No Man's Land

by S. T. Underdahl

  “Cherry,” Koby says solemnly. “Always cherry.”

  “You know … ” I start to suggest that there’s always the option of someone else asking to borrow their parents’ car when my eyes fall on Scarlett in the lunch line and I lose my train of thought.

  “We know what?” Ali asks when a couple seconds pass and I don’t finish.

  Miranda turns and follows my eyes across the room. “Oh,” she sighs patiently. “Look, Dov … I know it’s hard for you to accept, but you’re never going to get Ms. Twohey.”

  At the sound of my beloved’s name, I turn to look at her. “What?”

  Miranda has noticed something else. “Hey, who’s that other chick?” she asks no one in particular. “In front of Twohey … the one with the sweet hair.”

  Everyone looks; I realize for the first time that Scarlett is in line in front of Ms. Twohey. I can’t believe I didn’t see Twohey standing there; this is truly a first.

  “Some new kid,” Koby supplies. “Sarah something. She was in my math class this morning.”

  “Her name’s Scarlett,” I correct, then feel Miranda turn and look at me, surprised. “Kerr made me show her where her class was this morning,” I explain.

  “She’s hot,” Ali says, an unusual observation coming from him.

  We watch as Scarlett enters her student code into the lunch lady’s keypad, then picks up her tray and starts scanning for a place to sit.

  Without realizing what I’m doing, I lift my arm and signal, trying to catch her attention.

  “Who are you, the Welcome Wagon?” Miranda mutters. Miranda’s not big on surprises.

  I watch as Scarlett sees me and then tries to figure out if she can pretend she didn’t. In the end, she smiles faintly and slowly makes her way toward where we’re sitting, but she doesn’t bother trying to hide her resignation. As she grows near, I see that her lips are full and perfectly formed; suddenly, I wonder what it would feel like to smudge the pad of my thumb across them.

  “Hey!” I say overly loudly, then gesture toward the empty seat at our table. “Sit here. There’s room.”

  “‘Nerds of a Feather’ and all,” Miranda mutters. I want to shoot her a scowl but feel like if I take my eyes off Scarlett’s she’ll slip away like water from under a stone. And for some strange reason, that’s suddenly the last thing I want to happen.

  Scarlett’s blank expression causes me to wonder whether she even remembers me. “Dov Howard,” I remind her, feeling stupid. “From this morning?”

  “Yeah, I know. I remember.”

  “This is Koby,” I say, pointing. “And Ali … Miranda. Everyone, this is Scarlett.”

  “You just move to Longview?” Ali asks.

  Scarlett nods vaguely. She seems more interested in positioning her napkin in her lap.

  As I begin to wonder how we’re going to get through ten uncomfortable minutes before the end of our lunch period, the sound of my name comes over the PA system. “Dov … Howard, please report to the office … Mr. Dov Howard, please report to the office.”

  “Well, the FBI’s finally caught up with you,” Ali observes wryly. “I guess the system does work.”

  I barely hear him; my heart is too busy filling up my ears with blood. Even though kids get called to the office a million times a day for nothing more than a missing excuse slip, ever since Brian’s been deployed, I imagine that if anything happens to him, I’ll be called to the office to get the news. I even had a dream about it last week. Hearing my name announced from overhead now means I push back my chair and stand up on legs that are as flimsy and unpredictable as cooked spaghetti.

  Miranda’s breath is warm in my ear. “Want me to go with you?” she asks, leaning close. Her tone is casual, but the look in her eyes shows her concern. All my friends know how scared I am that something might happen to Brian while he’s in Afghanistan.

  I shake my head and try to smile. “I’m fine,” I say, my lips dry. “Probably just won Student of the Week again.”

  “We’ll get your tray,” Miranda says, shooing me off. “Just go see what they want.”

  “Send us a postcard from the big house,” Ali calls after me. “Write it on toilet paper if they let you have any.”

  As I stumble away from the table, my eyes barely register Scarlett regarding me with annoyance, likely over the fact that I’m leaving her alone with three people she barely knows.

  Somehow I stumble numbly across the carpeted floor of the Commons and into the main office, where I find Mrs. Hoffer, the secretary, sitting behind the desk eating her lunch.

