Stray

by Stacey Goldblatt

  Wednesday morning I cram myself through my assigned homework while eating some cereal, then head to the corner, where Nina is waiting. Nina is beyond punctual. She beats the second hand to its mark on the clock.

  “What gives?” asks Nina when I approach the stop sign smiling.

  I sit down on the concrete, not holding back this time but telling her everything, because telling her everything is like thinking about it.

  Before class, I veer from Nina and Kirby toward the bathroom. Laney and Maryann enter as I’m washing my hands. They both stand in front of the mirrors and begin their makeup ritual.

  Laney dabs her lips with a spongy pink-tipped applicator. “So,” she says, “Kyle picked us up last night, since you couldn’t drive us home, but I couldn’t help noticing your car was miraculously gone when we came out of Quimby’s.”

  “Yeah,” I say, tugging a paper towel from its dispenser. “I had a spare set of keys at the clinic.”

  Laney smacks her lips. “That’s convenient.”

  I need to push through my fear of this girl. “Not really. I had to run and get them,” I say.

  Laney says, “Well, we figured it was your way of getting Carver all to yourself.”

  “I wasn’t trying to get him to myself.”

  Laney tilts her head to the right. “Whatever.” Yeah, whatever. Like I need a plan to be forgetful. She and Maryann pivot out of the bathroom. I give them enough of a lead that it looks like I’m not following.

  After school I walk toward work, thinking about how Carver’s and my taste buds touched last night. My hands tremble as I get closer to the clinic. Before last night, I had never shared a good kiss with anyone, let alone faced the aftermath of it. Will we pretend it didn’t happen? Or will we fling directly into a saucy kiss when our eyes meet?

  When I get there, Carver is out to lunch. I am both relieved and disappointed. While Mom is in the exam room, I am able to slip her spare keys into her office.

  A half hour later, Lollipop, a bloodhound whose head seems too burdensome to lift from the ground, waits in the reception area. His name obviously came from the small boy sitting next to him on the floor.

  Carver returns from lunch holding a brown paper bag. He steps over Lollipop on his way to the desk. Why he makes my skin quiver, I don’t know, but he does and it’s quivering now.

  “Hey,” I say when he leans over the reception counter and places the paper bag in front of me. I wonder what’s in there, but the kid next to Lollipop is picking his nose with his pinkie and staring at us. It’s sort of distracting.

  “Go ahead and look,” Carver says. I peek inside the bag and find a huge cookie. “It’s peanut butter chocolate chip. One of the best I’ve ever had.”

  “Don’t tell my grandma that.” I smile widely, reach in, and break off a piece. It melts in my mouth. “Yum.”

  “Keep it.”

  “Really?” He’s giving me his cookie and I’m acting like it’s an engagement ring. “Thanks.”

  “Wanna hang out tonight?”

  It’s time to introduce him to Nina and Kirby. “My friends and I are getting together for soup. It’s our Wednesday-night thing. Why don’t you come along?”

  “Soup.” He slowly nods. “Sounds good.” Carver is making this easy for me. He doesn’t even ask why we’re eating soup in the summertime.

  “We’re meeting around seven, so we can just go from my house.”

  Carver suddenly turns to catch the nose-picking kid in his stare. It’s so sudden that Lollipop manages to raise his head off the ground. His dewlap dangles from his double chin, in the middle of his chest. The boy’s finger stays lodged in his nose, stuck to whatever is inside.

  Night rolls around like molasses globbing off a spoon. At the clinic I plod through my homework to free myself from having to do it early in the morning.

  Mom drives Carver and me home. This time Carver sits in front with my mom. She explains euthanasia to him while I steal glimpses of the left side of his face, paying particular attention to the way the soft hairs on his neck make a swirling design.

  After taking the dogs for a walk, I spend the better part of an hour attempting to apply mascara and eyeliner. Feeling like a clown, I remove it and settle on maroon-tinted Chap Stick. The skin around my eyes is blotchy and red from wiping off the eye stuff. I slide into my favorite jeans. From downstairs, the smell of something baking wafts up to my room.

