“What are you doing?” he says.
“Nothing.” My heart is racing. “Just wondered if you needed something.”
“Yeah,” he says, “a better brand of booze … cheap crap.” He opens the fridge and pulls out a can of beer, pops back the top, chugs it down, and then he’s gone.
Maizey stops by while the little ones are napping.
“I thought maybe you forgot where I live,” I say.
She squints her eyes like this hurts. She looks around my kitchen. I imagine she’s comparing it to Snoop-Melon’s kitchen. I bet hers is beautiful with all new avocado-colored matching appliances, maybe even a dishwasher.
I feel like saying, “Traitor, why didn’t you stick up for me in the park? Why didn’t you pick me over Snoop …?”
“I fixed it!” Maize blurts out, all excited.
“Fixed what?” I say.
“You can come to Sue-Ellen’s party again!”
Hope pops up like bread in the toaster. “Really? Are you sure?”
“Yep,” Maizey says.
“How?” I say.
There’s a long pause.
“Maiz — ey?”
“All right,” she sighs. “I told Sue-Ellen about your father. About how strict he is to you and how you can’t ever go anywhere …”
“What?! Maizey. Why? I can’t believe you did that. I don’t need that girl’s pity. She already thinks she’s better than me.”
Maizey looks out the window at the bird feeder, a guilty expression on her face.
“Maize, what is it? Please tell me you didn’t tell her anything else about my dad. Please tell me you didn’t….”
“Don’t worry,” Maizey says. “Sue-Ellen understands. She said she has an uncle who’s a drunk….”
“What??!! No, Maizey, no. You told her my father drinks? She’ll tell every …”
“No, she won’t,” Maizey says. “I made her promise.”
My blood is boiling mad. “You had no right to tell her my business, Maizey Hogan, and don’t ever call my father a drunk.”
“Well, he is, A,” Maizey says. “Come on, you know that’s true.”
My heart is booming. “You need to go, now.”
“Come meet us at the park at four thirty if you want,” Maizey says.
Us? Uggh! Us meaning her and Snoop-Melon? Us used to mean Maize and me.
When she leaves I flop on my bed and cry. I watch Frisky trying valiantly to escape his pool house. He just gets to the top and then he slips back down again.
I am so mad at Maizey, but … I want to go to that party, to wear my new bathing suit and have fun like a normal girl and see Mike Mancinello.
I pull out my journal, the page opening to my “dreams for the summer.” I knew the first two wouldn’t be easy, but I still have a chance with the third. Please, God, help me get to that party.
When my mother gets home from work, I have chicken cutlets breaded and ready to fry, a lettuce and tomato salad, and potatoes peeled all set to boil. “Can I quick go to the park to meet Maizey for a while?”
“Sure,” she says, with a yawn. “Just don’t be long.”
It’s four thirty on the dot. They are not on the swings. Or the bench by the fountain.
“Psst. A! Come here.”
Maizey motions to me from the side of the maintenance building. I walk over.
Sue-Ellen and Maizey are huddled behind a clump of tall bushes. They are both wearing hot pants and swirly-patterned blouses and big hoop earrings, another matching outfit. Is Sue-Ellen treating Maizey to all these new clothes?
“Wanna smoke?” Sue-Ellen says to me. Cigarette dangling from the side of her lips, she flicks the round top of a fancy silver lighter with her thumb, click, click, click, until a small flame appears. She sucks in, closes her eyes and smiles, and then blows the smoke out of her nose like a dragon, a beautiful blond-haired dragon.
“Here,” she says to me, holding a red and white pack of cigarettes out toward me. Marlboros they are. I quick think how my mother smokes Salems.
“No, thanks,” I say.
“Come on,” Sue-Ellen says, “don’t be a baby. All teenagers smoke.”
“No, they don’t,” I say. I stare at Maizey like come on, back me up, but she looks away. Traitor.
“People who are in do,” Snoot-Melon says.
“Guess what, A?” Maizey says. “They even have a ‘smoking area’ outside the gym at Catholic High. You can meet your friends there between classes for a smoke.”
