Abbey’s lack of ability to hit the ball very far was always the racket’s fault.
“These rackets are old and broken,” she’d say. “Hardly anyone could hit with these rackets.”
“I could,” I’d shoot back with a tight smirk.
She’d tell me to be quiet, and I’d tell her that losers have to fetch the balls.
But Abbey was right. The rackets were in horrible shape. I had found them shoved behind a dusty cabinet one day in my garage. They must have come with the house because my mother didn’t remember buying them.
I’d often wondered how far I could lift a ball through the air if I’d had a real tennis racket, one with all the strings attached. But tennis rackets weren’t in our budget, and I wouldn’t ask my mom for one because I knew it made her feel bad whenever she couldn’t give me something I wanted.
Even though Abbey’s parents could afford new rackets, we both knew her mother would never approve of such a purchase. Her mother didn’t believe girls should play any sports. It was too rough and un-ladylike. At first, I thought she was worried Abbey would get hurt because of her slight stature, but when her complaints about girls playing sports were extended even to me, with my huskier build, I knew safety wasn’t the reason.
I had skinned my knee pretty badly once playing basketball in my driveway with a couple neighborhood boys, and Abbey’s mom gave me an earful when she saw the cut.
“This is why girls shouldn’t play sports,” she’d said.
“Ah, it’s fine, Mrs. Hulling. It doesn’t hurt me any more than it would hurt a boy,” I’d said.
She’d given me a stern glare. “But look at your knee. What boy is going to want to take out a girl with cuts all over her legs? You two better stop playing so rough. Boys don’t like that.”
As much as we hated our rackets, I was sure Abbey knew, like I did, that they were the best we were going to get. But from the moment we heard the train and ventured far beyond the Nabisco building and discovered our train, we no longer cared about old, worn tennis rackets.
We had found our Hideout.
I stood outside Abbey’s house, deciding if we should go to the Hideout to eat the lunch I had packed for us or do something else.
I sighed. “Fine. Let’s go to the Hideout. We’ll go deep into the woods, build a fire, and pretend like we’re camping.”
Abbey’s body stiffened at the mention of going into the woods she was so scared of, but she didn’t say anything. Maybe she knew she had already ruined our plans enough and didn’t want to push it. She turned around to go back into the house.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Getting marshmallows. If we’re gonna build a fire, we need marshmallows.”
“Good thinking. Do you have matches?” I asked.
“No. Do you?”
My mom didn’t smoke, but I knew we had a lighter at my house that she used for lighting candles, the same lighter I used to light up the cigs Derek slipped me for later.
Abbey’s mom snuck a cigarette sometimes. I was sure of it. I smelled the faint scent on her hands whenever she’d touch my face to tell me how pretty I was, but that I’d be much prettier if I didn’t dress like a tomboy. “It’s okay for now,” she’d say, “because you’re still young, but once you’re old enough to wear makeup and dress the way a proper girl should dress, the boys won’t be able to leave you alone.”
That smell was the same stench that lingered on my own hands after I smoked, which was why I washed my hands like a maniac and kept them away from my mother’s face.
I didn’t want to waste time riding back to my house for a lighter when I was sure there was one somewhere in Abbey’s house.
“Your mom probably has matches or a lighter somewhere,” I said.
“My mom doesn’t smoke.”
“Yes she does. Is she home?”
“She’s in her room.”
I groaned. I wanted to search the house with Abbey, but now I couldn’t.
“Just search really fast in the basement. I bet it’s somewhere down there, and while you’re at it, see if you can find one of her bottles.”
“Bottles of what?”
I rolled my eyes. “Alcohol.”
“My mom doesn’t drink.”
“Yes she does,” I replied flatly.
I knew for a fact Abbey’s mom drank because when she would lean really close to me to point out all the parts of my face that would one day show my age, the sweet scent of liquor sprung from her lips.
