“That’s a deep thought, Patsy.”
She sighed. “I know that sounds, um—”
“Have you ever dated someone your crowd wouldn’t approve of?”
“How can I know that you’re a person I wouldn’t date if I don’t meet you?”
“Then you admit to discriminatory practices?”
“I won’t deny I’d say no to some people, Caesaro. Everyone has someone they’d say no to.”
She’d had plenty of chances to look interested in me and she never had. “You’ll have to take my word for it. I’m the one.”
“I don’t have to take your word for anything. You’re an anonymous caller.”
“I’m an obscene caller.”
“Why do you keep talking through that handkerchief?”
“It’s how this sort of thing is done.”
“What sort of thing? We’re talking, that’s all.”
“That’s what you’re doing.”
Sharp intake of breath.
I waited a couple of beats. “What do you think obscene callers do wh—”
Click.
I hung up, my chest aching hollowly for—Patsy? I sighed. If this was love …
TWENTY-EIGHT
The next morning, I made a simulated run.
My eventual goal would be to run all the way to school and then run around the track a few times. I’d have to work up to it over two or three days. But I wanted to get the feel for it, run partway—three, four blocks. Then jog back and take the bus like any other morning. By next week, I’d be ready to do the run and start to work on speed.
I set my clock for an hour earlier, for five-thirty. There is no way to simulate a five-thirty rising in winter. It’s still dark at five-thirty, and it is cold.
It took me half an hour to do the warm-ups, but I reasoned that when I ran all the way to school, that would count toward the overall run.
Right from the start, my jeans kept making this sound like a nail file. Half a block on, the bottoms of my pants felt like they got caught on my ankles or wrapped around them. I had to walk part of the next block to catch my breath anyway. I started to run again, but this time I couldn’t go as far before I had to walk. I was wheezing.
On the third block, I developed a stitch in my right side.
It was a good thing I called this a simulated run. I turned around to go home, walking. I managed to avoid a face-to-face with Mr. B without actually hiding from him, which was a relief to me. I lay down for ten minutes, then took a hot shower and practiced breathing. It hurt.
Mr. B had gone by the time I got downstairs, and Mom was on her way out. She was dressed for the office, wearing those stubby running shoes. She carried her chunky heels in a shopping bag. “Headed for work?” I asked her in a chatty way.
“Of course. I’m still bringing in a paycheck,” she said. “Even if I’m not the only one.”
Something had wound up her clock. I didn’t know what it was, and I didn’t want to find out. We left together. Mom went one way, heading for the train. I went the other.
The day had a bright side. I got an A plus on my book report. Also, that was the last of the makeup homework having to do with changing schools in November.
At first it just felt like my mood was lighter. But I soon saw the girls were all atwitter, making plans for the dance.
That night I asked Mr. B about running clothes.
“For the time being, you won’t need anything but a good pair of running shoes. Those sneakers you’re wearing won’t do. And we’ll get you a sweat suit. I don’t guess you’ve got one.”
“No, I guess not,” I said, to be agreeable.
“Vinnie, you have a sweat suit,” Mom said irritably. She was right, but it was still in my closet, in a box I hadn’t unpacked since the move. I’d forgotten about it.
Then, roused like a bear from hibernation, she turned on Mr. B. “Why wouldn’t he have a sweat suit?”
Dad and I know enough never to answer Mom’s questions when they follow an indication that her fur’s been mussed. Mr. B didn’t understand this yet.
“It’s only that he’s never been athletically inclined, Donna. I just assumed—”
“The way you’re assuming he’s ‘never’ been athletically inclined?”
“I’m talking about his interests—”
“Not all athletics revolve around football, Dominic.” Ooh, Mom catches on fast.
“Just what athletics are you talking about, Donna?” Mr. B was sounding a little testy himself.
“He did okay in gymnastics last year, didn’t he?”
In all fairness, that’s how I did. Okay. And that good only when I hoped it would discourage further meetings between Mom and Mr. B. Not that it was a good time to point that out.
Mom wouldn’t quit while she was ahead. “When he was eight years old, he could run back and forth along the seesaw to keep it level. You know, keeping it moving without letting it touch the ground,” Mom said, finishing on an uncertain note. “That was athletic.”
Mom was right. That’s why I fell and broke my nose at the tender age of eight.
“And he can dance,” she added.
Mr. B sized up the situation and set his face to a carefully neutral expression. He told my mother what she wanted to hear. “Vinnie and I haven’t talked much about his interests, Donna. I’m happy he’s going out for track, really I am.” Mr. B seemed to have developed a British accent.
“Did you hear that, Vinnie?”
She didn’t want much from him. Just total capitulation.
“Sure, Mom.” Chalk one up on the down side for the stepdad.
Patsy said, “You weren’t so nice to me last night, Dominic.”
“No, I wasn’t.” Actually, she gave me something of a turn, coming up with Mr. B’s name. I drew in a slow, deep breath.
“I’m not sure I like you when you get into that mood.”
“I didn’t know you liked me at all.”