  Expecting to find Grandma, I’m surprised when I see Mom at the kitchen table paying bills. I stand beside her. “Tonight’s soup night,” I say.

  “Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll give you a ride.”

  I’m out of lies and am going to try something else. “Carver’s going with us. Can I walk there with him?”

  “And you’re meeting Nina and Kirby there?”

  “Yep.”

  “Is he coming by here first?” I nod. “Call me if you need a ride home.” She stuffs a check into an envelope. “Walk safely,” she says, “and be home by nine.”

  MOM LETTING ME WALK WITH CARVER TO MIGUEL’S : SHOCKING : : MOM NOT LETTING ME WALK WITH CARVER : EXPECTED. “Thanks,” I say. This is unprecedented trust in me. Was it my report card or did Mom undergo a lobotomy?

  “Natalie?” Mom says as I start to walk out of the kitchen. I turn to look at her, waiting for a “just kidding!” “Remember what we talked about? Boundaries.”

  “I remember.” End of conversation. But there it is! I still get to go. She is beginning to trust me. La, la, la!

  A few minutes later, a knock on the door triggers a last-minute dash to the living room mirror. The red marks on my face have faded, so at least I don’t look like I got into a brawl with a cat.

  I round the corner to the entry hall but stop short before Mom and Carver see me. Mom has gotten to the door first. She is muttering something to Carver but she’s loud enough that I can hear the refrain, the babble that I’ve had to hear my entire life. Words like “expectations” and “cautious.” Phrases in the key of “let’s keep it professional” and “you are a guest in our home.”

  So much for trusting me.

  After she’s finished, she calls for me and I go to her like a dutiful subject.

  “Ready?” Carver asks. He looks good: jeans, light blue T-shirt with white long-sleeved jersey underneath, messy hair.

  I look at Mom, who is standing between Carver and me, apparently proud that she has marked her territory. The dogs stand behind her, because she is the alpha of our pack.

  “I’m ready,” I tell Carver. Then I walk past Mom, leaving her absorbed in her world and stepping outside to assume control of my own.

  Edible rewards imprison the full potential of a dog.

  —Michael Kaplan, The Manifesto of Dog

  I seriously consider grabbing Carver’s hand and pulling him up to the room above the garage, where we can swap kisses on the floor and I can search for his tattoo, but I’m able to restrain myself (unfortunately).

  Carver holds my hand in his. We stroll on the sidewalk. The sky begins to turn purple; the stars twinkle behind the haze. There’s a nice chill in the air, the kind that makes you feel glad to have someone to hold on to. “Your hands are so soft,” says Carver.

  “That’s a miracle considering how many times I wash them at work.” Dog slobber and hair are occupational hazards. “You know, I should tell you that my friend Kirby is sort of opinionated, but don’t let him scare you.” The guy deserves fair warning.

  At the stop sign, Carver grabs hold of my other hand, bringing me near him. We face each other and he leans in for a kiss. Slow, soft. He smells like he belongs here, in nighttime and sea-salted air. I can’t believe that last week I was trying to think him out of my head.

  Carver slowly pulls his lips away. “Don’t worry about me,” he says.

  Frequent stops for kissing fuel us toward Miguel’s.

  At the restaurant, we walk through a corridor of bright blue walls into a dimly lit dining room. Tissue-papered don
key-shaped piñatas hang from the ceiling, and candlelight dances inside globes of red glass centered on each table.

  Kirby and Nina are waiting at a booth, sitting across from each other. Nina waves us over like she’s hailing a cab in a crowded city. “Bonjour!” she says. Kirby scowls in his seat.

  “Hi, Carver,” Nina says enthusiastically. He says hi back. I love this girl. She can make anyone feel at home in her presence.

  “Carver, this is Kirby,” I say. Kirby acknowledges Carver with a testosterone-loaded nod.

  “Here, you two sit together.” Nina moves over to Kirby’s side of the table. Carver motions me to go first into our side of the booth, where we settle in, thighs touching. “Kirby and I already ordered a Mexican pizza for us to share, without onions,” she says to me, “since you dislike them.”

