by Finny (v5)
“The convention is stupid,” Finny said, wanting to say more, to fight about it, to make clear how ridiculous she thought all his conventions were. She felt her family’s eyes on her, her mother’s smile like a barrier pushing her back.
“Speaking of ladies,” Laura said, giving Finny a meaningful look, “I’m not sure you’re acting like one right now.”
“Mom, if you had a penis, you would act like a lady.” Finny wasn’t sure what it meant, but she was so agitated that the words just spilled from her, like water from a cracked glass.
“That’s disgusting talk,” Laura said, and Finny noticed she was sucking in little breaths, about to cry. “And we—we were having such a nice breakfast,” Laura sputtered. “Why can’t you ever just let it be when things are going nicely?”
“Sweetheart,” Stanley said, getting up from the couch, walking over to her. “She’s nothing.”
What he actually said was, “It’s nothing,” but for some reason Finny heard him wrong.
Stanley put his hand on Laura’s shoulder. “Don’t you think it’s enough, Finny?” he said, holding his wife like a demonstration of all Finny had screwed up.
“This food tastes like burnt!” Finny screamed, and stomped out of the room.
“It doesn’t really,” she heard her brother telling her father as she walked down the hall.
There seemed to be something about her family that Finny couldn’t take in. Or maybe it was her family who couldn’t take her in. All their agreements and rules, rituals and defenses and bargains, it was all wrapped in a fog of mystery, a haze that Finny wasn’t sure would burn off in the light of experience.
Finny spent that afternoon in her bedroom, trying not to cry, then giving herself over to it in short, maudlin bursts. She stuffed her face into her pillow and howled, shook with tears. The thought of it, of how she looked, made her sick. If one of her parents or her brother had walked in during these brief concessions to grief, Finny probably would have hopped out the window, or pretended she was trying to suffocate herself. Anything to not be seen like this, so vulnerable, so compromised. She thought of herself like the white birch tree in her parents’ yard, which grew far away from all the other trees because it would wither in their shade. On its own, though, it flourished. She wanted to be like that, so odd and lonely and strong.
She thought of things she could do to get them. She could stick a knife in her shirt and spill some ketchup on it, so it would look like she’d stabbed herself. Or she could take one of her mom’s earrings and hide it and pretend Raskal ate it. Or stick pictures of women inside her dad’s great men books. But all these ideas seemed silly, a little clumsy. She could see them shaking their heads at her, like she’d tripped over her shoelace, or accidentally put her underwear on over her pants. She was hopeless, they’d think, a bum toaster or a wobbly table, something they’d just have to live with because they’d already shelled out the cash.
So she did the only thing that made sense to her. She ran away.
She headed for the sliding glass doors in the back of the house. She thought it might be tricky to get out without anyone seeing her, that her mother might ask her where she was going, or her brother would stop her to see if she’d been crying and she would have to make up some story about her allergies, or how she’d just gotten up from a nap. But the house was quiet. They were tucked into some rooms, somewhere, watching movies or reading or doing work. Sometimes Finny imagined her dad with his great men like a kid with his toy soldiers, lining them up and having them fight, making little machine gun noises with his mouth.
She slid the door open, stepped out, closed it behind her.
This was in the fall. She walked down the hill to the split-rail fence that surrounded the horse pastures behind her house. She started walking along the fence, in the high grass. Some horses trailed alongside her. It was cool outside, and she hadn’t brought a coat, just a little green sweatshirt she liked to wear, with a hood she sometimes tied so that only her nose and eyes stuck out. She called the sweatshirt “the green reaper.” The sun was low and bright in her eyes, and the air had that smoky fall smell. A breeze carried the musky scent of the horses to her every now and again, and also the smells of crackly leaves and dirt and grass and manure.
At the end of the fence Finny turned up the dirt path through the old vineyard that had been out of commission for years. On both sides of her some leafy vines wrapped a wire trellis, making a green wall that was just taller than Finny’s head. Plants sprouted from cracks in the hard soil, winding in with the vines. Finny loved coming here when she was by herself; this place had a magical feeling to her, like those hills she could just barely make out from her bedroom window. She kicked rocks and listened to the sound of her shoe soles scraping the dusty ground. She liked the noise of it, the bite of cold air on her face, her hands plunged warmly in the green reaper’s pockets.
She thought of her mother. It’s almost dinner, Laura said. Where’s Finny?
I don’t know, Stanley said. Sylvan! Do you know where your sister is?
She left the vineyard, walking away from her house. She went up the dirt road that snaked through some hills where cows grazed in the afternoons. This was as far up as she’d ever gone. But she kept walking. Past a decrepit horse barn with a sagging roof, the rails in front of its entrance collapsed so that they made an X. Past a little pond with a fountain in it that someone had made on his property. Finny could hear the water splashing. Inside the pond there were some exotic-looking birds the man must have also bought. They had long, pointy beaks, and black lines around their eyes. Their feathers were streaked with bright colors, purple and gold and green. They looked at Finny through their lined eyes, with serious, arrogant expressions, like the women in fur coats with big leather purses whom Finny had seen on Madison Avenue when she’d gone to New York. She spotted one of their feathers—a blue and silver one—on the grass beside the pond, and picked it up, put it in her pocket.
