughed then, and Jennifer was out the door, calling back, “Happy birthday!” And the door closed.
My arm, where she touched it, sent a small, sweet bolt of lightning to the center of my heart.
Megin
IT WAS late in the first half of our final game. We were smearing Huntington Valley, 6 to 0, so that’s why I was on the bench along with the other first-stringers. Sue Ann was in the game. She was going for a loose ball and was just ready to scoop it up when she got hammered by this big gorilla of a girl from Huntington Valley. I mean, the gorilla didn’t just foul Sue Ann, she practically killed her. The way she swung her stick, she wasn’t going for the ball at all, but for Sue Ann’s legs. The stick caught Sue Ann across the shins. Sue Ann went down like a rock, screaming so loud you’d never have known she was on the other side of the field.
I don’t remember leaving the bench. I don’t remember crossing the field. I only remember slinging my stick at the gorilla—and the look of surprise on her face as she turned and saw me flying through the air at her. I think I landed pretty much on her face, and big and blubbery as she was, she made a good cushion when we hit the deck. Before she knew what was happening, I jumped up and stomped on both her shins. She howled. I stomped on them again. She howled again. Then we were on the ground rolling and wrestling, and pretty soon the whole Huntington Valley team was on us. I felt like a blob of toothpaste being squeezed through a rolled-up tube. I could hear whistles, and coaches’ and teachers’ voices. I could hardly breathe, mostly because something soft was plumped against my face. So I bit it. Somebody screamed bloody murder. Then the load was lightening from above and I was being pried from the others. My coach practically had me in a hammerlock as she steered me back across the field. I looked over my shoulder. The gorilla was standing in front of her coach, clutching her left boob with both hands and bawling, “She bit me!”
When we reached the bench, the coach spun me around and grabbed me by the shoulders and started shaking me. “Tofer, what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”
“What am I doing?” I yelled. “Ask that gorilla over there what she’s doing!” I pointed to Sue Ann, who was
limping off the field with her arms draped over two other players. “Ask Sue Ann!”
She shook me some more. “You are not judge and jury around here, Tofer! That girl was called for a foul. The referee is in charge of this game. Not you. This is organized athletics. Not the street. We follow the rules here. There’s such a thing as sportsmanship.”
“Yeah? Tell that to that gorilla!”
“I’m telling it to you!”
“Well, I’m telling you!” I wrenched out of her grip. “I quit!”
I walked away. The coach kept calling my name, but I never stopped, I never looked back.
Quitting lacrosse was no big deal. What did I miss? The last half of the last game. And anyway, lacrosse was only something for me to do while I was waiting for the first ice—and ice hockey.
Meanwhile, it turned out that Mr. MacWilliams hadn’t kicked me off stage crew forever. When I asked him about joining up again, he threw his hands in the air and went, “Praise be! Where have you been, woman? The peace and quiet around here’s been driving me crazy Go. Grab a hammer. Cause some trouble.”
I’m starting to like Mr. MacWilliams.
I got back on stage crew just in time. Juliet—Zoe Miranda got the part, of course—and Romeo were practicing their first love-scene. It goes like this: Juliet comes out of McDonald’s, heaves bag of trash into Dipsy Dumpster, hears howl from inside. Head pops out of Dumpster. It’s Romeo. He’s hiding from the Burger King boss, who’s looking for someone to clean the bathroom. So, as soon as their eyes meet, they fall in love. That’s when they sing their first duet: “Some Enchanted Dipsy Dumpster.” Then they kiss.
But the best part was happening offstage. Valducci, the light-man, has a thing for Zoe. He can’t stand the love scene. So each time Romeo leans down from the Dumpster to kiss Zoe, something strange always seems to happen with the lights. Like all the lights—footlights, overheads, spot—will go on at once. Or the colored lights will go crazy. Or the spotlight will zoom like some wacko trapped horsefly all over the auditorium. Mr. MacWilliams keeps yelling “Val-dooo-cci!” but it doesn’t do much good.
Sue Ann and I had a ball, mimicking the whole thing behind the scenery. I stood on a ladder and played Romeo; Sue Ann was Juliet. We were really going great one day, especially during the duet, moving our mouths and throwing out our hands and all. A couple times squeaks slipped out of my mouth, but nothing happened, so we kept going. Then, on a long high note, I accidentally let out a super-squeak. I could hear Mr. MacWilliams shout, “Stop! Halt!” Then: “Megin! Tofer! Out here!”
Sue Ann was red-faced and clamping her mouth. I went out. Mr. MacWilliams was in his usual place, middle of the third row. Romeo and Juliet were glaring at me.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
“Megin,” called Mr. MacWilliams, “since you seem to know the part so well, why don’t you take Miss Miranda’s place for a minute. I’m sure we would all appreciate seeing how a real Juliet plays the part.”
“Okay,” I said (much to Mr. MacWilliams’s surprise), and I strolled on over to the Dumpster. Zoe Miranda stepped aside with a big bow and a sweep of her arm. The other kids clapped. The rest of the stage crew came out to watch.
Sometimes I do crazy things, so I wasn’t totally shocked to find myself in the center of the stage ready to play Juliet. What did shock me, though, was that I was allowing myself to do it with Jeremy Bach, who was Romeo. Bad enough that he’s a ninth-grader, but he’s also a total creep and a goober. He thinks every girl is in love with him.
“All right!” called Mr. MacWilliams. “Music!”
Somebody turned on the tape recorder. Jeremy Romeo hesitated, but I jumped right into it, really belting it out. The place went wild. Clapping. Whistles. Hoots. Comments. (“Who taughtcha ta sing? Kermit the Frog?”… “Let her play Romeo!”… “Kill it with a stick!”) Jeremy Romeo joined in then and we really socked it. I tried to catch the look on Mr. MacWilliams’s face, but I couldn’t see, because the spotlight was on me again. When we finished there was another round of comments and hoots. But the comments and hoots were outlouded by the clapping and whistles.
