The Most Dangerous Thing

by Leanne Lieberman

  After a few minutes my legs and wrists loosen up, and the rain that starts to splash against my bike glasses doesn’t bother me. Fen’s dad picks up the pace and lifts himself out of the saddle, Fen follows suit, and then so do I, determined to keep up even if they both have longer legs. I’m warm now, and I am no longer a body. I’m a machine, my legs pistons, my hips the cogs holding everything together. As my breathing quickens, my heart fills my blood with oxygen, blasting the fog out of my pores. My machine/body heats up, and the heat takes away any possibility of thought. There’s only action, my legs pumping, my breath puffing into the cool morning damp.

  We climb a small hill, pause to check for traffic and then coast down. Downhill used to be the hardest part, letting go, allowing myself to go fast, learning to lean into the curves. What if I wiped out? I worried about banging up my teeth. Now I’m used to the speed, and when I coast down the first hill, I feel the last of the fog evaporate. Then I lose myself in the motion. How fast can I go? How low can I crouch over the bike to reduce my wind resistance? How can I get my legs to go as fast as Fen’s and his dad’s? I keep up for the first hour, and then we stop for a short break. Fen’s smiling now, his dad relaxed. They talk about gear, about the latest carbon composite bikes and how much they cost. I focus on eating, on refueling enough for the ride back. But it doesn’t matter if I keep up. I’ve made my goal for this week. Besides, if I ride back with them, I’ll probably have to make small talk with Fen’s grandparents, and that is something I can do without.

  I’m relaxed on the way back, Fen and his dad way out of sight. The weather is still gray, dismal, socked in, but I’m warm, soaked through with my own sweat, and inside I am a clear, light-blue color, maybe the same shade as Zeyda’s eyes. It’s a good color to be. I even feel excited about seeing Paul tomorrow. Maybe he’ll text me another picture and I’ll be able to look him in the eye when we meet.

  When I get back, Fen and his dad are gorging on bacon, eggs and home fries, all made by Fen’s grandma Fern. Fen’s grandparents’ house is almost as dated as Zeyda’s, but in a totally different way. If Zeyda’s house hasn’t changed since 1985, then Fen’s grandparents’ house hasn’t changed since 1975. The bungalow has wood paneling in the living room, a metal screen door that slams when you let it go and old wooden kitchen cupboards with scalloped edges. There’s a country theme throughout the house—lots of checked pillows and lace curtains, and an old Formica table and vinyl-covered chairs. Fen’s grandparents both look the same to me, with cropped gray hair and plaid shirts. The only major difference is that Fen’s grandma stands by the stove, whereas Fen’s grandfather never seems to be anywhere but at the table with a newspaper.

  By the time I arrive in the kitchen, Fen and his dad are almost done eating, wiping the last of their eggs up with their toast. I stand by the screen door, stretching out my quads.

  “What can I get you, Sydney?” Grandma Fern asks.

  I hold up my water bottle. “I’m good, thanks.”

  “Not even a piece of toast?”

  “Oh, no thanks,” I say.

  “Two hours of cycling and you’re not hungry?” Grandma Fern shakes her head.

  We have the same conversation every time I come. I can’t eat so soon after biking, and even though we don’t keep kosher, the smell of bacon always turns my stomach. Still, I like Fen’s grandparents. They’re totally unlike anyone I know. Grandma Fern raises chickens and has a huge vegetable garden. Grandpa Bill sometimes goes hunting or fishing, depending on the season. Grandma Fern has the same reddish complexion as Fen and his dad, and even though she’s wrinkled and lumpy around the middle, you can tell she used to be a good athlete. At eighty-three she still swims three times a week and cross-country skis when her arthritis isn’t acting up.

  Grandma Fern is still fretting about me not eating, so I accept a peanut butter sandwich. Relief floods her face, and I feel better as the protein hits my system.

  On the way home I’m damp but happy. I try to calculate how long the ride will keep the fog at bay. The afternoon for sure, and maybe into tomorrow morning if I’m lucky. Monday will be a whole new problem, but everyone feels crappy on Mondays, and I don’t have a choice about getting out of bed on school days. There are people who can’t even get out of bed, but I’m not going to be like that. I’m just not.

