Boys Don't Cry

by Jennifer Melzer

  My hand rests on the baseball again, fingers pushing against it as I tilt my forehead into the cool glass and peer down over the neighborhood below. I scan the houses on the block, there are a couple of other Victorian’s and one colonial, but for the most part they’re simple ranches built during the 1970s. Returning my attention to the two-story house where I saw that guy earlier, I duck my head down and spy him just as he’s leaning forward with his guitar.

  I step to the side, wrestle the other window open, and the sound of his song drifts upward to meet my ears. The notes are sharp and hollow, lonely and forlorn, and after a few minutes of listening to him I wonder what in the world could make such a pretty boy so sad.

  As if he senses me staring, his head lifts, slices of black hair clinging to his cheeks as he tips his gaze upward and scans the windows until he finds me. The moment our eyes meet I’m paralyzed, my heart speeding up inside my chest until I’m sure it’s going to explode. He’s so far away, and yet so close, his fingers still rolling across the chords as he continues sending out that song. I must be smiling at him, my hand reaching up self-consciously to touch lips that betray my sudden infatuation with him. The corner of his mouth twitches, amusement gleaming in his eyes just before he lowers his head again.

  When Arthur’s hands reach out quickly to poke me in the sides, I let out an embarrassing shriek before spinning around and shoving him away from me. I never even heard him coming up the stairs, so I expect to find no one behind me. There he is though, grinning like an idiot, his unruly curls fluffed around his head like he’s just pulled a finger from the light socket. It’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen from him since we left Austin, and that happiness makes it super hard for me to strangle him the way I really want to.

  “You little jackass! What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Mom’s gonna wash your mouth out with soap,” he smirks.

  “I’m gonna push you down the stairs. God, you’re such a little jerk.”

  “I wish you could have seen the look on your face. It was perfect.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not even gonna have a face when I’m done with you!”

  I start toward him, but he’s fast, ducking aside and back into the hallway. I can’t believe I let him catch me off guard. I’m so much better than this.

  “Seriously, Tali, I was like the Macy’s Day parade marching up those steps. How did you not hear me coming?”

  “I was…” I glance back toward the window before finishing, “thinking.” Lifting my hand to my chest, as though the gesture alone will slow the pace of my thumping heart before it can explode, I return my eyes to his. “Mostly about how easy it would be to throw you out the window if you ever came into my room without asking again.”

  “Oh, good, so this is your room then?” I follow him as he walks backwards through the hallway, toward the door on the opposite side of the hall. “You won’t mind then if I take the one across the hall?”

  I haven’t even seen the other room, but I don’t really care. I’ve already visualized where I’m going to set up my computer and how snugly my bed will fit against the wall. My dresser will look nice over there and I can hang clothes I haven’t even bought yet in a closet big enough to put another bed inside. Oh, and I can see that really hot guy from my window, so bonus.

  “Take it,” I shrug, “but don’t think just because we’re neighbors you can bother me all the time.”

  “Like I have nothing better to do with my life.” He rolls his eyes until the whites show and turns into the door, gripping the knob in his hand and jostling it open. He grins back at me before slipping inside, and though it doesn’t fully reach his eyes I think for a minute that maybe he’ll be okay here.

  FOUR

  Sonesville’s not a bad place for a morning run, I’ll give it that, but the humidity of this first week in June isn’t exactly welcoming. I have to start early, not long after sunup, when it’s cool enough for my sweat to actually evaporate in the unyielding wind.

  The neighborhood is quiet when I set out just around six-thirty a.m., and since it’s Saturday morning there aren’t a lot of people getting ready to leave for work so the world is more or less quiet outside my headphones. Not that I can appreciate the silence over the music thumping in my ears, but the atmosphere is reassuring.

  I took Art and Gwen for a walk last night to try and map a route, but five miles with two kids, even when one of them is in a stroller, is just asking for trouble, so we only made it about a mile from home before I marched them back and swore to God I’d never take either of them anywhere again.