“What a strange thing to say.” She tapped the receiver while she thought it over, a rapid heartbeat. I slid deeper into my bed, embarrassed somehow. Excruciatingly embarrassed.
“I’ve been thinking, you must really need to talk to someone. Anonymously, you know? Otherwise, why the handkerchief?”
“What’s with you and the handkerchief? You need one?”
“You’re pretty funny, Domino.”
“Go ahead! Make fun. Every time you waste the chance to guess my name, the likelier it is we’ll have to go around again.”
“Sounds like you’re counting on a lot of calls.”
There was a soft click. At first I wasn’t sure she’d hung up. “Patsy?” Nothing. Then the dial tone.
Go figure.
The next morning I unpacked the running suit my mom was talking about. Bright blue in a fabric as slippery as gym shorts. I wouldn’t be keeping a low profile. I’d run a little, then walk to school. Maybe sprint two or three times.
At the back door, I met the next obstacle to my running career. Something that had not occurred to me during my simulated run. How was I going to carry my books? I could hardly run while holding them against my chest. I left them, along with my folded jeans, in Mr. B’s place at the table, he’d bring them to school this time.
It was about a twelve-block run to the school. Just about a mile, Mr. B told me. It was cold out, but he’d also said I’d warm up quick. Strangely enough, the first block wasn’t bad.
If only I hadn’t talked myself into running longer. By the time I made five blocks, I was finished. I turned around and walked back home. My head ached. I had worked up just enough of a sweat to feel a chill coming on. It made a person think. If modern man can’t run five blocks, how’s he going to make it as far as the next millennium?
About halfway home, I decided to run the last block so I wouldn’t look like such a loser. As I gathered strength for the burst of energy needed to run that last block, I thought, I’ll have to get up earlier in the morning. Much earlier.
Mom and Mr. B were just finishing breakfast as I got back. Which meant she was having coffee. And he was having coffee and Ritz crackers with strawberry jelly. Yum.
“So. How was it?” Mr. B wanted to know. He poured himself another cup of coffee. No doubt he had made the coffee if he wanted seconds.
“Good,” I said, trying not to sound like I was choking to death. Hard to do when my throat was clogged with ropy saliva. I reached for the orange juice and drank straight from the carton.
“Vinnie,” Mom complained as she folded a sheet of newspaper. An auspicious horoscope, no doubt.
“It’s hard in the beginning,” Mr. B said. He knew how it was going, how it was really going.
I didn’t volunteer anything but to share my scrambled eggs. Mr. B hovered around the stove while I stirred the eggs with shaking hands. He rescued the toast in the nick of time and sat down for a second meal.
TWENTY-NINE
Because I got to the stop just as the bus driver was about to pull away, I managed to avoid the usual awkward pretense of hardly noticing Patsy. It was almost natural that I didn’t look at her, even as I claimed the seat directly behind her. However, I overheard part of a conversation with Melanie.
“There must be a thousand names for boys!” she said.
“I don’t know what they are, Patsy. What class do you need them for, anyway?”
“The new gym teacher is Italian, right?” She turned around suddenly and speared me with a look. “What’s your name?”
“My name is Gold. Jewish.” I said it without thinking. Without realizing it, I had sidestepped her real question with a technicality. “Dom’s my stepfather.”
Melanie looked shocked. “Patsy!”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude,” she said, and turned back.
Melanie said, “I can’t believe the way you act sometimes.”
“Me either.”
I called Dad and told him, “I’m going out for track.”
“Good. I think. No one swinging a lethal weapon, no one behaving like a lethal weapon?”
“It’s cool.”
“I was on the track team for about twenty minutes,” Dad said, and went on to tell me a few stories. Locker room pranks and smelling of Ben-Gay instead of aftershave on dates played a big part in his reminiscences. He seemed to have happy memories about that time even though a broken heel polished off his brief running career. He mentioned he’d worn a backpack to school.
“Oh, right, I’ve been wondering what to do with my books.” I’d seen a few guys using backpacks, but I carried my books propped against my hip. Now I wondered if those guys were the track team.
“Mona’s here, she wants to say hi,” Dad said as we signed off.
“I don’t know what you said,” she whispered. “But he hasn’t laughed like that in weeks. You made him feel good.”
“Me too,” I said, realizing it was true.
* * *
“You aren’t extremely short, are you, Eduardo?” She didn’t sound bored or playful, she was on the attack.
“Why?”
“Some guys worry about being shorter than girls.”
“Some girls worry about that.” But it was an interesting question. “Are we deciding whether I’m datable?”
“No. All right, yes,” she said. “But not necessarily for me.”
“You have another number you want me to call?”
“No, I— Oh, all right, I was asking for me.”
“I haven’t asked you out.”
“I don’t need to wait for you to do the asking, Eggo.”
“So are you?” I was suddenly tense. This was about the dance.
“Asking?” she wanted to know.
“Uh-huh.”
“No.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Not enough data?”
