“Shh…do you want everyone to hear you? Come on.”
I led him around the side of the house. It was there that he took me in his arms. “You smell so good,” he said, nuzzling my neck.
“Not here, Chord. Not now. The window is open. Anyone could be inside watching. We need to be discreet.”
“I’m trying, Jane, but you’re so irresistible.”
“Shhh. I’ll meet you in our secret place. See you in fifteen minutes.” I winked and left him standing there.
RSVP
I puzzled over the letter I had received from Bubba. It was impossible…. He couldn’t have written to me—he was imaginary. Yet I held that precise impossibility in my hands. What was he doing communicating with me now, after all the other issues I was dealing with: Raphael’s defection, Sharp’s renewed presence as a significant player in my life, and the fire. The fire? Was Bubba like some phoenix born of fire? The thought chilled me. I took up my pen.
Dear Bubba,
You’re my enemy, remember? So the kinds of letters you’re asking for are out of the question. Invitations and postcards and thank-you notes? Forget it. You don’t send things like that to your enemy.
Don’t call me, I’ll call you,
Gabriel
I reviewed what I had written. No. I shook my head. That didn’t work. I scratched through each line of text and tucked the note into my blue Bubba folder. Was I losing my mind? How do you answer a letter from an imaginary enemy?
Sharp saw me sitting on the porch and crossed the yard. “Hi, Jane. How’s it goin’?”
“Okay,” I answered dully.
“You still freaked out about the fire?”
“What makes you think I was freaked out?” I asked coldly.
“I dunno. Peggy said your mom told her you were having a hard time.”
I rolled my eyes. “As if Carmella and Harmony aren’t gossipy enough, now I’ve got my mother discussing me with the neighbors.”
“I don’t think it was like that. Peggy probably asked. Out of concern.”
“Whatever.”
“I’d be freaked if it happened to me,” he said.
“Well, it didn’t, did it?”
“Sorry,” he muttered. “See ya.”
I watched him turn away. “Hey, Sharp,” I called when he reached the driveway.
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t mean to be so snippy. I guess maybe I am a little rattled. It happened so quickly. And everything’s such a mess.”
“It’s okay, Jane. I didn’t take it personally.”
But I wondered if he had, because his eyes looked withdrawn.
If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. So I did. I wrote yet another letter to Bubba.
Dear Bubba,
How did you get my address? This is supposed to be a one-way street. My way. So go away.
In absolute control,
Gabriel
Failure. I drew a big X across that one, stuffed it into my Bubba folder, and crammed the folder into my drawer.
I’d come with Dad to the marina. He went into his office, a trailer brought onto the property since the fire, to look for some blueprints. Sitting on the pier, bathed in the soft yellow glow of the waning moon, I tossed a twig into the bayou and watched it swirl before it slowly drifted away. A night bird was crying in the trees. I yanked my Bubba folder out of my backpack, which was lying on the dock beside me.
Dear Bubba,
What exactly do you want from me? I have nothing to offer you, and you certainly can’t offer me much.
Empty-handed,
Gabriel
It wasn’t really what I wanted to say. I scribbled through it and stashed it with the others. Having bared my soul to Bubba since second grade, I suddenly found myself at a loss for words. Me? At a loss for words? Who ever thought that day would come?
“Your dress for the dance is so pretty,” said Carmella as I twirled in front of the mirror. “I can’t believe you got it at a secondhand store.”
“Me either,” said Harmony.
“Only nine dollars, but I have to make some adjustments.” It was a red dress with clean lines. No frills, no lace, no beads or buttons.
“Sharp’s gonna love it,” said Harmony.
“Yeah, he probably will,” I said with a smile. “At least by the time I get through with it.”
“The color’s perfect for you,” added Harmony.
“It’s so weird you’re going out with Sharp,” Carmella said.
“He’s such a brother. I can’t imagine going out with him,” said Harmony.
“But you can imagine going out with Zander, can’t you?” asked Carmella mischievously. “And he’s a brother.”
Harmony blushed and kicked Carmella’s leg.
“I already know you’re hot for Zander,” I said.
“You told her?” Harmony said to Carmella.
“That shouldn’t surprise you,” I said. “Neither of you can keep a secret. But really, Harmony, Zander? He’s such a squab!”
“He’s not so bad,” said Harmony, but her smile gave her away.
“You seriously need to get out more, Harmony. It’s that homeschool thing…. You’ve severely limited your choices. When you get to high school, you won’t believe the possibilities.”
“I’m about quality, not quantity.”
“Quality? You two are way too sheltered. Zander and Jason Blackshire? At least have some imagination.”
“You’re going out with Sharp. What’s the difference?” asked Carmella, defending her friend.
“It’s not a real date,” I said, wondering if it actually was a real date.
“Sharp thinks you’re pretty,” said Harmony.
“He does?”
“That’s what he told Chord. I heard him. They didn’t know I was there.”
“In other words, you were spying again,” I accused her.
“Not spying. Observing.”
“That’s like calling thieving ‘borrowing.’ Doesn’t work for me. You two are the biggest snoops in the galaxy.”