I consider this for a minute, this “smoking area” place. My father might control my life before and after school and on the weekends, too, but … you can meet your friends in the smoking area at high school — even friends who are boys? Interesting.
“Well?” Sue-Ellen says, smiles at me, not in a nice way, in a “dare you to” way.
“Sure, I’ll try it,” I say.
Maizey looks surprised, then worried all of a sudden. “But, A, what if your father smells smoke on your breath?”
“That’s what gum is for, dummy,” Sue-Ellen says, retrieving a green and silver pack of gum from the pocket of her shorts.
I notice a long, ugly scar on her leg.
“What are you staring at?” Sue-Ellen says, noticing me noticing the scar.
“Nothing,” I say.
“A school bus backed over me and tore my leg open,” she says. “Fifty-eight stitches, but loads of insurance money.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say.
Sue-Ellen shrugs her shoulders. She takes another drag and blows out the smoke. “At least it wasn’t my face.”
I consider that for a moment. What a curious thing to say.
Sue-Ellen stamps out her cigarette. She tap-taps a new one out of her pack and lights it like she’s an old pro. “Here,” she says, passing the lit cigarette to me. “Suck it in through your mouth, hold it for a second, and then blow it out through your nose.”
I put the filter side of the cigarette to my lips and suck in like I’m drinking soda through a straw. The smoke stings my throat and nostrils and I start to cough.
“Good,” Sue-Ellen says, laughing. “One dare down, two to go.”
I cough and cough and then I take another drag, this time just sucking in a tiny bit.
“What do you mean one dare down?” I ask, coughing, blowing the smoke out.
“You did the first of the three dares,” Sue-Ellen says.
“What?” I say, confused.
“If you want to be in our ‘in’ group you have two more challenges.”
“What are they?” I ask.
“Drink a can of beer and kiss a boy.”
I stare at Sue-Ellen, wondering if she’s going to say something about my father drinking. I repeat “Drink a can of beer?” as a sort of test to see what she’ll say.
“That’s right,” she says, “drink a can of beer and kiss a boy.”
Sue-Ellen and Maizey laugh like they know the punch line to a joke that I don’t.
I take a stick of spearmint gum and chew it as I bike home. Three dares, huh? Kissing a boy might be fun, but drinking beer? No way.
All I care is that I’m going to the party again. Hoorah, hoorah, hoorah!
When I get home, B, C, and D can tell I’m in a cheerful mood.
“Give us airplane rides, A,” Callie asks.
“Yeah, yeah!” Beck says, running over to join us, D following close behind.
“Me first,” Dooley says.
“No, D,” Callie tells him, “it was my idea.”
“That’s right,” I say. “Come on, Cal.” I push the dining room table and chairs back to make room. “Face me,” I say to her.
I take my sister’s little hands in mine and start to turn in a circle, faster and faster until her feet rise up from the floor and she’s spinning round and round giggling and shouting, “Faster, faster!”
Beck is next, of course. “Do me faster, A,” he commands.
I try my best, but B’s heavier. I h
ave to turn, turn, turn quicker to lift him up off of the floor, but then, finally, he’s airborne.
“You’re getting so big,” I say, huffing from the effort.
“I know,” he shouts, laughing. “Do you see me, Callie?”
“Yeah, I see you,” she says, rolling her eyes.
And then, “Last but not least,” I say, “Mr. Dooley.”
D sets down his Matchbox cars and puts his warm, sticky palms in mine.
We twirl and he’s off!
Dooley is light as a feather compared to Beck.
“Faster, A, faster!” he shouts as I spin him around and around.
His dream sticker falls off of his shirt.
Callie picks it up, sticks it back on him when he lands.
“There you go, D,” she says. “It’s still good.”
They who dream by day are cognizant of many
things which escape those who dream only by night.
— EDGAR ALLAN POE
Do you smoke?” I ask Mike when he calls. I’m thinking ahead to high school, how he and I could meet every day in that smoking area between classes and maybe hold hands and then go to the cafeteria for lunch together….
