Touch

by Francine Prose

  “Maisie,” Doctor Atwood is saying. “Try to focus, all right?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “What were we talking about?”

  Doctor Atwood says, “That one detail. Which is…you and your friends are in the ninth grade, right?”

  “Right.” Hasn’t she heard a word I’ve said?

  “And you rode on the high school bus? Which is where it happened?”

  “Right again,” I say.

  “In the backseat?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So here’s the part I don’t understand. Unless things have changed dramatically since I was a kid, ninth graders don’t get to sit in the backseat of the bus. That’s senior territory. Reserved for seniors who don’t drive yet, or who don’t have cars or know anyone with a car. Or the ones who had their license revoked.”

  I smile. It’s the first completely smart thing that Doctor Atwood has ever said.

  “Good point.”

  “So how come you were sitting there, you and your ninth-grade friends?”

  I’m glad she asked. Because the answer involves the only part of this whole thing that I still like thinking about. Even though it’s going to hurt, I like remembering the way Shakes could be.

  I say, “I was the first one on the bus. Just me and the driver, Big Maureen. I’d known that was going to happen. Joan had looked up the bus route, they had it at the post office, and she totally spazzed out that I had the longest ride of any kid in the district. But there was nothing she could do, the school blamed the bus company and vice versa, on and on.

  “So I shouldn’t have been surprised. But the first day of school, when I got on the bus and realized that I was actually first, I said good morning to Big Maureen and sort of panicked and headed straight to the back of bus. You’d think if I was feeling nervous, I’d have stayed near Big Maureen, but Big Maureen isn’t the kind of person you want to stay near. She was never mean or scary, just slumpy and depressed. Joan had told me she was a single mom with five kids who needed the job. It felt weird, to be one of two people on that huge bus. I don’t know why. It was almost like Big Maureen and I were in this huge yellow spaceship and we’d blasted off before the rest of the crew had shown up. I was glad when we slowed down to pick up someone else. And I was practically ecstatic when I saw we were picking up Shakes. I watched him do his little crablike hop down his driveway. I was so glad to see him, I wished I could have hugged him.”

  “Why couldn’t you?” asks Doctor Atwood.

  I say, “Is that a serious question?”

  Now it’s Doctor Atwood’s turn to smile.

  “Go on, Maisie,” she says.

  “It would have been…uncomfortable.”

  Why couldn’t I have hugged him? Maybe because it would have reminded everybody—that is, Shakes and me—of the fact that now I had a pair of breasts.

  I say, “When Shakes got on, I was doing these giant semaphores, waving at him from the back. He smiled this cool loopy grin and he came back and sat next to me.

  “Soon after, we crossed the reservoir. We had maybe ten minutes with just the two of us alone on the bus before anyone else got on. The scenery was really pretty there, but it was so early. We were both really tired, and we sort of fell asleep.”

  Leaning on each other’s shoulders.

  That’s a little detail that might help the doctor make sense of all this, but I don’t want to tell it. In fact, the more I think about the story—the beginning of the story—the less I want to tell it. I just want to be quiet and think about it, by myself.

  I say, “By the time we woke up, two seniors were standing over us. Big lacrosse-team types.”

  Doctor Atwood laughs, though it’s not funny.

  Here’s what I don’t say:

  The seniors were both beefy, but one had a sort of sheeplike, lamb-y thing going, too. Mr. Beef and Mr. Lamb was how I thought of them right away.

  They told Shakes and me that we were sitting in their seats.

  Lamb said, “What part of ‘lowly ninth-grade turd’ are you midgets not getting?”

  “Wow,” I said. “I’m amazed that a guy like you knows a fancy word like turd.”

  They both turned and looked at me, as if they were trying to decide whether or not to do anything about me.

  Beef said, “Hey, listen to Little Miss D Cup.”

  Shakes stood. I pushed him back in his seat. I was so proud and happy that he would stand up for me against these two morons. On the other hand, I didn’t want to watch him get trashed.

  “How much clearer can we say it? These seats are reserved,” said Beef. “We’re seniors.”