“It’s not that I’d ask or say yes if you asked. I don’t go out with perverts. I’m just curious about you, I guess.”
“That kind of thing is highly detrimental to relationships.”
“What kind of thing?”
“When you don’t have a comeback, you dredge up old stuff to say.”
“Your ‘old stuff’ is a felony,” she said.
“Misdemeanor. Six months’ probation.”
“You sound awfully sure about that. Been checking into it, just in case?”
I said, “You may not even be my type.”
“What type is that?”
“Nice.”
“Yeah, I can see how that’d be a problem.”
“See what I mean?”
“How come you always call at twelve o’clock?”
“I’m a traditional kind of guy.”
“You could call later some nights.”
I had a feeling I knew where she was going with this, but I asked anyway. “When, for instance?”
“Saturday night?” Very coy.
I checked in with what Vinnie knew and Vincenzo shouldn’t. “Maybe you’re going out?”
“What if I’m not here at midnight?”
“I won’t call again.”
“Ever?”
I lay in the darkness of my room, strong and silent.
“That’s stupid,” she said, her voice full of outrage.
I didn’t respond. But she was right. It was stupid.
“Ooh, the strong, silent type.” Contempt.
“I’m taking notes,” I said, and like I really was, I spaced out my next words. “Gets … mean … when … frustrated … Name-calling.”
“You’re trying to make me hang up,” she said.
“So? Are you going to fall for that?”
“No. I’m just going to say good night.”
Click.
I had a strong mental image of her, lips parted over small white teeth. Sitting with her finger pressed viciously on the button, springing the trap. I turned on my reading lamp. Vincenzo was at his best in the dark, but I had to see more clearly.
Was she telling me she’d go out with me if I asked? Was she serious? Or was this a trick to bring me out into the light?
I switched off my lamp.
I started out on Thursday morning with confidence, running with graceful strides punctuated by the shifting weight of a backpack supplied by Mr. B. It helped. My arms were free; I felt balanced.
I took an alternate route that would bypass the bus stop and the pointed once- and twice-over Patsy was giving everyone these days. I was well into the next block before I dropped back to a walk to catch my breath.
My throat was on fire, each gasp fanned the flames. I had to walk longer between each bout of running. “Bout” is an appropriate word. I was fighting all the way. The one good thing I could think of, since I’d gone this way, nobody who mattered could see how close to failure I was.
I walked the rest of the way to school.
There were members of various teams jogging around the track and several health-oriented taxpayers pacing themselves as they followed the runners around and around. I went straight indoors and headed for the library, where I waited for the first bell.
In homeroom, I was given a note to see the guidance counselor, a beefy guy with a red face, he looked permanently sunburned. He greeted me with one word: “Gold!”
I’d met him once before, when classes were assigned. It seemed he always talked like he’d just come across someone he’d known for years.
“Got a schedule change for ya!”
“Excuse me?”
“We’re bumping you up in English, and in order to do that, we had to shift your science and gym classes.”
“Why?”
“Your English teacher says you’re bored! You write well! You need an A-level class. That will be Mrs. Saunders, room 203. Start today, first period! All your teachers have been informed.”
So first period I parked myself three desks behind Patsy’s.
And in third period, I learned I’d been put in Biff’s gym class.
I didn’t tak
e the bus home, but tried again. Run, walk, run, walk. The backpack worked out, that was the only thing that did. I could’ve talked to Mr. B, but I wanted him to see me as a guy who was toughing it out. So I called Dad again, hoping he’d have some practical advice for the beginning runner.
I dialed. We talked for about two minutes, just enough time for me to brag a little about being bumped up in English, before Dad said, “Hey, Vinnie, can we talk tomorrow?”
“Working?” The man was going to make a million.
“I don’t want to be late.”
“Okay.” But driving the taxi didn’t mean punching a clock by a certain time. Dad showed up at the garage and waited for someone to drive in because it was the end of their day. Then he gassed up and drove out.
Unless somebody was making a movie. Then he made sure he’d have a car by a certain time. I wasn’t trying to hold him up, but I asked, “The taxi’s got a job?”
“I’ve got a date, Vinnie.”
I felt like a sprinkle of cold water hit me. “I didn’t know.”
“I should’ve told you.”
Right. At least mentioned that he was interested in somebody. That he was going to ask her out. We talked to each other just about every other day.
I guess we all have our little secrets.
I said, “So listen, we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“It’s just that I’m running late.”
“Go. Tomorrow,” I said, and hung up. I felt kind of bad because I was somebody he couldn’t confide in.
Of course, I wasn’t exactly confiding in him either. What could I say? Hey, Dad, it’s a few calls, that’s all, no harm done. Nobody’s going to know it’s me, plenty of people have Patsy’s phone number. Biff has her phone number.
If I’d opened a window, a cold draft would have blown in. It couldn’t have been any colder than the realization I had right then that Biff was probably calling her every night too.
THIRTY
“Frederico?”
“You were expecting another caller?”
“Was I a snot last night? I didn’t mean to be.”
Not Exactly a Love Story Page 8