One day, when Abbey was sure her mother would be gone for a while, we had searched the entire house for her hidden stash, even though Abbey was adamant her mother didn’t drink.
“She drinks,” I’d said. “As sure as the sun rises, she drinks.”
I had heard that line in a movie somewhere and always wanted to use it. I silently thanked Abbey’s mom for giving me the opportunity, but even though we never found her bottles, I was sure they were hidden somewhere in that house.
The woman had a damn good hiding spot, and though Abbey had acted disappointed that we weren’t going to get our hands on any liquor that day, I had sensed she was mostly relieved that we hadn’t found proof that her mother drinks. I suspected she would have cried if we had.
Now, I felt bad for telling Abbey that her mom drank because I didn’t want to make my friend cry.
Once, while shopping with my mom, I’d made a girl I didn’t even know cry because she’d given me what I considered to be a dirty look as she and her mother walked into a dressing room with armfuls of clothes. The notion that the girl who gave me a dirty look would go home with more new clothes in one day of shopping than I’d bring home the entire year, made me hate her more than a person should ever hate someone they’d never met before.
As I browsed the store, I caught the girl and her mother exiting the fitting rooms. The girl had left her shoes in the room and was following her mom down the aisles in her socks. I knew they’d soon return with more clothes to try on.
I hurried into the dressing room and easily found their stall because the girl’s pink jacket, with the fluffy hood, was sitting on the ledge. I saw her fancy shoes lying on the ground and the pretty clothes that the girl had selected to keep hanging neatly on a hook.
I ran into the stall, kicked her shoes as hard as I could, and watched them skid five dressing stalls away. I quickly left the room, and while hiding behind a clothes rack, I watched the girl and her mother walk back toward the dressing rooms. I moved closer to the outside of the fitting rooms, careful not to be noticed.
I heard the girl start crying. Seconds later, she burst out of the room, her mother a few steps behind.
“We’ll find them, honey. Maybe someone picked them up by accident,” the mother said.
I was standing nearby, pretending to be browsing. I peeked over in their direction, and the girl was glaring at me. I knew she knew I was responsible for her missing shoes. I quickly walked away to find my mother.
I reached her and pushed her to hurry up.
We made it to the checkout line without seeing the girl. I thought I was in the clear. I looked behind me and saw the girl’s mother walking toward us. I turned away and moved closer to my mom.
“Excuse me,” the woman close behind me said.
My mother turned around to the woman. I took my time facing the woman—in no hurry to face the consequences of what I’d done.
In an apologetic and timid tone, the woman asked me if I had taken her daughter’s shoes.
“No,” I replied, feigning confusion.
I glanced at the girl standing behind her mother. She was still crying. I fought to keep a straight face as I watched her standing there with no shoes on.
“Yes you did.” The girl sniffled. “You took them. I know you did.”
“No I didn’t,” I said, and it wasn’t a lie. I hadn’t taken her shoes. I kicked them—far away.
I looked at my mother. She took in the scene unfolding in front of her,
and for a moment, her eyes held mine. She was not amused. The cashier, who had seemed oblivious to what was happening, announced the amount my mom owed.
My mom handed the woman her credit card, but kept her attention on the situation surrounding us.
“What’s happening here?” she asked, more to me than them. A sense of impatience poured out of her words. She wasn’t in the mood for my antics. The tired look in her eyes told me so.
The woman stepped closer, not in an intimidating way, but I assumed so her soft voice could be heard. “My daughter’s missing her shoes and I asked your daughter if she had any idea where they might be.”
“How would my daughter know where your daughter’s shoes are?” my mom asked, looking genuinely uncertain how I could have managed such a feat.
My mom looked at me, and again, I could see she definitely wasn’t in the mood for my shit.
I shook my head. “I don’t know where they are.”
The woman either believed me or wanted to end this confrontation because she quickly relented. “It must have been a misunderstanding. Sorry to have bothered you.”