  A mile and a half out, I spy what would have seemed like mecca to them if we’d kept going: a small park with swings and slides, a merry-go-round and those weird animals on giant rusty springs that let you bob back and forth. There’s a see-saw, a giant sandpit with dark yellow crane arms for grabbing and moving sand, and a couple of picnic tables. Along the far end of the dew-specked grass are two soccer nets, the moisture on the ropes sparkling like diamonds in the early morning sun.

  I double back at the end of the sidewalk and turn onto the paved bike path carving around the outside edge of the park. I track my starting mileage and lose myself in the peaceful serenity of shade trees and a slow breeze and the illusion of the absence of life. I can think out here, even though I can’t hear the silence. The music drives my body, sometimes so severely I want to break into dance as if there’s no one else in the world at all.

  It’s not that I don’t like people. For the most part they’re okay, but no one else in the world exists when I’m running, and I’d rather that illusion hold its own. I imagine sometimes I’m the sole survivor of a zombie apocalypse, droves of brain devouring dead shuffling behind me and pushing me faster because if I slow down for even a second, they’ll overrun me and tear me to pieces. I don’t dare look back to see how close they are. I can’t afford to take that chance, and the adrenaline my imagination provides makes me soar.

  I’m coming up on a middle-aged guy out walking his dog, their bodies growing closer by the second, and I actually think I should warn him about what he’s walking into, but it’s a zombie eat brains kind of world so I say nothing, just pound right by him without even looking at that poor little dog. I don’t think zombies eat dogs, but he’s going to be awfully lonely without his master in a world overrun by the walking dead.

  I pass a couple on matching bikes, their black and neon spandex riding gear flashing like strobe lights as they pedal onward, and it fits beautifully with the club mix pulsing through my headphones and driving my feet. Then I’m alone again as I begin rounding the turn that leads back out to the front of the park. The track is a mile long, according to the app on my phone, so if I want a full five miles before breakfast, I’ll have to run the park loop twice before heading back home.

  My second lap sees even more people. Children racing out of the cars pouring into the parking lot to latch onto swings and spin the merry-go-round, their parents shuffle out behind them looking like they didn’t survive the apocalypse in my head. I zoom by a couple of joggers on their first round, imagining a trail of dust burning off the backs of my sneakers like I’m the Roadrunner. Meep-meep!

  It’s not crowded, but it definitely interferes with the atmospheric solitude I’ve been striving for this morning, so I’m glad when I near the end of my second lap and race through the open gates to head back to the house. I’m starting to get hungry.

  My muscles burn gratefully, aching as if to scold me for sitting idle for too long, for not stretching and flexing and blazing like the glorious wind. Thighs on fire, calves tightening and releasing, I push onward and promise my body we will never sit still again. I also promise it donuts, not exactly the best food for runners, but I’m craving sugar and coffee and now the drive for rich, creamy go-juice propels me across the uneven slabs of concrete making up the sidewalk.

  When Lincoln Drive comes into view, my heart rate is waning from target, dropping as I slow my pace a
little. I keep my focus forward, ignoring the people who’ve come out onto their porches to enjoy this peaceful morning with cups of coffee and newspaper sections. Between a lull in beats of music I hear someone starting their lawn mower and know it’s only a matter of time before others join in the motored chorus and begin filling the air with the intoxicating smell of fresh cut grass.

  The monstrosity in the distance looms closer, the tilted weather vane signaling that my peace and freedom is nearing its end. I really need to tell Dad to get a ladder up there and yank that thing down, or someone’s going to get impaled. I ease into a jog when I’m about half a block away, the breath tearing through my lungs and windpipe, pushing through my nose as I exhale, and then I see a car turning out of the alley across the street.