“No way!” Mike says. “I’m an athlete. Smoke kills your lungs, A, makes you not able to run as fast. Nothing’s going to slow me down. I’m going out for football. Coaches don’t let you smoke anyway. Besides, I think it’s disgusting. I’d never kiss a girl who smoked; it’d be like kissing an ashtray, I bet.”
Did he just say kissing?
“Why’d you ask me?” Mike says. “You don’t smoke, do you?”
“Me?” I sound shocked. “No way.”
“Good,” he says.
“Why good?” I say, hoping he’ll say what I want to hear.
There’s silence. “Because … if I get the chance … I’m going to kiss you at Sue-Ellen’s party. That’s if you want me to.”
Flutters flicker through me like I swallowed a seagull. “Sure,” I say. “I do.”
“Right on,” he says and we hang up.
Later, locked in the bathroom, I try out various ways to wear my hair for the pool party. First, the pink hair band that Mom bought me at Two Guys. No. I part my hair down the middle and make two even ponytails. No. I part my hair on the side and comb my hair into one ponytail in the back. No. I try braids, no. A bun, no. A gold barrette clipped on each side by my temples, no. A head band with sparkly rhinestones. No, too fancy for a pool party.
In the end I decide to brush it down long and straight like Joan Baez or Julie on The Mod Squad. I did get some blond streaks up on the roof, even without the lemons.
Now, what about makeup? Can’t wear mascara or eye shadow in the pool, no. Even I know that. But maybe lipstick would be fine. Especially if Mike is going to kiss me! I get a shiver just thinking about that. What will it be like to kiss a boy?
I apply some of Mom’s pink lipstick, and then blot my lips with a tissue like I’ve watched her do. I guess that’s so the lipstick doesn’t smudge off on your teeth. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing?
Good, my lips look good. I practice leaning forward toward the mirror, lowering my eyelids like they do on the soap operas on TV, but then I can’t see if I look goofy or not, so I have to open them. I pretend my hand is Mike’s face and I kiss it to see what that feels like. When I pull my hand away, there’s a perfect pink tattoo kiss.
I smile at myself in the mirror. You’re going to do just fine, Aislinn O’Neill.
I wash away the tattoo so my father won’t see. I cannot wait until that party!
But what about the drinking beer dare? No way.
At night with a flashlight I write in my diary how excited I am about everything. How I can’t wait to wear my new bathing suit and show off my tropical tan. How I can’t wait to spend three whole hours with MM, dare I say “my boyfriend.”
I wonder where he will kiss me? Surely not in front of our class. Maybe there’s a big beautiful giant willow tree on the country club grounds and he’ll spot it and grab my hand and when no one’s looking we’ll run in through the long droopy green reeds which will fall back into place like curtains behind us making our own little secret garden. Oh, it will be so romantic….
There’s a noise outside my room. I stop writing, ears perked on alert. I flick off my flashlight and listen, heart pounding. At any moment, my father could push the door open and catch me red-handed. If he ever read about MM, he would kill me.
There’s a shadow underneath the door, like someone is standing there. I quick stash my diary under my pillow and make like I’m sound asleep.
I lie there for several minutes. When I’m certain the coast is clear, I turn my flashlight back on, pull my diary back out, and finish writing. When I’m done I lock it back up and hide it good, lifting my mattress and pushing the flower-covered book way in underneath. Then I stick the gold key down deep in Jeffrey’s pocket.
I draw the little elf close to my cheek. “This is my best summer ever,” I whisper.
Mine, too, A, he answers.
The only credential the city [New York] asked
was the boldness to dream. For those who did, it
unlocked its gates and its treasures, not caring who
they were or where they came from.
— MOSS HART
The next day at three P.M., I’m perched butt on the phone-bench arm, feet on the seat, eyes peeled to the driveway in case my dad pulls in, when Mike calls me right on time.
“What kind of jewelry do you like better?” he says. “Silver or gold?”
Boom, boom, banga boom, my heart is drumming crazy as Ringo Starr. He’s going to buy me a ring? Isn’t that a little fast? We haven’t even kissed yet. What if I’m a really bad kisser?