The woman pulled her daughter away, but the little girl wouldn’t budge. “No.” She folded her arms across her chest. “She took my shoes. I know she did.”
I peered down at her shoeless feet and stifled the laughter caught in the middle of my throat. The girl’s pretty light-blue socks were no doubt getting dirty from the filthy, worn floor. She’d probably throw them out as soon as she got home, and mommy would have to buy her a new pair in all her favorite colors.
My mother looked at me, and I was sure she knew I’d probably done it, but before she could say anything, the woman grabbed her daughter by the shoulders and whisked her away, despite her daughter’s objections.
I watched them walk back into the dressing rooms. She’ll find them. And then she’d feel stupid.
In the car, my mother turned on the ignition and then wrapped her fingers slowly around the steering wheel. She turned to me. “Did you take that little girl’s shoes?”
“How could I take her shoes without her knowing it? Why would I want her shoes anyway? Did you see her ugly blue socks? Her shoes probably had ribbons on them, like I’d even want those.”
I stared straight ahead, but through my peripheral vision I saw my mother still watching me. My heart beat fast as I waited for her to reach her hand to the gear stick and shift the car in reverse. I wanted to leave and never talk about the girl or her stupid shoes again. But she waited. Maybe she was expecting me to confess, but I wasn’t giving myself up.
“Why’d she single you out?” she finally asked, breaking the hard silence.
“How should I know?”
“Where’d you go when you walked away from me?”
“I was looking at cassettes.”
“Whenever you look at cassettes you usually beg me to buy at least one.”
I bit my bottom lip. “I told you I didn’t take her stupid, ugly shoes.”
My mother watched me a couple seconds longer and then broke her gaze and pulled out of the parking spot.
I didn’t know if my mom believed me or not. We never talked about the incident again. I didn’t know why I had done it, maybe only because I could. Abbey never asked why we did the things we did. We just did them.
I looked at Abbey. “Just get the marshmallows.”
I didn’t mention the matches or her mother’s hidden alcohol. I didn’t want to make her cry.
WHEN WE GOT to the Hideout, I dropped our lunches onto the ground. “Come on, we need to find sticks and stuff for the fire.”
“I have an idea,” Abbey said. “Let’s build the fire out here in the field. It’s so nice out and we can see the day better here than in the woods. The trees block most of the sky.”
Abbey was trying to act nonchalant, but I knew she was nervous about going into the woods, and since I still felt bad for telling her that her mom smokes and drinks, I didn’t fight her.
“Fine,” I said. “We can build a fire out here.”
“Plus,” Abbey said, still continuing with her charade of not being scared. “It’s probably not safe to start a fire in the woods. The flames could shoot into the trees and set everything into one big blaze.”
I considered the ridiculous notion of a flame from our tiny fire shooting into the trees and causing a wildfire. Besides, I was going to build the fire closer to the creek, so if the fire did get too big, there’d be water near us to put it out. I wanted to tell Abbey how stupid she was being and that I had it covered, but instead, I just nodded and told her she was right.
Later, we huddled over a pile of sticks, leaves, and torn pieces of paper I had gathered from the wooded area. I lit the stash with the lighter we got from my house and watched as one of the pieces of paper caught fire right away. I nestled my hands around the small fire to keep the wind from blowing out the flames.
“Let’s pretend we’re camping,” Abbey said.
“No. Let’s pretend these woods are our home and the only food we have to eat is what we’re able to hunt.”
“Okay,” Abbey said.
We ripped open our paper bags and tore the wrappers off our sandwiches. I let mine fall to the ground, and when the wind blew it toward the bushes, Abbey gave me a look.
“What?” I asked.
“If these woods are our home then you can’t make a mess.” She motioned toward the discarded wrapper blowing wildly in the soft wind until it got tangled in the branches.
I put my sandwich on top of the paper bag and sighed as I got up to retrieve my mess. I sat back down and looked at Abbey. “Happy now?”