  The teal hatchback draws my attention, and I don’t know why because I’ve passed at least thirty cars since I left the house this morning and none of them drew my interest, but this one feels like a homing beacon pulling me in. It turns onto Lincoln Drive, meandering toward me, and when the driver turns his head to ogle the mess with her t-shirt plastered to her body, a sheen of sweat dripping down the backs of her legs, our eyes lock and the toe of my shoe catches a slab of uneven sidewalk, propelling me gracelessly forward.

  Palms skid across pavement, my knee cracking painfully, though I’ve managed to push most of my weight into my hands. The jarring of my wrist wrenches a cry from my throat, and I allow both of my knees to buckle so I’m in a yoga-style crouch just in front of the house. I’m pretty sure he’s seen me, because I turn my head a little and discover the red of his brake lights when he slows down, as if he’s going to stop the car and ask if I’m all right.

  Seriously? I’ve been running for five years. I spent my last three years of high school lettering in track and field. Yeah, I’ve fallen before because shit happens, but right there? In front of my own house while the mysterious and gorgeous guitar player from across the street is driving by?

  I don’t want him to stop. The last thing in the world I want is to talk to this guy while I’m out of breath and wiping the bloody sting of my palms onto my sweat-soaked clothes, so I muster my composure, push upright and walk up onto the porch with the grace of a girl who totally meant to do that. Reaching for the front door, I turn the barest glance over my left shoulder just in time to see the brake lights release and the teal hatchback moving forward again.

  Relief gives way to pain, and when I turn the knob in my pulsing palm, I wonder why him, of all people? Why couldn’t it have been someone, anyone else? A bunch of little kids who’d spend the rest of the day mocking the clumsy girl who wiped out right in front of her own porch steps? Some little old lady with a walker, tsking as she calls out, “Even I could do better than that, Gracie.”

  And I know the answer without even having to think about it.

  Since the moment our eyes met in that impossible way through the darkened glass, Fate began spinning her tricky web around us, and I had a feeling she was going to push us toward each other every chance she got, no matter how humiliating.

  Great. That’s just great.

  I shove my shoulder into the humidity stuck front door and head into the kitchen to wash the pavement from my palms.

  FIVE

  It takes us about a week to carve through the layer of grime in the new house. Despite my embarrassing tumble in front of my incredibly attractive neighbor, I run every morning before throwing myself into the seemingly never ending task of cleaning this house.

  Sometimes he passes me in his car and our eyes meet and I manage not to pitch myself into the pavement, thank God. It’s not the only time I see him, though. Every night, just after six he comes home from wherever he is. I see his car turn into the alley and within half an hour he’s out on the porch playing song after sad song in heartbreaking serenade.

  Of course, I watch him from my window, and even though I know nothing about him beyond the sweet sadness of his music, it’s enough to make me sigh fantastically every time I fall into bed at night and try to imagine what his name might be. It’s a game, me flipping through every name imaginable and trying to match it to his face, but none of them fit, and I wonder if I’ll ever learn it.

  Austin Tali would have marched right across the street and introduced herself, so I can’t figure out why Sonesville Tali doesn’t do that. I understand it about as much as I understand the trembling of my hands, the flutter of my heart inside my chest, the tight tingle in my belly in those moments he raises his head to meet my eyes in the half-dark just after sunset. I feel like a southern belle, fanning myself with piece of cardboard I tore off a moving box as I step away from the window muttering, “Oh my,” under my breath.

  The appliances Mom ordered last week are supposed to arrive today, which makes me happier than you can possibly imagine. We’ve been eating nothing but donuts and McDonald’s for breakfast, and every night dinner is takeout. Pizza and subs, mostly, from a local place about three blocks from the house called Dough Boys. We’ve been there so many times over the last week that the brothers who own the place now know us as the people who eat nothing but garbage.

  Art and I know the route by heart, and we’ve seen all the friendly faces in our neighborhood. They say hi as we pass on our way back through with a paper sack full of greasy cheese steaks, and we wave back, but I can feel their eyes on us long after we’re far enough away that we can’t hear what they’re saying about us.