  “I was called to come to the office?” I croak.

  Mrs. Hoffer nods, holding up a finger as she finishes chewing, which seems to take forever. At last she swallows. “Yes, Dov. Your mother phoned. She had some car trouble on the way to work today and had to leave the car at the service station. She was wondering whether you could pick her up at work and take her back there, after you get out of school this afternoon.

  “Pick her up at work?” I echo numbly, trying to force my mind to translate the meaningless words. “So it’s not … Brian’s all right?”

  Mrs. Hoffer pauses on her way to another bite. “Brian?” she repeats, looking confused.

  “My brother … I just … ”

  My knees give up and I sink down into one of the chairs positioned just inside the door of the office. They’re usually occupied by students or parents waiting to see the principal, but for now they keep me from crumbling to the floor with relief.

  “Oh my goodness, I’m sorry, Dov,” Mrs. Hoffer apologizes, actually setting down her sandwich. “It never occurred to me that you would think … I’m so sorry,” she says again.

  “It’s okay,” I manage. “I—I just didn’t know, that’s all.”

  Mrs. Hoffer actually gets up and comes around the desk to sit down in the chair beside me. “Listen to me,” she says, clasping her hands in front of her. “If anyone can come back from something like that in one piece, it will be Brian. He’s quite a guy, right?”

  I nod, even though I doubt that Al Qaeda has much interest in Brian’s remarkable yardage record, nor do I think that my brother has much chance to argue his greatness while dodging an insurgent missile.

  By the time I manage to leave the office, the fifth period you’re-gonna-be-late bell is ringing. I head back across the Commons toward our empty table, where I left my backpack. Grabbing it, I look at the place where Scarlett was sitting, wondering how things played out after I left.

  Not that it matters, I tell myself. Being called to the office reminded me that I have bigger things to worry about than putting out the welcome mat for Scarlett WhatzHerProblem. A lot bigger things.

  Things to Worry About

  Something happening to Brian

  Getting eaten by a bear

  Something happening to Brian

  Things that Don’t Matter

  Everything else

  SiX

  (Los Angeles Times)—In a flurry of weekend press releases, the Department of Defense named another 12 U.S. soldiers killed in Afghanistan and related conflicts. These deaths bring the total killed since the beginning of Operation Enduring Freedom to …

  Amazingly, Mom and I manage to make it to the service station without a single argument. It turns out that the problem was only a loose hose. Normally, the added stress in her day would have pitched her right into a bad mood; she didn’t see me before I left this morning, so when I picked her up I’d steeled myself for a laundry list of opinions about what I was wearing (“For Pete’s sake, Dov; you’d think those jeans were made for an eight-year-old girl” ); my hair (“I’m making you an appointment before your father gets back to town this time, mister! And I don’t want to hear another word about it!” ); or the general level of shame and embarrassment my existence brings to the family (“Do

  you think I need my son looking like a messenger from the Underworld, Dov?” ) Instead, Mom is in a reasonably good mood; she’d even reached a
cross the Gator’s front seat as we drove to the station, rubbing a strand of my hair between her fingers and telling me it reminded her of a singer she likes on American Idol.

  Mom’s car is ready to go, so she follows me home. I’m hoping for a peaceful evening, but as soon as we walk into the house, things head south in a hurry. The blinking indicator on the phone says there are two messages: the first one is from Dad, reminding me that the lawn needs to be raked and mowed one last time before the cold weather hits. It’s a chore I’ve been procrastinating, but when Mom shoots me a look, I know I’ll be doing it tonight.

  The second message is from Brian; at the sound of his voice, Mom takes a couple involuntary steps toward the phone and then freezes, listening with every cell of her body.

  “Hi guys!” Brian says heartily from inside the answering machine; his voice sounds deeper than I remember, and something about his cheerfulness seems forced. “Just wanted to let you know that it’s hotter’n Hell here, but I’m still taking on oxygen. We’ve been doing training ops; sounds like we’re heading off on a mission tomorrow. Hopefully something interesting, ’cuz it can get pretty boring here sometimes. Anyway … I thought I’d catch you but maybe I got the time wrong. So anyway, I hope you’re all good and Dov I hope you’re behaving. I’ll talk to you again sometimes soon … love you guys lots! Miss you! Over and out!”

