by Cat Bauer
I have never been here on a Saturday before. I pull open the heavy wooden door and enter the vestibule. I hear voices talking normally, not in the quiet church hush. I will just light a candle and leave.
I walk into the main part of the church. The voices are louder here and there is banging. I dab some holy water on my forehead. I close my eyes and say a prayer for Granny. When I open them, I look right into the dark brown eyes of Johnny Bruno.
“Hi!” he says. “Come to help with the new organ?”
I want to reach out and touch him and make sure he is real, but I do not. To open my eyes and have Johnny Bruno standing in front of me should surprise me, but it doesn't. It is a gift from Granny, I think. To Johnny I say, “Sure!”
Johnny leads me upstairs to the balcony, where the choir sits. A bunch of men and older boys and girls are wrestling with the organ, trying to shove it into its new spot. Johnny and I grab an edge and start pushing. We giggle and yank. “Heave-ho!” yells a guy who looks like the usher on Sunday but now wears jeans, not a suit and tie. We get the organ in there and everybody shouts and claps. I didn't know you were allowed to make this much noise in church.
Johnny moves closer. We are almost touching. Now it hits me: I am actually standing here next to Johnny Bruno. We chat about nothing, about everything, and the words just flow. I think I must inform Mr. Angelo: I, Juliet, would definitely kill myself for my Romeo, Johnny. After a long while I tell Johnny I have to get going. I have to get back to the relatives.
Then Johnny does something amazing. We are leaning against the balcony railing. He brushes the hair back from my face and bends over and kisses me, sweetly, on the lips. I am stunned. This is not happening to me, I think. This is happening to Romeo and Juliet and I've got my balconies confused.
Johnny takes my hand. He tugs me down the stairs to the front of the church. He opens the door for me. He holds it as I float through. I look at him. His eyes are shiny, like he is excited, too. He gazes at me for a long moment. He grins.
“Well, good-bye.” I am almost crying, I am so happy.
“Good-bye.” He kisses me again. This time I know I am not dreaming.
“No, go on!” says Carla.
“I swear.”
“On the lips?”
“Softly, gently, right on the lips.”
“With tongue?”
“Carla! It wasn't that kind of kiss.”
I have been sitting on this information for days now, afraid to tell anyone, even Carla. If you give all your secrets to one person, they have a lot of future ammunition. Sometimes Carla has a mouth that won't quit, and I don't want to jinx this. But some things are so big they burst right out of you; there's just no holding them back.
“Where?”
“In the balcony of the church.”
“Oooh! How scandalous!”
We are walking in the graveyard of the old Dutch Reformed church. We like to hang out in haunted places. This church is much older than the Catholic church because the Dutch were here first. There are tombstones from the 1700s. Soldiers from every war are planted under the ground, all the way back to the Revolutionary War.
It is dusk. No one at home will notice I am gone because of the leftover relatives. They have forgotten I am grounded, another good perk that Granny has provided. God, how I miss her.
“Johnny was waiting by my locker after English today.”
Carla's eyes grow big. “Wow! I do not believe it. I do not believe that Johnny Bruno actually likes you back.”
“Thanks a lot, Carla.” This is the attitude I am talking about. I am not going to let her jinx me, not this time, not when the hole in my heart left by my grandmother is softly being mended by Johnny Bruno.
“Don't be so touchy, Harley. I just meant that it seems so astounding. I'm jealous! I never had a boy like me back that I liked. Except Vic, but he doesn't count 'cause I don't even like him really, he's just convenient. You are so lucky.”
She seems sincere and I am sorry I doubted her. “Do you mean it?” My eyes start to fill with tears. My emotions are all mixed up. I try to blink the tears away, but instead I start to cry. I can't help it.
“What, Harley? What's the matter?” Carla looks scared.
“I—miss—my—granny—is—all.” I want to stop crying, but I can't. Instead I cry harder. The next thing I know, I am sobbing and choking and I think I will never be able to stop. “It's not fair! It's not fair!”