  “Thank you very much.” We scan the menu. La sopa especial of the night is Spicy Tortilla. Carver and I order the special. Kirby rolls his eyes and orders meatball soup, out of spite, I’m sure.

  After we order, Nina scoops her chip in salsa and says, as eloquently as one can with a mouthful of food, “Carver, you’ve got to tell us what it’s like living in San Francisco. Do you ever visit Haight-Ashbury? My dad is a total Dead Head, which is sort of weird because he’s a military man, but he probably saw the Grateful Dead a hundred times in concert before Jerry Garcia died.” She says this so rapidly that it’s amazing the food stays inside her mouth.

  Kirby says, “It’s customary to breathe when you talk, Nina.” She sticks her tortilla chip-laden tongue out at him.

  Carver says, “We live about a fifteen-minute walk from there.” He puts his hand on my knee. It feels so natural, so comforting.

  “I don’t get it,” Kirby says, not touching the chips and salsa he usually devours. “Why ‘the Grateful Dead’? Grateful to be dead?” Oh man, he’s gonna be argumentative.

  Carver seems immune to Kirby’s cockiness. “Actually, Jerry Garcia opened up the dictionary one day and there it was, grateful dead. It’s based on a story about a guy who gives his last penny to help some stranger get buried. The penny-giver becomes a hero and the buried dead, grateful.”

  I feel proud that Carver is not only kind but also knowledgeable about his music. “I never knew that,” I say. “Just think, Nina, all this time your dad lectured us about the Grateful Dead and he never explained this one. We’ll have to brag to him that we know something he may not.”

  “Enlightening.” Kirby sighs. “I’m going to go see where our pizza is. Scoot, Nina.” Nina gets out of the way for Kirby to exit the booth. He disappears into the waiter’s area and our server comes out carrying a huge tray with our pizza.

  “I’ll go get Kirby,” I say, wishing I could take Carver’s hand with me. Carver moves so that I can get out of the booth.

  I find Kirby in the small entryway to the kitchen, where he stands looking at his feet. Nina was the one who wanted to meet Carver, not Kirby. The clanging of pots and the sizzling of food waft from the kitchen. “Kirb?” He looks at me. “What’s your problem?”

  “I don’t trust him.”

  “What? You don’t even know him.” I lean against the wall, next to Kirby, letting a hurried server through. “Can’t you for once let someone make an impression on you before you go impressing your opinion on them?” I feel like I’m pleading. I tone it down a bit. “Don’t you trust me, Kirby? His being here is a result of my forming my own opinion, which, by the way, I thought you valued.”

  He looks into the kitchen and watches a cook chop tomatoes on a butcher block at fast-forward speed. I don’t understand Kirby right now. “He just doesn’t seem like your type.”

  “And this is based on saying hello to him? You haven’t even attempted conversation yet.”

  “I can just tell, Natalie.”

  “And what is my type?”

  “Smart. Funny.”

  “I’ll have you know that Carver is both. He’s fun to talk to. And he’s easygoing. He makes me feel good about myself. So stop acting like a turd.” I look at our table to peek at Carver and notice that our food is being served.

  I tap Kirby on the shoulder. “Our pizza is at the table,” I say, walking back to our booth. Kirby straggles behind.

  “Very effective, Kirby,” Nina says. “As soon as you left, the pizza arrived.” Kirby sits and grabs a slice. I’m thankful his mouth will be busy for the next few minutes with something besides negative commentary.

  As we chew our pizza, a loud voice echoes through the door of the restaurant. Then she appears.

  “Ha! Look, Maryann, it’s Carrrrver! And Nina!” Laney shouts, running over to our table as if she’s leaning toward the finish line of a race. Her little pink purse sways helplessly from her wrist.

  Not that everything was running smoothly in the first place, but Laney’s being here raises the chances of things getting worse.

  Laney slaps her hands down on the table. “I loooove this pizza.” She smells like a liquor cabinet. Maryann lurks directly behind her like a shadow.

  “You okay, Laney?” Carver asks.

  “You are soooooo sweet!” she says back breathily.