  A click ends the message, prompting Mom to make a little sound of disappointment, halfway between a sigh and a sob.

  “He sounds great,” I offer. “Same old Brian.”

  “Yes,” Mom agrees softly. “I just … I wish we’d been here when he called. Who knows when he’ll have another chance?”

  “He said ‘soon,’” I point out.

  Mom nods, but I can sense that her high spirits have slipped away. She doesn’t even have to tell me to go out and get started on the lawn.

  I spend the time while I rake, mow, and bag replaying Brian’s message in my head. I wonder about the mission he mentioned, and vow for the hundredth time to Google “War in Afghanistan” in order to get a better idea of what’s going on over there. I don’t know why I haven’t done it yet, except that part of me doesn’t want to know.

  By the time the yard’s mowed and cleared of limp, clammy leaves, the streetlights have come on and my nose is freezing. My fingers are so cold I can barely do up the ties on the heavy plastic garbage bags. As I’m wrestling with the last one, a beat-up old car rounds the corner, slowing as it drives past. The passenger window slides down.

  “Hey,” calls a voice from the dark interior. “Hey …

  Howard!”

  There’s no mistaking the nasal voice of Ray Sellers, a kid who seems to grow more despicable with each passing year. From deeper inside the car, I can also hear the snickers and mutterings of Clayton Rozales and Josh Smith, who together with Ray make up what Miranda has dubbed the Idiot Posse. Aside from relentless harassment, and the mocking that often exposes how truly ignorant they are, Ray and his pals are harmless; still, my friends and I usually try to fly under their radar, which means that right now, I pretend to be deaf.

  Unfortunately, Ray’s pretending to be blind. “Whatcha doin’, emo-boy?” he hollers.

  “What does it look like?” I shrug, allowing the irritation I feel into my voice. I’m cold and tired, which means that Ray is an even bigger tool than usual.

  Ray laughs his annoying, high-pitched laugh and revs the accelerator to make sure he has my attention. “I’ll bet you wish your lawn was emo,” he calls. “That way it could cut itself.”

  Wow, original. I’ve only heard that one about a thousand times.

  The peanut gallery apparently hasn’t; the car erupts into hysterical, idiot-worthy laughter. “God,” Josh chokes, “that’s awesome, dude.”

  “Yeah,” Clayton agrees. “Awesome.”

  I should just ignore them, but something about how cold my face is makes it impossible. After a quick glance toward the house to make sure Mom isn’t looking out the window, I raise a middle finger in salute.

  This only sends them into fresh hilarity. Satisfied he’s achieved what he wanted, Ray stamps on the accelerator so that the car shoots off down the street, fishtailing and spraying gravel behind it. Moments later, it’s just a pair of red taillights growing smaller in the distance.

  I push the mower back into its spot in the garage, hang up the rake, and drag the bags of clippings and leaves to the curb for tomorrow morning’s trash pickup. Even though I’d been avoiding the chore, I have to admit that I feel a sense of accomplishment when I survey the yard, which looks flawless and uncluttered in the darkening evening. Inside, Mom has turned on the lights, making the house look bright and inviting. Standing outside in the chilly fall air, I experience a moment of intense appreciation for home. It makes me think about Brian and about Dad, about how differently I’m affected by their absences.

  When I get inside, I’m pleasantly surprised by the sight of a pot of spaghetti boiling on the stove next to a pan of meat sauce. I give it a stir, inhaling the mouth-watering aroma of garlic bread that comes from the oven below. When Brian was still at home, Mom used to make dinner almost every night … I have many fond memories of pork chops with applesauce and stuffing, roasted chicken with couscous and peas, ham and scalloped potatoes … but since he’s been gone, she rarely bothers to cook anymore. Mom and I are usually on our own for meals, which means I slap together a sandwich and Mom doesn’t eat at all.

  Tonight, though, two places are set at the table, complete with paper napkins. After all the physical labor outdoors, I’m starving, and the prospect of a hot, sit-down dinner fills my heart with joy. “Mom?” I call hopefully.