  “How come you’re not driving?” Shakes asked.

  Everything kind of hung in suspension until the seniors looked at each other and laughed.

  “Party this summer,” Lamb said.

  “Freaking blowout,” said Beef.

  Lamb said, “At the end of the day, some license suspension went down.”

  “At the end of the night, dude.” Beef guffawed like a moron.

  “Sorry to hear it,” Shakes said.

  “Thanks,” said Lamb. “We appreciate that. You and your girlfriend got to move up front now.”

  “I’m not his girlfriend,” I said. They ignored me. They actually weren’t interested one way or the other.

  “I’d like to, I’d really like to,” said Shakes. “But I have a disability. It’s state-mandated that I sit near the exit”—he nodded at the door between the two back-seats—“or else the county has to pay for one of those buses that stop and kneel down so I can get on. Adds at least another half hour to the ride, especially when we get rerouted so we pick up every crippled kid in the county. Have you ever been on one of those special buses when they have to load on a wheelchair?”

  Beef and Lamb groaned. They were too stupid to figure out that by the time buses like that went into service, they would have graduated long before. It wasn’t going to happen, anyway. The school board was too cheap.

  “What kind of disability do you have?” asked Lamb.

  “Watch,” said Shakes. The bus was moving faster. Shakes stood up and started down the aisle. One of his legs was wobbly, and he kind of unhinged it further. The bus rounded a curve, and Shakes went into free fall, flying all over the bus, nearly falling. It was a real performance, it was like watching ballet. Or a car chase. At the very last minute, his arm shot out and grabbed the back of a seat.

  “Please take your seats, gentlemen,” Big Maureen yelled into her rearview mirror.

  “Watch it!” said Beef, who hadn’t breathed the whole time Shakes was flopping around in the aisle.

  “Hey, man, be careful,” said Lamb. “That’s dangerous. You wouldn’t want to hurt yourself.”

  “Get your crazy ass in the seat.” Beef indicated the backseat.

  “Take it easy,” Lamb told Shakes. “If I were you, I’d just sit tight until we come to a full stop.”

  Neither of them wanted to sit next to Shakes. So they let me stay where I was. Beef claimed the seat in front of us, Lamb across the aisle from us, and they sprawled all over the seats so each one had a seat to himself and no one would dream of sitting beside them.

  They ignored us; they never talked to us again. From that day on, Shakes and I had the backseat all to ourselves until Beef and Lamb got on. And then the best part of my day was over.

  That first day, when Kevin got on, we watched him looking all around the bus for us. Before, we’d always saved seats for him and Chris, and all four of us always sat together. So he was looking for us to figure out where to sit. He looked shocked when he finally saw us in back, with Beef and Lamb like big hunky walls between us and the rest of the bus. Kevin knew better than to try and get past them and invade sacred senior territory so he could sit near me and Shakes. He shrugged and took a seat near the front. He kept turning around and giving us weird, unfriendly looks. Like, what was up with the two of us? Who did we think we were, and why had we deserted them? It w
as too late for Shakes and me to move up—Big Maureen would have had a fit—and Shakes had already demonstrated what could happen when he tried to walk around when the bus was in motion. Besides, the truth was, I liked sitting next to Shakes in the back. I didn’t want to move.

  When Chris got in, I watched him when he spotted Kevin—and then Shakes and me. What was going on? He sat beside Kevin, and they talked for a while, and then they both kept turning around and shooting us dirty looks. How come we got special treatment? I told myself that Chris didn’t mind all that much because Daria Wells was sitting in the seat right in front of his. But in my heart, I knew that something had happened that was more serious than the four of us not sitting together on the bus, and sometimes I think that all our troubles began on that first bus ride.

  That’s what happened. But this is what I tell Doctor Atwood:

  “I don’t know why we got to sit in the back. I think it had something to do with Shakes’s disability.”

  “That’s strange,” she says. “I would think they’d want him up front near the driver.”