She walked up a steep hill that was covered in onion grass so it smelled like cooking. When she got near the top, where it flattened out, she saw a pasture on the other side of another split-rail fence. But this fence was in bad shape, bending under Finny’s weight when she tried to climb it. She was almost over when one of the boards cracked beneath her foot, and she let out a little scream and fell back.
Only she didn’t fall. Something stopped her. Held her. Eased her down onto the grass.
“Thanks,” Finny said, before she even saw who had saved her.
“It’s okay,” the voice said back, and when she turned around, she saw that it belonged to a boy. He was shorter than she was, and a little chubby in the face. His body was like none Finny had ever seen. It looked like a man’s, with broad shoulders and strong arms—but smaller, and with shorter legs. Like the kind of pictures you can mix and match—a man’s top half on a child’s legs.
“I just saw you coming towards that fence,” he said, “and I know it’s bad. I got hurt on it once. I was going to say something, but you were already on it.” He had a high voice, a slightly embarrassed way of speaking, that didn’t go with his man’s body at all. She noticed his cheeks got a little color when he talked to her.
“Thanks,” Finny said again, not knowing what else to say. She wasn’t sure if he was fishing for compliments.
But he just said, “Come on. I’ll show you the easiest way to get up there.”
They walked along the fence a little, and he showed her a place where two boards had cracked, so that all they had to do was duck a little to get under the top one.
“Easier to go under than over,” the boy said.
“Especially for you,” Finny said, not knowing why she’d said it. The words had just popped out—it was the way she liked to challenge people, to press a little and see if they pressed back. It seemed mean, though, and she wanted to say she was sorry. After all, he’d saved her life.
But he just laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “I can fit in tight places.�
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She still wanted to apologize, but he just walked on to the middle of the pasture, as if he’d forgotten what she’d said.
The middle of the pasture was also the top of a hill that overlooked the valley. The sun was almost down behind the trees now, and the sky was a crystal gray-blue color. They sat down without saying anything. The valley looked like a giant checkerboard of cornfields, forests, and fields. The land was spotted with barns and farmhouses, sectioned by dirt paths and meandering roads. Finny heard the distant shout of a farmer calling in his horses from the fields, and also some birds tweeting and the buzzing of insects.
“How do you know about this?” she asked the boy.
“I come up here a lot,” he said. “When my dad’s giving lessons. He teaches piano. We live down there.” He pointed at a little brown house, which looked from where they sat to be hardly bigger than Finny’s living room. “It’s kind of small,” the boy said, “so I like getting out if he has people.”
“Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“No. Just my dad.”
“No mom?” Finny said.
“No,” the boy said, and left it at that.
“My name is Finny.”
“I’m Earl.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Earl,” Finny said, and held out her hand to shake. It was an imitation of the jokey, flirtatious way her mother sometimes introduced herself to men. But it was all she had.
He took her hand, though, and shook firmly. She noticed his palm was slick. And his round cheeks were still flushed.
“How old are you?” Finny asked.
“Fifteen,” Earl said. “I just turned.”
“I’m fourteen,” Finny said. “But I’d say I act at least sixteen.”
“How do you know?”
“Because there’s no one I like who’s under seventeen. Except my brother. Sometimes. When he’s not being a kiss-ass.”
“How old’s your brother?”
“Sixteen. We live way over there.” She pointed in the direction of her house.
“That’s probably nice. He’s in high school with you?”
“Yup. But he doesn’t like it. He thinks the work is too easy. He’s a nerd.”
Earl laughed. “I’m glad you like him, then,” he said.
“Why?”
He didn’t answer the question. He stood and walked a few steps away, a breeze pushing his hair off his face. Finny thought he looked better like that, without his hair hanging down on his forehead. She watched his boxy silhouette against the sky.
“My dad’s done,” he said, and pointed down to his house. Finny could see a car pulling away from it, a tiny spark of light from the setting sun reflected on its hood. There was another car in the driveway, a brown station wagon. Earl’s dad’s car.
“That was his last lesson,” Earl said. “I better go.”
Finny wanted to say something about how she’d had a nice time sitting with him, but she didn’t know how to do it without sounding foolish, like she was trying to get him to invite her over or something. She never wanted to seem needy, like she couldn’t make her own meal without the scraps of praise other people offered.
Then she remembered the feather—the blue and silver one she’d nabbed from beside the bird pond. She took it out of her pocket. “Here,” she said, and handed it to Earl. “I found it while I was walking. Have a good evening.”
Earl looked at it, then put it in his pocket. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll treasure it always.” He took her hand, and helped her out of the grass. When she was up, he did something unexpected. He brought her hand toward his face. She was afraid he was going to kiss it, and she almost screamed to stop him. She hated the thought of some saccharine scene, a romantic farewell.
But all Earl did was brush the backs of her fingers quickly over his chin. She felt the scratch of his stubble. It was a strange gesture, a cross between a dog’s nuzzling and something a very old man would do.