  When I get home I lie in a hot bath, letting my mind blissfully wander. I think about the road out in Maple Ridge and the chickens in the yard and the clear streaks of yellow in the sky, where the horizon was just a field with no buildings. Maybe one day I’ll take Paul out there.

  Mom, Dad and Abby are preparing lunch as I’m getting out of the tub. I dry off, comb out my hair and pull on some leggings and a sweater. My body feels tired in a good, warm way—clean too. I join everyone in the kitchen.

  Mom puts smoked salmon, cream cheese and some egg salad on the table. Dad’s slicing bagels, and Abby’s putting together a vegetable plate of tomatoes, onions and cucumbers.

  “Are there any rugelach?” I ask.

  “There are mun cookies.” Mom points to the box on the sideboard.

  Mun cookies, which are thin poppy-seed cookies, are my second favorite. I put the kettle on so we can dunk them in tea.

  A few minutes later we sit down at the table. I’m absolutely starving now, the first time I’ve had a real appetite in days, and I heap my plate with veggies and a bagel and lox. I also help myself to some leftover kugel from last night.

  When we’re done eating, Abby excuses herself and Dad goes to read in the living room; it’s just Mom and me at the table. I offer to clean up, since I didn’t help make dinner last night.

  “You left pretty early this morning,” Mom says.

  “I wanted to ride with Fen and his dad,” I explain. I avoid looking at her. I can’t explain why I need to go biking without telling Mom about the fog. If she knew, she’d never stop asking about it or worrying about it. “There’s too much traffic to bike fast in the city,” I add.

  Mom looks me straight in the eye. “You know you can tell me if something is bothering you, right? And you can always go back to Dr. Spenser.”

  I manage to nod my head, and then I change the subject. “What are you up to this afternoon?”

  Mom looks at me carefully before she starts putting away the food. “I thought I might choose Haggadahs for the Seder,” she says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If we’re going to have a Seder, we need Haggadahs.” She grins.

  Haggadahs are the books people use for Passover. They have prayers in them and stories and songs and readings. At Zeyda’s house we always used these really boring ones.

  “You want new ones?” I ask.

  “Yep. There are so many choices. Here, look.” Mom dries her hands on a dishtowel and shows me a list on her iPad. “There’s The Family Haggadah. The Vegetarian Haggadah of the Liberated Lamb. There’s The Feminist Haggadah. There’s also one by someone who calls herself the Velveteen Rabbi, and there’s even The Bob Dylan Freedom Haggadah.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” Mom grins again. “You all get to sing ‘The Times They Are A-Changin’.’”

  “Please tell me you aren’t going to choose that.”

  Mom scrolls down the page. “How about A Socialist Haggadah for Our People?”

  I back away from Mom with my hands in the air. “Zeyda will love that. How about just a regular read-the-story, do-the-blessings, call-it-a-night Haggadah?”

  “Oh, Syd, that sounds so boring.”

  “What’s wrong with boring?”

  Mom flaps a dishcloth at me. “A Seder does not have to be boring.”

  I close the dishwasher. “What are you leaning toward?”

  “I found one with guitar chords for all the different songs, so I think I’ll go with that.”

  “The Musician’s Haggadah?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell Zeyda all about it.” I can’t keep the
sarcasm out of my voice.

  “It’s okay, Syd,” Mom says. “I promise we won’t sing any Bob Dylan songs.”

  And I guess that is something to be thankful for.

  I feel restless for the rest of the afternoon. I think about texting Paul, asking where we’ll meet tomorrow, but I can’t. I try and do some homework instead. I work on a poem that won’t come out right, and when I can’t concentrate on it, I reorganize the spice drawer and then refold Abby’s sweaters into neat piles for her. I want to straighten her desk too, but last time I did that I also alphabetized her books, which she had already grouped thematically.

  What is it Paul and I are going to do? It’s just a math date. But where? He didn’t say. Even if I’m nervous, agitated almost, this is better than the fog. And under my nervousness is a layer of excitement. I didn’t know I liked him more than as a friend. And now that he’s interested in me, I do? I try and figure this out. He’s nice and cute and smart, so why shouldn’t I like him? It’s more than that though—there’s something exciting about being with him. I blush thinking about that. Heat surges through me, and goose bumps form down my arms. I duck my head even though no one is looking. Oh god, maybe I won’t meet him tomorrow.

