Stray

by Stacey Goldblatt

  Around ten-thirty p.m., an hour after the house assumes darkness, I slip on a pair of many-pocketed cargo pants that generously accommodate my index cards. I rub Fu-Fu, and the dogs follow me downstairs, where I grab three leashes from the entry hall. The dogs’ bodies flail about in excitement as I reach for them. We head out the front door and up the stairs leading to the room above the garage.

  Light seeps through the windows, but there is no answer after I knock. This is proof that life goes on without me. Where is Carver, anyway? How could I not have noticed him leaving the room? Standing on the landing outside his door, I look down at Laney’s porch. Nina was supposed to go to the movies with Laney tonight.

  Instead of going back into the house, the dogs and I venture out a few blocks, to Kirby’s place. I am just walking the dogs; Mom can’t blame me for that.

  Kirby answers the door. He looks at the dogs, whose noses are attacking the hedge lining the front porch. “That’s Paco’s favorite pee spot,” he says, explaining the sniffing frenzy. “So what are you doing here? I thought you were on restriction.”

  “I’m taking the dogs for a walk,” I say.

  “It’s sort of late for that, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe I’m rebelling at the same time.”

  “You’re such a hell-raiser, aren’t you?” Kirby makes a fake microphone with his fist. “Girl rebels by taking her dogs for a walk…. News at eleven.”

  I laugh.

  Kirby crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. “I’m not so sure I want to be linked to your rebellious ways. I will top your mom’s shit list if she finds you here.”

  “First, the woman sleeps like a log. Second, if you want me to leave, just say so.”

  Kirby eases onto the porch, scanning the empty sidewalk for signs of my mom. “Okay, y’all can come in. My mom is out playing bunco, anyway.”

  I walk in and we settle at the kitchen table; the dogs wander around the house, sniffing the afterglow of Paco. “Where’re Paco and Bogart?” I ask.

  “Pacos with my mom. As for Bogart, it’s turned into a shared-custody thing.” Kirby fills two glasses with orange juice from the fridge. “He’s here one night, found the next day, spends a night with the ruthless owners, and comes on back. Maryann’s parents have done nothing to secure their yard.”

  “I told you a long time ago that you should read Shiloh. Had you read it, you would clearly see that Bogart is your Shiloh.”

  “I’ll add it to my summer reading list.” He sets a glass down in front of me and nabs a box of ginger-snaps from the pantry.

  “Thanks,” I say, raising my glass to him.

  Kirby joins me at the table. “So are you going to tell me what you’re doing out of the house?”

  With a mouthful of gingersnap, I pull an index card out of my side pocket. Kirby reads it. “Escape? Looks like you wrote it a lot.”

  “I am tired of being good and getting no credit for it. Why not rise to the occasion and be the rabble-rouser my mom thinks I am? I want some adventure.”

  “You don’t get enough adventure with Carver?” He swills his orange juice.

  I stop midswig of mine. “We’re not discussing this again.”

  “Fine.” Kirby leans back into his chair and pushes his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose.

  “Look, I’m here to visit. I miss you and we need to make nice, since we’ve been quibbling a lot lately.” The dogs come into the kitchen and vie for a position at Paco’s tiny food and water dishes. “Sorry,” I say. “These dogs have bottomless pits for stomachs.”

  “No big deal.” He shrugs.

  “Let’s do something daring.”

  “Not going to jump off the roof if that’s what you have in mind.”

  I look toward the box of wine on top of the refrigerator and point to it. “What about that?”

  Kirby finds what I’m looking at. “That has been there for like three years. My mom doesn’t drink pink wine. Only red.”

  “So your mom won’t know if there’s some missing?” I arch my eyebrows at him.

  “Probably not.” He widens his eyes. “Why, you want a drink?”

  “Yes, I do. You know I’ve never really let myself indulge and I may as well do it with someone I trust.”

  “Okay, maybe I should be honored, but there’s no way I’m going to be responsible for your first hangover. Did you not see Laney the other night?”

  “It’s obvious she overdid it. We don’t have to drink that much, Kirb. Just a little. Just enough to feel like we’re outside of ourselves. Please?”