“We are merely curious,” said Carmella. “Come on, Harmony. Let’s go.”
The two of them disappeared, probably in search of someone to “observe.”
I dug Aunt Jane’s sewing kit from the closet and altered the dress to make it perfect. I tried to visualize the expressions on the faces of Raphael and Emma when I sashayed into the homecoming dance.
If it hadn’t been for that mail-in rebate that came with the cosmetics I bought, I probably never would have seen it. I went into Dad’s home office for a postage stamp, and there, on the desk, atop of a stack of manila envelopes, was a sheaf of papers stapled together. By the letterhead, I saw that it was a report from the insurance company. I lifted the cover letter and browsed through the forms and documents beneath. And there it was, midway down the third page, in the square labeled “Ignition point”: “Kitchen—grease fire—fryer left on.” My hands began to shake as I leafed through the remaining papers. Nowhere did my name appear, at least not prominently enough to catch my scanning eye. I exhaled with relief. It was logical—if I wasn’t named in an official legal document, then I wasn’t to blame.
Once again I tried to compose a letter to Bubba that would accurately convey my feelings.
Dear Bubba,
Your letter was inappropriate. An invasion. Like a solicitor on the telephone. Like an eavesdropper. Like a burglar.
Get a life,
Gabriel
P.S. Like a disease.
Bubba Crosses the Line
Chord met me on the porch. “Sharp’s teaching a lesson,” he said. “That means we have thirty minutes.”
“This is getting old,” I complained. “Sneaking a moment here and there. We have to find a better way.”
“I agree, but for now, I’ll take what I can get. Come on.” We walked across the deMichaels’ backyard and climbed the ladder to the tree house.
I opened the mailbox. Only one envelo
pe occupied it. I reached for it and gasped, because even though I’d only seen it once before, I immediately recognized the handwriting. I looked up and down the street as if I expected my imaginary enemy to be lurking nearby. Then I slowly tore away the flap and unfolded the paper inside.
Dear Gabriel,
Don’t you think it’s time we met face to face? Waffle House. Wednesday at seven. Booth four. Be there.
By invitation only,
Bubba
Yikes! I’d certainly never imagined anything like this. Bubba in the flesh? Did Bubba have flesh? What was appropriate attire for meeting your imaginary enemy?
Once again I couldn’t sleep. I rolled over and pulled the blankets up to my chin. Through the window I stared at the crescent moon, faceless and bored, hanging in the sky. I replayed the events of the night of the fire, as I had done countless times. I remembered serving that last hungry customer, a middle-school-age boy with braces and a gold hoop in one ear who knew Carmella and Harmony from their homeschool network. Then Zander and I had cleaned up, him tackling the heavier tasks such as folding up serving tables and taking the trash to the Dumpster. I’d put away the condiments and spices, cleaned pots and utensils, and washed the ceramic liner of the Crock-Pot. I didn’t specifically remember turning off the fryer, but who remembers incidental things such as flushing the toilet and hanging up the phone? No one, that’s who. But that doesn’t mean those things weren’t done.
I did turn off the fryer. I was meticulous and methodical. I would never have been that careless.
I turned away from the window and flipped my pillow over. Bubba was freaking me out…writing these unasked-for letters and invading my head space. “I’ve about had enough of you, Bubba,” I said aloud. “Take your spooky tricks elsewhere.”
Reality Check
I poured the batter into the pan and slipped the pan into the oven. Then, as I cleaned the mixing bowls, spoons, and measuring cups, I thought about Bubba and the letters I’d received.
I’d known Bubba most of my life, and he’d never done anything like this before. Come to think of it, he’d never done anything before. Which was exactly the way it was supposed to be.
Bubba didn’t write those letters. He couldn’t, considering his status—nonexistent. This whole thing had to be one of those strange dreams that somehow tangles itself up with real life.
I dashed down the hall to my room, where I unearthed my Bubba folder from a pile of stuff on my dresser. When I flipped it open, fantasy collided with reality like a speeding truck slamming into a telephone pole. Because there, in the left-hand pocket, lurked those haunting messages.
This is insane, I thought. Absolutely insane. I removed the stack of letters from the right-hand pocket. They were the ones I’d written to Bubba over the years, from second grade to the present, covering a variety of my personal disasters and defeats. There must have been more than a hundred. I read them one by one, looking for some clue as to what had awakened Bubba from hibernation. Had I inadvertently summoned him? But nothing I read looked to me like grounds for Bubba to suddenly become assertive.
Could it have been something I did? Some accident or prank? The fire, maybe? Or was Bubba misinterpreting some of my actions—reading them at face value without peering beneath the surface?
“Jane! Your cake,” called Zander from the kitchen.
“Oh no!” I jumped up and ran to the oven. The timer was buzzing away like the honeybees Elliot had recorded at the blueberry farm. I grabbed a pot holder and opened the oven door. Then I muttered a short string of those inappropriate French words. The cake was flat and round and nearly black.
Zander leaned beside me to peer into the oven. “Least you didn’t catch the house on fire.”
“Zander, shut your trap.”
“I hope that’s not all you’re planning for Dad’s birthday party, because he doesn’t need an oversized hockey puck.”