“I like them both, I guess,” I say, “but I don’t have much jewelry so either kind is fine.” Beck and Callie are giggling loud in the living room. It sounds like Lucy is on TV. Gotta love that Lucy. Eddie’s asleep. Dooley? Racing cars around the braided rug “raceway” in his room, no doubt.
“But if you had to pick one, silver or gold, which would you pick?” Mike says.
“Silver,” I guess. “Why?”
“Just wondering,” Mike says.
There has to be a reason. Maybe a locket or an ID bracelet with our initials on it? Ooh, how exciting!
There’s a loud screech of brakes and horns honking on the road below. Something must have happened up by the bridge. I can’t see from where I’m sitting. Cars are slowing and stopping. Mike and I talk on and on. He says he had tuna fish for lunch. I tell him I made grilled cheese with sliced olives. He said that sounds weird but he’d like to try it sometime. Mike says his family is going on vacation to Lake George in August, before football camp starts. I say how we always go to my uncle Tommy and aunt Flo’s camp but how I can’t stand my boy cousins, the devils. He talks about a movie coming out and maybe we can go together. I tell him how Beck did Dreamsleeves for a baseball game and it worked and how Dooley is still trying for that Matchbox car.
“I’ll buy him one,” Mike says. “Red, you said?”
“Oh, no,” I say, “you don’t have to do that.”
“I want to,” Mike says. “You could put it under his pillow and he’ll think it’s from Santa Claus or the tooth fairy.”
“Dooley’s still getting teeth, not losing them yet.”
“Whatever,” he says, and we laugh.
The traffic below has come to a complete standstill now. Horns are honking. I spot my father’s red car coming down the narrow hill from Stowe Avenue.
“I’ve got to go now,” I tell Mike quickly.
“Okay,” he says. “Same time, same place tomorrow?”
“Yes!” I say, with a giggle. Hanging up the receiver I nearly pinch myself. Is this real? I have such a great boyfriend. How nice is it that he’s going to buy a car for Dooley?
I stay perched in my phone-nest watching my father. He gets out of the car, walks to the street, and l
ooks down the highway in the direction of the bridge.
The phone rings. It’s Mike again. “I just wanted to know … are we going out?”
My heart beats faster. “I guess so.”
“Good,” he says. “Oh, and … do you like surprises?”
“Sure. I love surprises.” We hang up.
Going out? We’re going out! Wait till I tell Maizey!!
Down below, I see my father’s hands fly up in the air and smack down on his head. Then he’s off running toward the bridge.
“Stay here!” I tell Beck and Callie. I’m anxious to see what’s happening. I pop my head in the boys’ room to tell Dooley to stay put, but he’s not playing on the rug.
“Dooley?” I check the bathroom, my parents’ room, my room. “Dooley!” He’s not in the kitchen, the pantry, or on the back porch. I’m getting angry now. “Come on, Dooley, this isn’t funny. Where are you?” I check the closets, under the beds.
Oh, no … tell me you didn’t…
I hear sirens outside. My body turns cold. Oh, please, God, no.
Please don’t let Dooley be what’s stopping traffic.
What if he got hit by a car? Oh, please, God, no.
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?…
Or does it explode?
— LANGSTON HUGHES
I run to the living room, kneel up on Dad’s spot on the couch, and peer down. A police car with a swirling red light and bullhorn beep-beep-beeping is maneuvering its way through the blocked traffic. Beck and Callie inch up next to me to look.
“What happened?” C says.
“I don’t know.” I try to sound calm. “But stay here with Beck and watch Eddie. I’ll be right back.”
“Where’s Dooley?” Beck says.
My body’s an ice cube of fear. “And say a prayer,” I yell as I go.
“Which one?” Callie shouts.
“Any one. All of them. Every one you know!”
I’m off across the porch, down the steps, past Nana’s garden when I hear the sound of Dooley crying getting closer and closer. As I round the corner of the house I collide with my father, who is carrying my little brother in his arms. Oh, thank God, he’s alive!
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