  “No. You can be mad at me, but no. Besides, we have a test tomorrow.” He’s worse than I am.

  I reach over to him. “We’ll drink slowly. We can quiz each other on potential test questions while we’re drinking. C’mon. We’re safe. We’re not driving. Your mom plays bunco until dawn. We can add water or something to the box so that if she lifts it, it won’t be lighter. In case she checks on those types of things. She hasn’t touched it, right?”

  Kirby shakes his head.

  “Please?” I beg.

  Kirby looks from me to the box of wine. “At least you’re polite about it.”

  We go into the bathroom and weigh the wine box, because neither of us knows how to convert the five liters of wine to pounds. We decide that this would make a fantastic word problem in a math textbook should we ever author one.

  We find a medicine syringe of Pacos, clean it, and figure out how to insert water into the spigot to make up for the emptied contents. Our asses are completely covered.

  Back in the kitchen, Kirby rinses out our glasses. I’m thrilled that we are going to do something we’re forbidden to do. I don’t have Mom’s permission. I’m not stealing from Mom’s wine reserves. This belongs to me.

  Kirby fills the small glasses with about a tablespoon of pink wine. “Are you kidding?” I ask. “That might be adequate for an amoeba, but not me. Fill it up more. Please.”

  “Yes, Miss Manners.”

  The first sips are the most difficult. We even plug our noses while we sip, because the wine is bitter, probably expired… if wine expires. Is it wine or cheese that ages? Whatever wine does, it’s hard to believe people actually like the taste of it.

  Forty-some minutes later, we are sitting cross-legged in Kirby’s backyard with a bag of stale trail mix and our second empty glass of wine. The current weight of the wine box on top of the fridge is 11.2 pounds, so the syringe method is working.

  The dogs are lumped between us, sleeping. Party poopers.

  Kirby runs into the house to fill another glass. I know I’ve had enough, because I’m warm, sort of fuzzy. The sound of a train rumbling over tracks in the distance is more audible. The air smells saltier. I feel like someone is pushing me ever so slightly on a swing.

  Kirby returns with more of his wine. We lie back on the grass in the center of the backyard, looking at the dark sky mottled with stars. “I’m gonna learn the stars,” says Kirby. “Ever notice how in movies and books and stuff, stars are so important? Like people can read the stars as if they’re an alphabet and it sets the mood for romance or some sort of epiphany. I’m totally illiterate. I couldn’t even point in the direction of the Big Dipper.”

  “Yeah.” I sigh.

  “I bet Crater’s the kind of guy who knows the stars.”

  “Carver, you mean?”

  “Whatever. I bet he has a cheat sheet of the constellations in his pocket so he can sound all romantic about the stars when he’s with a girl.”

  I prop myself up on the backs of my elbows. “Oh, so you think he’s been with a lot of other girls?”

  “Definitely.” He puts his hands behind his head and crosses one foot over the other.

  “Thanks a lot, Kirb.” I get up feeling like I’m on an elevator, so I put my arms out like wings for some balance. The dogs lazily raise their heads.

  “Great.” Kirby stands, downs the rest of his wine, throws the glass on the lawn, raises
his arms, and screams, “Zip and Go! Wallet!”

  “What?” I ask, steadying myself as I straighten up. “Kirby, maybe you should go lie down. You’ve probably had more than you should.”

  “Yep! Zip and Go! Wallet,” Kirby says, shooting an arm up toward the sky like a rocket.

  “Kirby, I don’t get what you are saying. You’re not making sense.”

  “Oh, I’m making perfect sense.” He looks at me and flies into storytelling mode. “I was eight, eating my Crazy-Os cereal. The back of the cereal box offered the Zip and Go! Wallet, free with three proofs of purchase. So I ate Crazy-Os at every meal for an entire week, got my little proof-of-purchase things, smashed my piggy bank open for shipping and handling fees, and sent in my labels.” He rests his hands on top of his head.

  “Okay.” I can’t figure out where he is going with this.

  “And you know what?” Kirby lets his arms dangle to his sides. “That stupid thing never showed up in the mail.” He stops talking and looks beyond me, toward the stars, until I have to take a look, too. “It’s like all the days I’ve saved on you, Natalie. Seeing you with Carver feels the same as having spent time being excited about that wallet, a waste for something that never even bothered to show up. You’re my Zip and Go! Wallet.”