  Kirby wipes off his arm with a napkin. “Do you mind? You’re sort of spraying spit all over my pizza.”

  Laney looks down at him, confused. “You’re always mad or something. Lighten up.” Wrong. Thing. To. Say.

  “Uh, no,” says Kirby. “It’s just that I never order saliva as a topping.” Laney laughs and actually conjures up a bona fide snort.

  “You’re kind of cute. I’ve never noticed that before,” she tells Kirby matter-of-factly. Then, without permission, she reaches for Kirby’s slice of pizza and dips it into her mouth.

  “Sure, go ahead and help yourself,” Kirby says sarcastically.

  Nina swings in. “Laney, you’re drunk. Quiet down a bit.” Nina really does care about Laney, which makes me feel sort of bad about not caring. “We can walk it off outside or something.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Everyone is staring at you.”

  Laney turns around, confirming that this is true. She shrugs and takes another bite of pizza.

  Nina leans into us. “Let’s get her outside so she doesn’t have such a captive audience.”

  Carver goes to fetch our check and pays for “our” part of the bill. Our part!

  By the time we make it outside, Laney has gone from obnoxious to lethargic. We congregate around a bench. Laney places a hand over her stomach. “I don’t feel so good.” Kirby and Carver direct Laney to sit on the bench. Kirby remains seated with her while Carver unhinges himself and sidles over to Nina and me.

  “What are we going to do?” I ask. “How long does it take someone to sober up?”

  “I’ve never seen her so drunk,” Nina says. Laney’s head rests on Kirby’s shoulder.

  “Well,” says Carver, “we’ve got to get her somewhere safe, where she can snap out of it. It’d probably be easiest if we took her to my place.” My place? He cares about Laney after all. This is something a close friend would say, not an acquaintance.

  Or am I being selfish? You can’t leave someone drunk sitting on a bench and expect that they’ll make it home. Right?

  “Oh, yeah. Natalie’s mom would love that,” Kirby says with a snicker.

  “We could party over at Laney’s house. No one’s home,” says Maryann, obviously out of it. Kirby lets out another snide laugh.

  Nina stands next to Maryann and says in a soothing voice, “Maryann. We are not going to ‘party.’ We’re trying to figure out what to do with Laney here because she’s partied too much already.”

  “Oh,” Maryann says, unfazed.

  “We can’t leave her alone,” says Carver.

  “It’s fine. My mom won’t have to know,” I say with a wobbly tone of conviction. “We’ll just have to be quiet about it. I’ll go in the house and talk to her while you guys get Laney upstairs.”

  I can justify this. It’s no different from saving a dog in distress.
No different than giving it water, nursing it back to stability. From my track record, this is one thing I know I do quite well.

  Chewing is passive-aggressive dogspeak for “I need attention.”

  —Michael Kaplan, The Manifesto of Dog

  The burden of getting Laney to walk the mile to my house is a heavy one. Kirby and Carver stand on either side of her, helping her to balance just in case she should stumble, which seems likely, since she has gone from a stroll to a saunter.

  As we trail them, Nina mouths, Are you okay? I give a slight nod. Then she raises her eyebrows and twitches her head toward Carver. He is so hot! she mouths. Yep.

  We make it to my place after eight-thirty p.m. To sustain our covert operation, I try to assume a business-as-usual cool by walking into my house while the rest of the group steers Laney into Carver’s room.

  “I’m home,” I say, entering the den, where Mom and Grandma are watching vintage black-and-white footage of Julia Child smashing the soft insides of potatoes with a utensil that looks like a small pitchfork. I sit on the floor in front of the television, trying to pet all the dogs at once to distract them from any hullabaloo by the garage.

  On the screen, Julia Child grips a skillet with both hands and says in a deep, masculine voice, “When you flip anything, you must have the courage of your convictions.”

  “You’re early again.” Mom’s perky, because she thinks I’m going the extra mile in her little obedience game. “Is Carver home, too?” she asks. I nod.

  “Shhh!” says Grandma, who is listening to the gospel of Julia Child. I watch for a few more minutes.

  “I’m going to take the dogs out,” I whisper.