Then Jeremy Romeo was leaning down for the big kiss. He was kneeling on a table; we didn’t have the Dumpster reinforced yet. I saw his face coming at me, his eyes closing in. He was leaning, leaning, his hands were on my shoulders. I let his face get closer. His mouth went funny, his eyes shut. The rest was easy: I took one step back and—Ka-ploppo!—he fell to the floor on his goober face. Howls. Wild cheering. Stomping feet. Stage lights going crazy. I bowed to Zoe Miranda and made my grand exit.
Morning after morning I woke up and looked out my window—no ice. It was December. What was going on? My skates, my hockey stick, my puck—they were all in the corner, waiting.
If the ice had come sooner, probably I wouldn’t have gone to the party. But on the day Mr. MacWilliams made the announcement, December 5, the temperature outside was sixty-two degrees. It was after rehearsal. He called everyone to the stage and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, our Juliet, Zoe Miranda, would like you all to know that you are invited to a party on Thursday evening from six till eight. Miss Miranda says if you have ice skates, by all means bring them. The party will be at the Skatium.”
I boggled at Sue Ann. “Did he say what I think he said?”
“Yeah. An ice-skating party.”
It was true. Zoe’s parents, who must be millionaires, had rented the Skatium rink for two hours Thursday night. I didn’t want to be the only one there with a hockey stick, so I checked around and found three other players—all boys (two in the cast, one in the crew). “Just bring your stick,” I told each of them. “I got the puck.”
When I saw the rink, I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, it was so beautiful. I’m a lake rat, not a rink rat, and I almost never get to the Skatium. I could hardly lace up my skates, my hands were so nervous.
The ice was smooth as glass. I just went around and around—push off-glide, push off-glide—almost with my eyes shut, just soaking it up, just feeling the ice beneath my blades, just being where I belong.
When I finally came out of my daze, I started to notice the party. Besides the play people, other friends of Zoe were there, plus a bunch of grown-ups. Off to the side there was a long table with a row of silver dishes with steam coming out, and two tall cakes with white icing.
Most of the kids were dressed pretty much like me—jeans and sweaters and stuff. A couple girls, Zoe’s groupies, had on teeny-weeny skating skirts and tights, like they were in the Ice Follies or something. Then there was Zoe: shimmering light green tutu, silver tights, white skate shoes, and a fur jacket. Only Zoe.
Well, I had business to take care of. I took my puck out, dropped it to the ice, and flipped it into the butt of one of the boys with a stick. The fun was on! We zipped around the rink, dodging in and out of the others, chasing each other, firing passes back and forth across the ice. I was in heaven.
After a long spring and summer without hockey, I was gradually getting back the feel of it. At first the puck seemed kind of mushy on my stick, but then the puck started to pop—pop!—off the stick. Once it popped a little too good, I guess. I was passing the puck to a guy across the ice, and it just sprang off my stick, rising off the ice—one of the best slap shots I ever hit—passing over the flailing stick of the kid, passing under the chin of Zoe Miranda’s mother, and never stopping till it sank into one of the tall white cakes.
In two seconds Zoe was making a beeline for me. “Tofer—”
“I know, I know,” I said. “No more hockey.”
She skated right up to me and glared, hands on hips, lips tight. Finally she turned and glided off. But I wasn’t finished. Quickly I reached into my pocket, dropped my substitute puck to the ice, and called, “Hey, Zoe!” As she was turning around, my stick was already flashing forward; as she gaped goggle-eyed, the puck was halfway there; before the scream could leave her throat she got caught smack in the face by the puck—which loo
ks exactly like a regular puck but is actually a spongy Nerf puck.
It bounced off her nose and fluttered to the ice at her feet. She kept staring at it, her hand still frozen halfway to her face. Then she did something I never expected: she started to laugh. She picked up the Nerf puck and glided over to me and bounced it off my nose, and for the next five minutes we were both laughing so hard we almost wobbled off our skate blades.
“Y’know,” she said when she could finally speak again, “I’m glad you did that stuff to Jeremy Bach at rehearsal the other day.”
“Me too,” I said. “He’s such a goob. How can you stand to kiss him?”
“I can’t. But he can’t stand me either”
“How’s that?”
“Before every rehearsal I rub my lips with garlic!”
We roared. My own laughter hit me harder than a body check. I fell down.
Then she showed me how to do an axel, and I showed her how to hit a slap shot. She was too dainty, but I told her she was good for a beginner. Then suddenly she looked behind me and shoved the stick into my hands. “Here, you do it.” I turned. Who was heading toward us—or should I say toward her—but the one and only karate klunkhead, Eddie Valducci. He had a cup of hot apple cider in each hand, and since he’s a rotten skater to start with, he was herking and jerking all over the place. Even though I was standing next to Zoe, he never saw me. I waited till he got to point-blank range. The shot was perfect, the rest was even better: the look on his face, the cider flying, his skates flying, his butt crashing to the ice, two girls skating off practically dying of laughter.
Greg
At least you have a date.
Jennifer Wade’s words had been spoken to Sara Bellamy, but it was my brain they burned into. What exactly did she mean by them? Why did her fingers touch my arm when she spoke them? Would Leo Borlock, the lovelorn expert, have the answers? I almost called him.
I wished so many things. I wished she hadn’t left early. I wished I had turned my arm a little so she could feel my vein. I wished I had found some excuse to follow her outside so I could say to her: “Date? Is that what Sara told you? Ha-ha. I’m not her date. She just invited me to her party. Actually I’m here by myself. I’m not attached to anybody.”
Who Put That Hair in My Toothbrush? Page 8