  “But Kirby, I am here. You’re not alone.” I step in closer to him.

  “Natalie, you don’t understand.” He looks from the sky to me. “I like you.”

  Shit.

  “Kirby, you’re drunk. You should go to sleep.”

  “I’ve liked you for a long time. Probably ever since our first cross-country lap together.”

  I’ve had too much wine, because this is playing out like some never-supposed-to-happen blooper from the filmstrip in my head that has been locked away. Am I hallucinating, or do all people just talk crazy talk when they drink?

  “Kirby? We’re friends. I’d never want to jeopardize that. Ever.” He looks at me. Long. Hard. “No.” I shake my head. “Friends who hook up end up breaking up. And from there, you can’t turn back and just be friends. We can’t, Kirby. Friends. Friends only.”

  “Friends only. Right,” he says, wagging a finger at me. “Good comeback.” He limps toward the house. “I’ll take you home.”

  The walk back to my house is long. It feels as though the short blocks are sprawling cornfields that take forever to go across. I wonder if I’d be able to move without the dogs leading me on their leashes.

  Kirby and I don’t say a word to each other; it feels strange. Kirby tells me he likes me, and wham! we are not who we were a few hours ago.

  My house is still pitch-black when we approach; even the room above the garage seems vacant and asleep. Kirby looks at me when I stop at the front walkway. “See ya,” he says. His shoulders sag as he traces his steps back to his house.

  I watch until he disappears, feeling more scared than drunk. Because life without Kirby would be like a sky without stars.

  Right or wrong, dog shows are a blatant display of submission.

  —Michael Kaplan, The Manifesto of Dog

  On Friday morning my alarm beeps in unison with the throbbing of my head. Wine. Blech. Now I can say I’ve been sort of drunk, but all I have to show for it is what feels like a brain hemorrhage and an injured friendship.

  When I sit up, my head feels inside out. If I could smell the taste in my mouth, I’d probably throw up.

  Without permission, I grab the phone. I call Kirby so that I’ll know we’re okay. I don’t want him to feel weird when we pick him up at the corner. There is no answer on his home phone. I try his cell. No answer. He always answers his cell, even if he has to step out of the shower with a dripping body. He’s avoiding me.

  I reach for last night’s cargo pants and rifle around for the index cards. I want to see if I’ve lost memory of what I studied for today’s test.

  I haven’t lost it, but it sure is harder to retrieve. That could be partly because of my wondering where Carver was last night and my hoping that I haven’t lost Kirby

  There is a surge of remorse accompanying the headache and the wondering and the worry. Mom wasn’t waiting for me when I came through the door last night. I actually got away with something. Big relief, yes, but she trusted that I was in my room, respecting her terms of restriction.

  I will not feel bad about this. I will not.

  When we pick Nina up at the stop sign, she informs me that Kirby is driving himself to school. “He’s got to do a pickup for his mom right after class,” she says. He’s lying. He drove so he could avoid me.

  After Mom drops us off and we make it into the classroom, there is no sign of Kirby. Open seats next to Laney and Maryann force us in their direction. I save a seat for Kirby and figure that if I can drink wine from a box, I can certainly sit near Nina’s friends as they reminisce about Orlando Bloom’s performance in last night’s movie.

  When class starts, Kirby rushes in and sits in the empty seat closest to the door, not the one I saved for him. Mr. Klinefelter fills the first few hours with lecture and we have the remaining time to complete our tests, after which we are allowed to leave.

  Kirby is the first one to finish his test. He rushes out the door once he plops it on Mr. Klinefelter’s desk. I, however, am the last student to leave class, taking extra time to answer the test questions. My brain feels slowed. The information is there, but it’s not high speed; this is more like sitting in rush-hour traffic than cruising in the carpool lane, a pleasure I’ve personally been denied, since I am not allowed to drive on the freeway.

  Mom calls as I exit the classroom. I tell her I’m on my way. Heigh-ho. Heigh-ho.