  I pace around the basement for a moment. I need further distraction, so I ask Mom if I can make dinner. She happily gives me her debit card to buy groceries. Abby offers to help, and we plan the meal and walk to the store together. We decide to make grape leaves stuffed with lamb, pine nuts and currants, a roasted-cauliflower dish and tabbouleh. As we cook, Abby sings songs from The Sound of Music and tries to get me to join in. I hum a bit of “Edelweiss” with her. Dinner is delicious, and I manage to distract myself until about nine o’clock.

  Then I start debating whether I should text Paul or not. The indecision is so dumb, I start to hate myself. My body is tired from biking, but my mind buzzes with anxious questions about seeing him tomorrow, and I lie in bed wide awake. Where are we going tomorrow? Are we really going to work on math problems, or are we going to do something else? When I imagine Paul and me standing close enough to kiss, what his lips would feel like against mine, I feel even more restless. I get up and slump into a beanbag chair in the tent.

  Abby joins me, wearing pajamas printed with cupcakes. “I didn’t know you were still up,” she says.

  “I’m too restless to sleep,” I say.

  “Why?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.” I want to tell Abby about Paul, but I need to keep it private, in case things don’t work out or something embarrassing happens.

  Abby narrows her eyes. “You’re such a liar.”

  I groan. “Fine. I’m waiting for a text from someone.”

  Abby’s eyes widen. “Ooh, that sounds interesting.”

  “It’s stressful.”

  “A text from someone you like?” Abby leans toward me, her eyes wide.

  I sigh. “If you ask me a lot of questions, I’ll be even more stressed, so if you want to help me, please don’t.”

  Abby leans back. “Okay, I get it. No prying. So did you text him and he’s not texting you back?”

  “No, I’m just waiting.”

  Abby rubs her forehead in exasperation. “That’s dumb. Does he know you’re waiting?”

  I hesitate. “Maybe.”

  Abby raises her eyebrows at me. “Hello? Send him something.”

  I take my phone out of my pajama pocket and type, What time tomorrow?

  10 am? he writes back.

  Great.

  Details tomorrow.

  Abby looks at me expectantly. “Better now?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “You’re not going to tell me anything else?”

  “No.”

  Abby rolls her eyes and lets herself flop back on the cushions. “You’re impossible.”

  “I know.” I bounce my legs. “I’m never going to be able to sleep.”

  Abby sits up and pulls out her phone. “Here, let me find something to entertain you.” She flicks a few buttons on her phone and pulls up a video montage of dance scenes from movies. Abby plays video after video, adding commentary to the joyous movement, until my eyes start to close and I stumble to bed.

  In the morning I expect to hear rain tapping into the gutters and then gurgling through the downspouts. Instead, thin sunshine makes each blade of grass on the lawn sparkle. I take an inventory of how I feel. My eyes open easily and I feel almost normal, except that I’m nervous about seeing Paul. My fog is lost in Maple Ridge. I sigh with relief.

  The only reason to turn on my phone this morning is to check my messages. Paul has texted, Clear skies, high clouds, light wind.

  I’m not sure what this means, but I type back, Sounds good.

  Meet at the bus stop at 25th and Main.

  Where to?

  Surprise. Dress warmly.

  I’m not sure what to do with this, so I pull on fleece-lined running tights and a warm sweater and throw some rain pants in my backpack.

  Paul is waiting for me at the bus stop, wearing jeans and a rain jacket and carrying a large backpack. He grins when he sees me, and I smile back without even thinking about it.

  “So where are we going?” I ask.

  “You’ll see.”

  “You’re still not going to tell me?”

  “It’ll sound weird if I tell you. Just wait.”

  “I take it we’re not doing math questions.”

  “Oh, I figured the math out. I thought we could do something else.” I must look freaked because Paul adds, “Don’t worry. The worst thing you’ll say is that it’s boring.”