“Oh, Harley.” Carla stands there like she doesn't know what to do. Then, gently, she reaches over and takes me in her arms. I have never hugged a girl before and her breasts feel funny against mine. I relax into her, heaving and weeping. We stand there for a long time in the graveyard, wrapped in each other's arms. She pats my back awkwardly, like I am a baby, and says, “It's okay.” Finally my tears stop and I wipe my nose on my sleeve.
“Sorry.”
Carla brushes the hair off of my face. “Don't be silly. I wish I had a grandmother to cry about.” Carla's eyes are kind as she looks into mine. For a wild moment, I almost feel like kissing her. Then the feeling passes, and I turn away.
“We'd better get going.” Carla giggles, all nervous, and I wonder if she was feeling the same thing. “Yeah. These gravestones are giving me the creeps.”
We walk together toward the rusted wrought-iron gate, shadows touching. It's crazy, but I can almost feel Granny walking beside us, too.
* * *
Miss Posey corners me after art class. “Harley, can I talk to you?” I just got done with a plaster-of-Paris Jesus-on-the-cross. Well, it didn't start out that way— it started out as a hang glider, but things didn't work out. Maybe I've broken some First Amendment rule between church and state.
“Yes?”
“Listen, I want to ask you a favor.” Miss Posey has on tight jeans and clunky shoes. She looks like she's twelve. “The drama club needs someone to paint a portrait for a play they're doing, Anastasia. I know you're going through a rough time, but sometimes … Well, I remember when my dad died. Just getting behind an easel helps. Can you handle it?”
“Me?” My voice squeaks like Lily's. A senior usually does the artwork for the drama club plays, never a freshman; plus, I am younger than most of my classmates because I was born so late in the year.
“Harley, I can teach you the technical stuff, but, kiddo, you've got a real gift. In fact, you're the best artist in the whole district. If you've got the time …”
The best artist in the whole district. I am so honored that Miss Posey would ask me to do this, I can't say no. And she's right. Whenever I am painting, the whole world can collapse around me and I will remain standing. I think this is another gift from Granny. I realize Miss Posey has stopped talking and is waiting for my answer. “I … I would love to.”
“Great. They don't have a big budget, but it should be a hoot. I think they need it in a month or two. And I'll always be here to help you. Okay?”
I nod. “Okay.”
“Good.” Miss Posey scribbles something on a slip of paper. “The director's name is Mr. Roman. They'll start rehearsing in a week or so. I'll let you know.” She hands me the paper like she is handing me a ticket out of here. She grins.
I smile. I take the paper. “Thanks.”
Now that the relatives have gone, and taken their chatter with them, the house settles back into its normal state, sparks smoldering beneath our sentences. One wrong word and the whole thing will ignite. I go to the dining room table, where the mail is stacked every day before Roger files it away. Peppy is in the kitchen; Roger is in his Barcalounger. I am very discreet. I flip through the pile. No birth certificate.
“Whatcha doin'?”
I jump. Bean stands next to me, crunching on an apple.
“Geez, Bean! Mind your own business, will you?”
“Expecting a love letter from Johnny?” His voice is singsongy. I hit him on the head with a magazine.
“Shut up!”
“Earl's sister says it'
s all over school.” Bean's grin is wicked. “Harley and Johnny, sitting in a tree …”
“Grow up, will you? You're a real jerk.”
Bean makes kissing noises with his lips. I pound his back. He runs around the room, kissing the air. I chase after him. Peppy yells from the kitchen: “Knock it off in there!”
“Miss Posey told me I was the best artist in the entire district,” I inform the earthlings at the dinner table.
“That's nice.” Since it is Friday, we are having fish. This is an archaic Catholic custom that, for some unknown reason, Peppy has decided to carry on in the House of Columba. It's not even a real Catholic rule anymore, except in this place. Lily whispers, “Fish, wish, fish, dish, fish, kish,” over and over and will not shut up.
“I'm not hungry,” says Bean.
“Eat,” says Roger. “If I have to eat it, so do the rest of you.”
I try again. “They want me to do the art for the drama club play. Isn't that great?”
“What's wrong with fish?” My mother puts down her fork. “You think it's easy cooking dinner for five people every single night of the week?”
“Fish sucks.” Bean reaches for a bottle of ketchup and squirts it all over his fillet.