  When I walk outside into the quad, Carver is there. Pixie arrives sort of sluggishly, but she manages to do a balance beam routine along the arteries leading from my heart. Nina, Maryann, and Laney stand around him. “Let’s get something to eat,” Nina says when I approach, pulling Laney and Maryann toward the vending area, giving me space alone with him.

  “What’re you doing here?” I ask.

  He leans in and pecks me on the cheek. “I’m on my lunch hour and wanted to know if you’d like to hang out tonight,” he says.

  “Sounds great, but I’m grounded, remember?”

  “Ah, yes, but I’ve found a way to get past that irritating detail.”

  I’m not sure I have any rebellion left in me right now unless it means ripping the Do Not Remove tags off my mattress. “I’m listening.”

  “I’ll go with you tonight when you take your grandma to rummy.”

  “You’ve done your research. I do have to drive her, but I’m pretty sure my mom will not let you go with me in the car. We’re not supposed to be alone together, remember?”

  “Well, technically, we won’t be alone. Your grandma will be with us. I’m going to hide in the backseat.” He taps his temple with his finger. “Pretty smart, eh? We can hang out in the car while you wait for your grandma in the parking lot.”

  I run my thumb over the soft bristles of hair on his chin. I’ve missed being near him the past few days. “But when my grandma is inside the senior center, we’ll be alone.”

  “Not really.” Carver places his hands on my waist and eases me closer to him. “We’re never really alone, right? I mean, there’s a whole universe surrounding us.”

  Pixie has suddenly gone into an Olympic-style floor routine. I can even feel the warmth flowing into my breasts. “If my mom found out, she’d have a seizure. I’m sure she’d send you home.”

  Carver drops a kiss on my neck. “I am home.” My goose bumps get goose bumps, and Miss Pixie slides into the labyrinth of my large intestine with a wheeee!

  I know I shouldn’t, but I whisper into the curl of Carver’s ear, “Yes.”

  On my way to work, I walk by Rescued Threads, where Kirby’s Civic is parked out front. I risk being late because this is warranted and worth any harm that may come to me.

  Paco meets me at the entrance of the store. He’s so small that waggi
ng his tail causes his entire puffball body to lash about in one big excited convulsion. “Hey, Paco.” I give him my palm and let my fingers hide inside the thick fur behind his ear, giving him a good scratch.

  Eve is helping a redheaded woman decide between a red toile sundress and an orange one with a totem pole print. She waves when she sees me. “Which one do you think, Nattie?” she asks.

  “Totem pole, definitely.” Redheaded woman props her chin in her hand and quizzically ping-pongs between the two dresses. She’s not convinced.

  “Thanks for your fashion advice!” Eve says. “Kirby’s in the back.” Paco trots over to Eve.

  I walk through the velvet curtain and find Kirby sitting on the floor amid little plastic bags of screws, assembling what looks like the beginning of a hat rack. A diagram splays out in front of him. Surrounding him are lumps of clothes that are ready to be tagged and sold.

  “Missed you at school today,” I say. I sit down on the ground next to him. “You rushed out of there so fast, I didn’t get a chance to talk to you.”

  Kirby’s blue hair has faded; his boyish features are on the brink of manhood. If I could have told the gawky seventh-grade version of him that in a few years he’d be handsome, he’d never have believed me.

  “Are you mad at me?” I ask. Kirby loosely bends his knees up toward his chest and rests his arms on them.

  “Truth?”

  I nod.

  “A little.” He points a finger at me. “It’s your fault for fixating on that stupid box of wine.” Covering his face with his hands, he says, “I just feel like an ass. You know how I feel about you now and the feeling isn’t mutual. I’m the loser, the pathetic one who can’t get the girl.”

  I peel his hands away from his face and hold on to them. “You so have the girl, Kirby. Don’t tell Nina and, please, don’t let my dogs know, because if they ever find out, they’ll punish me by peeing in my closet, but you, Kirby, are the best.” He jerks his head back a bit as if he’s been shaken.

  “Really,” I continue. “You’re the best thing, person, and friend in my life. I don’t know how to say this without sounding utterly cliché, but I can’t risk losing you.” I let his hands go. “Let’s just say, for example, we kiss.”