  The bus comes a few minutes later, and we ride west until we get off at Oak Street. The properties are bigger than in my neighborhood, with lots of newer houses squished between older bungalows. Paul guides me past the high school at 33rd and Oak and up a steep path to a field I’ve never noticed before, even though I’ve been up and down Oak Street a zillion times. The field, a stretch of lawn punctuated with fir trees and high grass, stretches several blocks.

  “I didn’t know there was a park here,” I say.

  “Yeah, the trees block the view from the street. That’s why I like this place. And watch this.” Paul steps into the high grass, takes a tarp and a gray wool blanket out of his backpack and spreads them on the ground. He lies down on the blanket, and he’s instantly hidden in the grass. I’m impressed by how casually he arranges his body, his hands tucked behind his head. Most people wouldn’t notice this, but if you’re a self-conscious person like me, you take note. The way Paul crouches down and then shoots his legs forward, his back descending at the same time, ending with his hands behind his head…it’s like a dance. I almost want to ask him to do it again.

  “What are we doing here?” I ask.

  “Well, it’s a beautiful day, clear skies, but windy.” He points up at the sky. “I’ve always wanted to cloud-watch in this field.”

  “Oh.” I can’t help smiling. “Cloud watching?” My shoulders relax, and I look at Paul.

  “Don’t look at me—look up.” He points again to the sky.

  I tilt my head back. I can’t remember the last time I looked at the sky. Thin high clouds waft across the blue, forming shapes and then breaking apart quickly. I get dizzy with my head tipped back, and Paul says, “Here, lie down.”

  I hesitate a moment. I’m not sure I can lie in a field with a boy, with Paul, hidden in the grass where no one can see us.

  “Just a second,” I say. “I want to look around.”

  Paul patiently waits while I walk through the high grass, turning in a circle to take in the surroundings—the trees that edge the field, the thin noise of the traffic on Oak Street. At the far end of the field a man has let his German shepherd off leash and is throwing a ball for the dog to chase. I let myself become distracted by the way the dog leaps across the field. I turn back to Paul, who I can tell is a little weirded out that I haven’t joined him.

  C’mon, Sydney, this is Paul, who you
like, and he’s planned this…this date for you. You can do this. And so I do. It’s like moving in slow motion, but I walk back to the blanket and sit with my knees to my chest, and then I lie down next to Paul. I let my bangs fall into my eyes to hide me for a minute, and then I brush them aside. We look at each other for a moment and then back at the sky. Paul reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. His hand feels soft and warm and the right size to fit into mine, and even though my heart is exploding, I keep holding his hand and force myself to focus on the sky.

  I haven’t held anyone’s hand in four years, maybe longer. The last time I let Mom and Dad hug me was when I graduated from seventh grade. They know being touched freaks me out, so Mom just blows me kisses every now and then, and sometimes Dad grabs the top of my head and kisses it. I can tolerate that because it’s kind of like wrestling and not emotional. If they want someone to hug and kiss, they hug Abby. She likes that kind of thing.

  For a few minutes I’m so nervous holding Paul’s hand that I can barely take in what I’m seeing, but then I slowly become absorbed in the blue vastness of the sky, the ever-changing clouds, zipping free and light. They slide into new shapes before I can identify them, a cow becoming a goat, then a dog and then nothing, the sky a constant display of movement. At the edges of my vision I can see a few tree branches, bright with new leaves. All around us the grass rises, as if we are lying in an open-air tent. No one can see us unless they are standing right beside us. I feel my body sink into the earth, feel the cold hardness beneath me, cushioned by the springiness of the bent grass. A twig jabs one heel. Beside me Paul breathes, slowly and calmly, and after a while I feel my own breath match his. A shiver runs through me, and Paul turns to me.

  “Cold?”

  I shake my head. I want to say, “Just happy.” I smile instead. I didn’t know that I wanted this, but now that I have it, it feels right, like I don’t have to be worried about it. This is Paul and me. Paul squeezes my hand again and somehow we lie closer together, the sides of our bodies pressed against each other. I feel my heart start to race, and I think I might not be able to deal with this, so I take a few deep breaths. This is the opposite of the closet—this is feeling light and happy. Maybe this is a way out of the fog. I can’t imagine it ever descending again, being overwhelmed with that heaviness, not while lying here next to Paul. And if it does come back, I’ll think about this moment. I exhale a long satisfied breath.