“Watch your mouth,” says my father, on automatic. I nibble a limp green bean. “Miss Posey said I've got a real gift.”
“What about hamburgers, Peppy? We all like hamburgers.” Roger reaches for the bowl of french fries. Everyone is eating everything except the fish.
“This isn't a restaurant.” My mother's lips get tight. “I do not enjoy working all day long and coming home and listening to all of you complain.”
“So don't make fish.” Roger takes a swig of vodka. I watch my mother's eyes follow the glass as he tips it to his lips, but she says nothing. “Why make it when no one likes it?”
“I like it, Mommy,” says Lily.
“Usually they ask a senior to do the art for the plays.” I gnaw on a soggy french fry. “I'm the first freshman.”
“You're supposed to have fish on Fridays.” Peppy squeezes her lemon and drips it, hard, all over her fillet until not a drop of juice is left.
“What are they gonna do, Ma, throw us out of heaven?” Bean has mixed mounds of french fries and beans all over his plate so the fish looks like it's been eaten. “May I please be excused?”
“No,” says Peppy. “Sit there and finish that fish.”
“Aw, come on!” Bean squirms. “I told Earl I'd be over.”
“Go ahead,” says my father.
Bean jumps up from the table. “Thanks, Dad!” Peppy's lips get tighter and whiter, but again she says nothing.
No one but Lily finishes their fish.
It's hard to sleep when you're in love. All I think about is Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. I cradle my harlequin in my arms and practice kissing his porcelain lips, pretending he is Johnny. I become an angel on earth. I fetch ice with a smile and vacuum the floor. My mother and father say, “It's nice to have our daughter back.” This annoys me, but I am so happy, I forgive them. I let them think it is the death of my grandmother that has transformed me, not the love of Johnny Bruno.
School is over for the day. I head to my locker. Guess who is standing there. Johnny Bruno.
“Wanna walk home?” His eyes are brown like Peppy's, but in a warm way.
“Sure!” I get my French book, since Miss Auberjois likes to ruin every evening for us. Johnny takes it out of my hand.
“Allow me.” I am thrilled. I've read about guys doing things like this. Then I worry: Have I written any “Johnny and Harley” stuff on the cover? If so, I hope it is properly in code.
We walk down the hall. He steps ahead of me, pushes open the heavy fire door, and holds it open as I waltz through.
Tattletale Betty Jo Clemings is on the other side of the door. She runs with this pack of goddesses who think they are God's gift to Lenape High. She has an enormous jaw that always gets stuck open like the hinge is jammed. I heard it got stuck open for hours at the freshman car wash and a doctor had to be called. Now, when she sees me walk by with Johnny Bruno, her jaw drops straight down, and I smile sweetly at her as we pass and I hope she never gets it closed.
Carla is standing outside the gym door, waiting for me. She sees me with Johnny, and I see confusion on her face. I don't know what to do. We walk up to her.
“Hi!” says Carla.
“Hi!” I say. “You know Johnny, right? You know Carla?”
“Hi!” says Johnny.
No one says anything. Then I say, “Johnny is walking me home.”
Something new flashes across Carla's face, something I've never seen before. “Oh, okay,” she says, turning away. “I have to run uptown anyway.” She flips her hair. She heads down the steps toward the Pond Hole and does not look back.
For a second, I feel bad, but I am too happy to let it bother me. Carla knows how important this is. Besides, she has done the same to me with Vic, and she doesn't even really like him.
Johnny walks me down the street and over the footbridge. Sometimes his jacket brushes my arm and gives me a tingle. I must make brilliant conversation, I think, but no words come out. I wait for him to charm me with his wit. He says nothing. We walk together in silence, but underneath there is a whole conversation going on.
We stop at the top of Hill Court. Mrs. Woods is signaling to a pickup truck with her stop-sign-on-a-stick like she is guiding in an aircraft carrier. Here is where Johnny and I must part; I live in one direction and he lives in the other, closer to Carla's house. Mrs. Woods has her back to us but keeps turning around, casual-like, pretending she isn't spying. She waves the pickup truck forward.