  “Exit door?” I say. This doesn’t make any sense, and Doctor Atwood knows it. Beef and Lamb might have been stupid enough to go for it, but she’s not. But for some reason she decides to let it pass. Maybe she wants to see where this will take me, as she always says.

  “Wouldn’t they want a disabled boy sitting near the driver?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “That’s what they told Shakes.”

  I can tell she doesn’t believe me. But I’m not lying, really. The reason we got to sit in back was because of Shakes’s disability. I’m just leaving out the most important part of the story. The part I don’t want to tell—that I liked it that way, even though I didn’t know why then.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The first ten minutes of the bus ride were my favorite part of the entire day. I liked sitting there in the early morning quiet, next to Shakes, riding past the forests and over the bridge across the reservoir, the bowl of clear water surrounded by mountains. I liked dozing, dropping off to sleep, and waking up a few miles down the road, with my head on Shakes’s shoulder and his head pressed against mine.

  At first, it happened by accident, our falling asleep like that. It was so early, we were so tired. I used to get dressed with my eyes closed, opening them only when I had to. I’d stay in bed till the very last minute so I could skip the Joan-inspection of my clothes and my general attitude, and miss her lecture about the importance of the nutritious breakfast that I wasn’t eating.

  Usually, Shakes and I talked awhile, but pretty soon, we couldn’t keep our eyes open. Our heads felt heavy, and drooped. Shakes’s shoulder was as good as a pillow. I woke up and realized where I was and went back to sleep again. It was comfortable, we were friends, we’d known each other forever. Shakes must also have woken from time to time, and realized I was there, and drifted off to sleep again, his cheek against my hair.

  It wasn’t romantic, at least not at first. It was just comfortable, easy. It made me feel as if I had a brother, a real brother, instead of Darling Josh. Shakes and I were like siblings, puppies in a litter. Shakes had a wheezy snore that I totally adored. It had a funny catch in the middle, as if, when he slept, his breath was doing what his body did when he was awake.

  We only had those ten minutes of peace, fifteen when the weather was bad and Maureen was too nervous even to drive at her normal slo-mo crawl. We both developed inner alarm clocks that woke us up before anyone else got on the bus. When we slept like that, leaning against each other, we were back in Innocent Little-Kid Land, where you still could do things like hug your friends, regardless of whether you happened to be a girl or a boy. But as soon as anyone else got on the bus, we were in High School Bus Land, where if you rested your head on somebody’s shoulder, it meant that you were dating. Two girls could sit like that or walk arm in arm without it meaning they were gay. But I didn’t have any friends who were girls. Shakes and Chris and Kevin were still the only pals I had. And now it was mostly Shakes. Already Kevin and Chris were acting a little cool to me, and sometimes it crossed my mind that they felt I’d chosen Shakes over them. Maybe everyone was capable of feeling jealous that way, not just Dad and Joan competing in their minds with Geoff and Mom. Maybe everyone wants to feel that they’re the special one who’s been chosen.

  I liked the feeling of being near Shakes, of just being physically close. If I told Doctor Atwood that, she’d probably point out that I wasn’t exactly getting a lot of physical affection at home. And it was true that right in the middle of some hellish dinner with Joan, I would escape by looking forward to the next morning, when I would sit next to Shakes.

  It was an especially beautiful fall. Everybody said so. The sky was never bluer, the leaves were never more brilliant. And sometimes, half asleep next to Shakes, I’d open my eyes and a dazzling sliver of orange or red would squeeze between my eyelids. Then the slice of brightness would disappear and I’d fall back asleep. Sometimes, I couldn’t fall asleep again, but I’d pretend to be asleep because it felt so good to sit like that, with my head tucked into the space between Shakes’s head and his shoulder. And sometimes I couldn’t help noticing that sometimes Shakes wasn’t really sleeping, either.

  It was a little nervous-making, both pretending like that. It was ever so slightly sexy, though part of me thought it was pathetic. How backward that sitting close to a boy should have seemed like a big deal when there were kids in our grade who, everyone knew, were already having sex. But it was a big deal for me. I guess I was socially retarded, and Shakes was disabled. So maybe that explained it.