“You’re just hilarious.” I yanked the mixing bowl out of the cabinet. “Back to the drawing board. Hey, Zander, go borrow three eggs from the deMichaels. Please?”
I reread that second letter from Bubba. Over and over and over. I reached for my pen and a sheet of loose-leaf.
Dear Bubba,
First of all, I’m not sure I want to meet you in person. This whole thing has become very eerie. You’re imaginary, remember, so the very fact that I’d even consider meeting you puts my sanity in dangerous territory. Get it?
Secondly, if I do agree to meet you, and that’s a big if, it certainly will not be at Waffle House. That would be far too complicated and uncomfortable. A public place, however, is a good idea, as you could be just as dangerous and unstable as some online pervert.
Cautiously,
Gabriel
When we reached my driveway, Chord glanced around nervously before taking my hand and gazing into my eyes. We talked, our faces close together, and the energy between us palpable. He gave me a hug. His hand lingered on my waist. “Bye, Chord,” I called, blowing him a kiss as I opened the front door.
Bubba Strikes Again
Yet another letter from Bubba arrived the Saturday of the homecoming dance. I stood in my bedroom, freshly showered, with a towel wrapped around me and my hair dripping. That was when Carmella came in. “You got a letter,” she said. I froze, realizing immediately that there was only one person I’d received mail from lately. (Person?) Like I needed this now! Like I wasn’t nervous enough about going to the dance with Sharp! Did everything have to happen at once? I tore the envelope open and tossed it away, anxiously unfolding the page inside.
Dear Gabriel,
Because I know you are a curious girl, I’m certain you won’t be able to resist the urge to meet me in person in spite of your reservations. I do understand your desire to choose a public location (although I can assure you that I am harmless), as well as your reluctance for such an event to occur in your place of employment. I have another suggestion—someplace neutral. The nonfiction floor of the public library—the Mercury Boulevard branch. The tables by the windows behind the psychology books (the one hundreds in the Dewey decimal system) would be perfect. Five-thirty Thursday works for me. I look forward to seeing you.
Your imaginary enemy,
Bubba
I read and reread the letter. What kind of an imaginary enemy would choose a library as a meeting place? Then I thought about all those books, stuffed to the gills with fictional characters, and decided that maybe the library was an obvious choice. But why the psychology section? Wouldn’t the fiction section have been more appropriate?
Then I almost threw up. Psychology! I’m going crazy. I’m losing my mind. I’m slipping over the edge, and there’s no sliding back. I sank to the floor, panicked and threatened.
“Aren’t you getting ready? Sharp is. I just got off the phone with Harmony, and she said he was taking a shower.” Carmella was standing in the doorway. I don’t know how long I had been sitting there in a daze.
“What time is it?”
“Six-thirty.”
“Oh drat! We’re leaving at seven.” I jumped up and looked in the mirror, which may have been a bad move. My hair was clumpy and damp, and my face was splotchy.
“What’s with the black nail polish?” asked Carmella.
I resisted the urge to call her a squab. “It completes the look,” I said matter-of-factly. “I wonder what Chord’s doing tonight?”
Carmella looked up at me, puzzled. “What difference does it make?”
“None. I was just wondering, that’s all…. Do you think he’ll like my outfit?”
“Chord? What do you—” She glanced at my dress hanging on the closet door and gaped. “Oh no, Jane. What happened to it?”
“I fixed it,” I said. “I told you I was going to make some adjustments.”
“But Jane…it’s…um…it’s…well, it’s like the Barbies.”
“Yeah, I know. Isn’t it great?” Originally a scarlet dress with a fitted bodice and gracefully flared
skirt, my gown was now slashed and studded and totally punkified. I’d ripped one sleeve from a black lace blouse and attached it with a tightly spaced row of silver safety pins. The outer skirt was torn into narrow strips, knotted at the ends. I was too modest to slice the lining as well. A heavy black zipper snaked like railroad tracks across the chest. Brass studs and ruby rhinestones were scattered in constellations over the fabric.
“So what about Chord? Do you think he’ll like it?”
Carmella stared at me. “Chord? Who cares…Sharp’s your date. Jane, what are you putting in your hair?”
“It’s temporary dye. I’m doing blue streaks. Blue is Sharp’s favorite color. I wonder what Chord’s favorite color is?”
“Who cares?” Carmella’s frustration was rearing its ugly head. “Are you really going to wear that dress?”
“Yeah. Is my hair spiky enough?”
She shook her head in despair.
“Carmella,” a voice called.
“Harmony, get in here. Now. My sister’s lost her mind.”
“Hello, Harmony. Hand me that black leather vest on my dresser,” I said as I pulled on a pair of fishnets.
“You’re wearing that, Jane?” Harmony asked.
“Yeah. You like it?”
For a while she just stood there with her mouth hanging open. Finally, she touched my hair and said, “You can’t go out like this. Sharp looks…normal.”
“I shoulda pierced my lip,” I said.
Carmella moaned. “I told you she’s gone crazy.”
“Carmella, I’m not having a Meltdown. Or if I am, then it’s a good thing. Way overdue.”
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