Johnny hands me back my French book. There is a big “J.B. & H.C.” in the upper-right-hand corner, but it is in the shape of a flower. I don't think he notices. He leans over and kisses me. This is different from the church kiss, which was soft and sweet. This kiss is a little sloppy. I wish I had a tissue.
“See you tomorrow,” he says.
“See you tomorrow,” I say back. God, I am so un-original.
He grins and heads off in the opposite direction. I walk over to Mrs. Woods. She holds up her stop-signon-a-stick and crosses me, even though no cars are coming. I turn around and look back at Johnny. He is watching me. He waves. I wave back to him and fly all the way home.
I want to paint clouds on my bedroom ceiling. Of course Peppy won't let me. Carla is over, and we sneak inside my storage area, which I have transformed into Harley's Happy Hideaway. Peppy doesn't know this, or she would rip it all down. In addition to my John Lennon posters, I put up wooden beads and tacked on East Indian scarves like a veil you must whisk aside to enter. Red, orange, green, blue. I know Carla will steal this idea next. She practically lives in her storage area, and Ronnie lets her.
Peppy is ironing in the family room, so we should be safe.
“Johnny's walked me home three days in a row,” I inform Carla. She is filing her nails, which, of course, are now gold.
“Did he kiss you every time?”
“Yeah, but just a little one, 'cause we didn't want to give Mrs. Woods a thrill. She spies.”
“Maybe he'll ask you to the Spring Ball.” Carla looks at me sideways. The Spring Ball is the biggest bash of the season. It is almost better than the prom, because all grades can go, not just seniors. The Spring Ball is in April, when the buds start to bloom and the frost disappears. It is the dream of every girl in town to get asked to the Spring Ball. I think my dream is about to come true.
“It's a month and a half away,” I tell her. “I don't dare think about it. If we talk about it, it'll get a jinx.”
When I unrolled a rug, I found my mother's year-book stuffed into a corner. Now we flip through it. It is depressing. No one wants to do anything with their life. Under the girls' pictures it says things like “her outstanding skills will ensure her a secretarial position,” “should make an excellent beautician,” “hopes to become a dental assistant.�
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The boys are not much more ambitious: “should make a fine electrician,” “plans to venture into carpentry after graduation,” “has hopes of being a car mechanic.” We know lots of people in the yearbook because they are the parents of our friends. Lenape Lakes, land of opportunity.
I flip to Patricia Harley. Peppy was really pretty when she was young, all smiles and hopes. There is a cute quotation under my mother's picture: “Catch your dreams before they slip away.” I read out loud: “Peppy … loves to laugh … dislikes phony people … hobbies are swimming and listening to music … college is in her path.”
“Did your mom go to college?” asks Carla.
“I guess she took a wrong turn,” I giggle. “No one in this family ever goes to college.” I toss the year-book to her. “Take a look, Carla. Here is your destiny. No one ever leaves Lenape Lakes, and if they do, they always come back.”
Carla flips through the book. I am sad. I don't think my mother caught her dreams; I don't think she even got a nibble. Lenape Lakes is a sneaky little town. If you don't escape, it wraps you in its claws and the next thing you know you're living on Lenape Road with a husband, three kids, and a dog. One thing I vow: That will never happen to me.
Carla stops turning the pages. She grabs me. “Look!”
She points to the picture of Roger Columba. My father has written a message to Peppy around his picture. “Pep. Knowing you has meant a great deal to me. I love you more than anyone I've ever known. Through a stupid move on my part, I lost you, and I'll regret it forever. Don't forget the good times and good fights we had. Take care and be good. Love, forever. Roger.”
“They broke up!” Carla is excited.
“They broke up.” I can't believe it. “All this time they told me they were together since eighth grade.”
“Are you going to ask them?”
Carla wants the dirt. So do I. I read the rest under my father's picture. “Cast your fate to the wind.” He certainly accomplished that. “The Commander … a valuable member of our basketball team … loves to laugh … hobbies include hunting and fishing … hopes for a career in aerospace engineering.” Aerospace engineering! Well, owning a gas station is close. So Roger's been the Commander from way back. Probably because he's so good at giving orders.