She bit into her sandwich. “Yes,” she replied, with a mouth full of bologna.
I shoved the wrapper into the paper bag. “Next time we have to cook over a fire.”
“Hot dogs?”
“No, not hot dogs. In movies, they cook in a small pot.”
“What do they cook?”
“Something like beans or chili. They sit in the dark, around a campfire, and eat from tin cups.”
“Ew. I hate beans and chili.”
“That’s hardcore camp food.” I glanced at the food in my hand. “They don’t eat stupid bologna sandwiches.”
Abbey bit into the soft bread. “You know I love bologna sandwiches.”
“I know. But it’s kid’s stuff.”
“Do you think Derek’s cute?” Abbey asked, after a couple minutes of eating in silence.
I lowered my sandwich and gave her a strange look. “Derek?”
She shrugged. “Yeah, Derek.”
I popped the last bite of food into my mouth and leaned back onto my elbows, chewing thoughtfully as I considered her question. “I don’t know. I mean, he’s cool and all. But it’s Derek. He’s a total burnout.”
“I know, but do you think he’s cute?” she asked.
“I never thought about it,” I answered.
“I love his long hair. It’s just like Jon Bon Jovi’s.”
“Or David Coverdale and Stephen Pearcy. I want my hair like that, messy and long.”
“Yours is kinda like that. Just grow your bangs out more,” Abbey said.
“I am growing them out. That’s why they’re always in my eyes.” I blew a couple strands of hair from my face.
“Do you think any girls from class would think Derek’s cute?”
“Hell no. They like their boys clean.”
“What do you like?” she asked.
“I don’t like any boys,” I answered honestly.
“I wanna know if I’m supposed to think Derek’s cute.”
I laughed. “No one can tell you something like that. You like who you like.”
“Who do you like?”
“No one, yet.”
“Me either,” Abbey said, and tossed a couple more scraps into the fire. “This is an awesome fire.” She paused. “I don’t wanna throw rocks at the trains anymore.”
“Then don’t.”
; “I won’t.” She held the sandwich she was still eating carefully around the edges of the wrapper. “I like making fires, though.”
“Me too,” I said, and then I burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
I shook my head while laughing so hard I was sure I was going to pee my pants.
“What is it? What’s so funny?”
“I was imagining you bringing home someone like Derek to meet your parents.”
“Oh crap. My mother would flip out.”
“She’d do more than that. She’d absolutely lose her shit, especially if any of the neighbors caught a glimpse of some long-haired dude with ripped jeans, knocking on your door.”
“My mother would never allow that.” Abbey picked up a bunch of sticks and tossed them, one by one, toward the brush. “I know Derek’s a burnout and everything, but he’s not a bad guy.”
I studied Abbey’s hunched posture and glum expression. “You have a thing for him, don’t you?” I asked, but it came out more like an accusation rather than a question.
“I don’t have a thing for him. I don’t like boys like that, yet. Maybe I should, but I don’t. Someday I will, though, and I know my mom will hate the boys I like, and will give me all kinds of hell for it.”
“Hey.” I put my hand on her shoulder and waited until her eyes met mine. “I already told you. You like who you like. Forget about your mother.”
I WAS SEARCHING the field for more leaves and branches when I heard Abbey yell that we had to leave soon. “I have to go to my Aunt’s, remember?”
“We got time,” I muttered. “We still have to roast our marshmallows.”
I walked back to the fire, carrying everything I’d collected and dropped them onto the ground.
“What are those for?” Abbey asked.
“I’m going to entwine the sticks and leaves together to make a pillow. This is what they used to do in the olden days. Want me to make you one?”
“Okay, but we can’t stay much longer.”
“I know. I know.” I knelt down and got to work on our makeshift pillows. “Hey, while I do this you start roasting the marshmallows. Here.” I tossed her a couple sticks.
A Penny on the Tracks Page 3