  They probably think we’re crazy, their overactive imaginations drumming up all kinds of reasons for our move into that dark, rundown house. Maybe we’re vampires. Maybe we’re fugitives. Maybe we’re Russian sp—

  “Is that a raccoon?” Art nudges me in the side, and fortunately I have a chance to grab onto the collar of his shirt before he can rush headlong into rabies.

  “Stay back,” I warn, eying the creature standing at the edge of the alley we cut through.

  I’ve seen enough nature shows to know running into a raccoon in broad daylight is never a good thing. Teeth bared, it’s hissing at us, issuing low, guttural growls, and I know I should probably call animal control, but I don’t walk around with those kinds of numbers on speed dial. It’s about ten feet away, plenty of space between us and him, but to make it to safety we’ll probably have to cut through the yard beside us and head around the block the long way.

  “Raccoons are nocturnal,” I tell him, adding, “so if you see one outside during the day there’s probably something wrong with it?”

  “What, like it’s hurt?”

  “Or sick. Raccoons are cute at the zoo and stuff, but in real life not so much. Come on.” I tug him toward the grass on our left, looking up just in time to realize we’re standing in Mr. Hotty’s backyard.

  I know, real original, but what else am I supposed to call him? Tortured Musician Guy? Sexy Fingers?

  He does have sexy fingers, and from the sound of his tunes he’s definitely suffering, got some real powerful sorrow going on in there that I spend my nights imagining I could fix the way my dad fixes up tortured, old houses. It’s almost funny that I feel like I know him already, more intimately than I should, anyway. We’ve never spoken except with our eyes, or maybe I’m imagining that. I don’t know, but I hardly think our one-sided relationship is cause to go traipsing through his begonias, even if it does mean getting away from the hissing Masked Bandit I’m pretty sure is foaming at the mouth.

  We’re three steps into the grass, me glancing back over my shoulder to make sure the hissing creature isn’t following us, when I notice a rusty swing-set and the rotting frame of a sandbox full of sprouting grass and dirt. Another step and I realize the back door is open. Television chatter spills out through the screen to greet us from inside. Guessing from the hour and the pitch of shrieking voices, it sounds like Judge Judy.

  “Tali, I think it’s following us.”

  It’s no longer necessary to drag Art by his shirt. He’s standing so close to me he steps on my toes as we walk, our heads cr
aning backward to watch the creature taking tentative steps to keep up with us like it just wants to be friends. I don’t think so.

  I have a feeling if we make a run for it, the raccoon is going to chase us and attack. Panic sets in, my clammy grip on Art’s shirt almost slipping. I look up and see the other side of the neighborhood, the monstrosity we call home looming beyond the boards of the white picket fence closing off Mr. Hotty’s backyard from the street.

  Crap.

  Another glance over my shoulder, I’m almost relieved to see the raccoon has fallen onto its side to roll around in the grass. Its teeth are still bared, eyes lolling a little as it rubs the back of its head the way a cat might do while baring its belly and daring you to touch it.

  Yeah, sorry, Masked Bandit, not gonna happen.

  I’m already up the stairs and knocking on the back door, Art huddled at my side, before I realize what I’m doing. It’s too late to back up, and besides, where are we gonna go? Not back out into the yard with that disease-infected creature of the night. There’s only a moment to contemplate that this was not how I fantasized meeting my moonlight crooner face to face.

  I hear bare feet slapping across linoleum, brace myself for first contact and sigh audible relief when a girl close to Art’s age appears in the shadow of the screen. She has black braids, a band of freckles across her nose and a pair of round, dark blue eyes that are just about as wary of us as we are of the raccoon in her back yard.

  “Hi,” I swallow hard.

  “Nate’s at work,” she informs me, the screened-in shadow of her head turning toward Art and tilting curiously to study him.

  “Wh—no, I’m sorry.”