Then he was off, headed back down the hill to his house. Finny went down the other side of the hill, under the fence in the place Earl had shown her. The crickets were chirping now. She went back through the hills, through the old vineyard, where she tried to find her scuff marks from walking before. But in the dim light she couldn’t find them.
When she was out of the vineyard, she started to run, back along the fence to her house. What the heck were you doing? she imagined her father saying. We were worried sick. I almost called the police.
It was getting cold. A dog barked—maybe Raskal—and then let out a long howl. Lights were coming on across the valley, speckling the countryside like stars. She ran toward her house, its windows aglow in the gathering dusk.
Inside, her mother was carrying a casserole dish to the dining room. “Wash your hands, Finny,” she said. “I was just going to get you.”
Chapter2
An Important Introduction
She woke up with a tingly feeling on the backs of her fingers. His chin, she realized. All night she’d dreamed about it, the sandpapery feeling of his stubble against her hand. Again and again, she’d found herself stroking his face, like she was calming a young child. She couldn’t understand why that moment, that sensation, had made such an impression on her. She got out of bed, laughing a little at herself.
And as she waded into her morning, the day before did seem more and more like a dream. There was breakfast with her mother and brother. Finny didn’t like to eat in the mornings, but Laura always said, “If there is one meal that people expect you to eat, it’s breakfast.” So Finny force-fed herself a few mouthfuls of granola, toast with peanut butter. At the kitchen table her brother was reading a book of short stories by women writers for English class. When Laura asked him how it was, he said, “Good but not great.”
Then the ride to school with her father. Before they got out of the driveway, Stanley stopped the car.
“Oh,” he said, like he’d just remembered something. “I forgot to brush my teeth.” He clicked his top and bottom teeth together, then bolted out of the car.
Stanley came back in ten minutes, his suit jacket making crinkling sounds from the Pepto wrappers he’d stuffed in his pockets, his breath smelling like peppermint ice cream. They started driving. Sylvan was in the front, as always. He was reading his book of short stories.
“What are you reading?” Stanley asked him.
“Some stories for English,” Sylvan said. “All by women writers. They’re pretty boring.”
“‘There are no dull subjects,’” Stanley quoted. “‘There are only dull writers.’” He nodded at the book. “Mencken.”
“Are there dull car rides?” Finny asked.
When she got home from school, she walked back to the field where she’d met Earl. She passed the pond with the fountain in it, but this time the birds didn’t look so stridently colorful—just the usual blues and grays. She wondered if maybe she’d exaggerated to herself. The afternoon was overcast, and she had the hood of the green reaper over her head. Not tied tight. She didn’t want to look scary. When she got to the pasture where she’d met Earl, he wasn’t there. She looked down at his house, and there were no cars in the driveway. Not even the brown station wagon.
She felt suddenly depressed. Hugely, embarrassingly so. She had expected—irrationally, she realized—that he would be here, waiting for her, whenever she arrived. That she didn’t need to call or make a date. That, like in a book, he would know she was coming. But the world was never like the world in books. There were always these snags and bumps, these unexpected turns and abrupt disappointments.
She could have gone to his house. She could have knocked. But it seemed so far away. She felt foolish for all her misplaced hopes and expectations, like she’d gussied herself up for a party that was on another day. He’d probably forgotten all about their meeting already.
Walking back home, she felt as if she’d been holding a full basket and something had dropped out of it. She didn’t know what or where, but
she knew it was important, weighty. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get it back.
She promised herself she wouldn’t go back the next afternoon. And in school she did a pretty good job of forgetting about Earl. She took notes in history class. Worked on a diorama about Ancient Greek theater during her lunch hour. In biology they dissected an owl’s pellet, which was a wad of hair an owl throws up after digesting its food. Hers had the skeleton of a mouse tangled in it, the tiny bones brittle as matchsticks. She wondered if the owl needed to swallow some Pepto after it ate that. She thought of joking to her teacher that she’d found some Cheetos and half a doughnut in hers. But there wouldn’t have been much point. Mrs. Alston would have just looked confused, read the package the pellets came in to see if there’d been a mistake.
“What are you going to do this afternoon?” Laura said when they got back home from school.
“Go for a walk,” Finny said.
She was just going to walk around their yard, by the horse fence, and maybe into the vineyard. But then when she was in the vineyard, she couldn’t resist going a little farther.
Up the road. Past the fountain. Over the hill.
The brown station wagon was there.
She thought of going down and knocking on the door of the little brown house. Hi. I’m Finny. Is your son home? Then Earl coming to the door. Oh, hi. But if he wasn’t every bit as excited as she was, it would kill her. She would literally drop dead in his doorway. Just to show him. There, now you clean up this mess. It would be embarrassing, but it wouldn’t matter because she’d be dead.
She decided it was too risky. She turned away. Headed back down the hill.
But then she heard something behind her. A voice. She didn’t turn around, though.
She heard it again: “Finny!”
Now she turned around, and he was standing there, just behind the fence, waving his arms over his head as if flagging down an aircraft. She laughed. Relief more than anything else. She wasn’t sure if she would have come back a third time.
“Earl!” Finny shouted, waving her arms like his. It would have seemed too playful, too familiar, with anyone else.