  “In here, Dov,” Mom answers faintly from the living room, where I can hear the sounds of cable news. Sure enough, Mom’s there with her chair pulled up right in front of the television screen. She’s taken to doing this lately; I have a sneaking suspicion that she thinks if she sits close enough, eventually she might catch a glimpse of Brian. Still, if there’s an opportunity to catch sight of Brian, Mom isn’t going to miss it.

  “I finished the lawn,” I tell her.

  “Mm-hm,” she agrees distractedly, her eyes on the TV. Wow, that’s great, Dov. You’ve sure stepped up while your brother’s been gone. Your father and I are so proud of you.

  “Dinner smells good.”

  “They’re having a special report from Kabul,” Mom murmurs, as if she hasn’t heard me. She lifts a fingernail to her mouth and begins to gnaw at it. “There’s been an attack on the consulate. I hope Brian wasn’t involved; you don’t think he was guarding it, do you, Dov? Or what if his unit was called to respond to the attack?”

  I don’t know what to say. “I’m sure he’s fine,” I murmur, then add, “The spaghetti’s boiling. Do you want me to turn the burner down?”

  “What?”

  “The spaghetti? Should I take it off the stove?”

  Finally she looks at me. “Oh, right. Yeah, could you turn it off? And just go ahead and eat, Dov; I’ll have some later.”

  “Sure.”

  The spaghetti is good; I eat it alone at the kitchen table. Halfway through my second plateful, Sheba stalks into the room. I dip my finger into the sauce on my plate and hold my hand down to her level. “C’mere, crabby kitty,” I say. Sheba regards me suspiciously, but the sight of what I’m offering is more than she can resist. Warily, she sidles toward me in a sideways fashion, her nose twitching at the delicious smells in the air. When she’s close enough, I lower my hand so she can lick the sauce from my finger, purring as she does it. It’s a rare moment of détente between us.

  “Now see?” I tell her after the sauce is gone and she’s sniffing my hand to see if she’s missed any. “I’m not so bad after all.”

  After I put my dishes in the dishwasher, I head to my room to feed Leo, who’s watching for me from his aquarium. “Sorry,” I apologize. “Late dinner tonight.” I pinch a couple of fresh crickets from the container and drop them
into his enclosure; without so much as a thank you, Leo begins to creep in their direction. “Ingrate,” I mutter. It seems that no one appreciates my efforts.

  I send a text to Ali but he doesn’t respond, so I settle in to read tonight’s assignment from The Outsiders by S. E.

  Hinton. Normally I don’t bother too much with homework, but the book is actually kind of interesting. The main character is a kid named Ponyboy, and there’s something about him that I can relate to. I lie down on my bed to read, and wake up some time later with my phone buzzing beneath my cheek.

  “H’llo?” I mumble, half sleep-drunk.

  “Hey.” It’s Miranda. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing. You?”

  She yawns loudly into the phone. “Nothing. Bored.”

  “Yeah. Same here.”

  We sit in the dark in companionable silence. “Did your mom get her car fixed?” she asks.

  Miranda and I have Twohey’s class together, and afterwards I’d quickly filled her in on the reason for my summons to the office. “Yeah, it was no big deal. But when we got home, there was a message from Brian. We must have just missed him.”

  “Bet that bummed you out.”

  “Yeah, it kind of did. Nothing compared to what it did to my mom, though. I wish she’d gotten to talk to him. She’s pretty much a 24/7 basket case.”

  “I thought people stationed overseas in the military could Skype with their families now.”

  I nod. “Supposedly they can, but for some reason our computer never works right when we try. Mom’s had someone out to look at it twice.”

  “Bummer.”

  “Yeah.” Suddenly I think of something. “Hey, did you guys find out anything more about that Scarlett chick after I left today?”

  “Not really. As soon as you left, she came up with some random thing about having to make a phone call and took off. Just left her tray sitting there. Pretty lame if you ask me.”

  “Huh.”

  “Anyway,” Miranda continues, “I’m going to bed, so I guess I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “’kay.”

  “G’night.”