  The leaves began to fall off the trees, and, as always, it was sad. It reminded me of how much you can lose overnight. Your family, for example. Even though you thought that everyone was getting along. Your mom could leave as lightly as a leaf falling off a tree. You might not even notice until she was already gone.

  The days got rainy and cold, and it felt even better to have Shakes’s warm shoulder next to mine.

  Every so often, he’d miss a few days of school. Whenever Big Maureen waited outside his house and no one came out and she honked and pulled away, I’d feel something drop down inside me, like some kind of inner parachute. Even when it was sunny, the weather seemed bleak and depressing on those days. Alone in the backseat, I shivered even though the bus was always overheated. And I knew that because Shakes wouldn’t be getting on—with his special handicapped backseat privileges—I’d have to find somewhere else to sit by the time the first senior appeared. On those days, I’d save seats for Chris and Kevin, but they always sat together, across the aisle or in front of me, and we didn’t talk that much. We all knew I was only sitting with them because Shakes wasn’t there.

  For the first time, I seriously worried about Shakes. What if his health problems were worse than he’d let us think? But then he was back, hopping down his driveway and onto the bus. I knew not to ask him how he was feeling, or why he had been absent.

  At first, I thought I was imagining it when things between me and Shakes got more intense. Shakes would be sleeping, or pretending to sleep. He’d turn his head and his lips would graze the side of my neck. Or our heads would both turn at once, and we would be practically kissing. It was strange how, when we were like that, it was almost as if Shakes experienced a miracle cure. He didn’t twitch or stutter or spaz. He was completely steady and calm.

  By now, those first few minutes on the bus were really the best thing about my day. It was better than school, better than after school, when I was mostly home by myself. I’d find myself daydreaming about being on the bus with Shakes. Then I’d snap awake, the way we snapped to attention when anyone else got on the bus.

  It was strange, how thinking about Shakes made me feel less lonely, even though I was spending so much time alone that it began to seem a little like my life in Wisconsin, minus Mom and Geoff, plus Dad and Joan and Josh Darling. On weekends, I didn’t see my friends that much—not half
as much as I used to. Chris was hanging out with Daria Wells.

  Most Saturdays, somebody’s mom would drive the three guys to the mall. And Daria’s stupid girlfriends, with their Minnie Mouse voices, would often come along. It was like some group date with Chris and Daria at the center. Every so often, Shakes would call and ask me to go with them, but I always said no. It made me uncomfortable to be with my friends when the girls were there. It was almost like I didn’t know what to be—I wasn’t really anyone’s friend, and I certain wasn’t anyone’s girlfriend. It hurt my feelings when I heard they’d all gone somewhere without me, but I told myself it would be better for everyone—especially me—if I pretended I didn’t care.

  Monday mornings, on the bus with Shakes, I’d say, “Did you have fun over the weekend?”

  And Shakes would say, “I don’t know. Sort of, I guess.” It left me feeling disappointed. Did I expect him to say he’d missed me? That he couldn’t have fun without me?

  Sometimes, Shakes and I would really fall asleep, which meant we dozed through the little time we got to be together. But that was okay, too. I liked having someone I trusted so much that we could leave the conscious everyday world and be back before anyone noticed.

  We should have known that nothing that cool and innocent could last. We should have expected the big bust, the scene like the one in the cheesy drama where the couple wakes up in bed and sees the parents or the respective spouses, someone who definitely doesn’t want to see them there together.

  Sooner or later, we were doomed to be rudely awoken from our happy little backseat dream.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was the first of November. I remember because Daria had had a Halloween party the night before, and I hadn’t been invited. Shakes was tired from the party, and I was tired because I hadn’t been able to sleep. I’d lain awake thinking about everyone having fun without me. Anyway, we were both so exhausted that we sort of passed out. We were all scrunched up against each other, and I guess it must have looked as if we were really making out, our limbs all twisted together in some supertight clinch. And for the first time, we didn’t wake up before the others got on the bus.