“No problem.” I got off the ladder and folded it up. “At least we got the beeping to stop.” I took the ladder back to the pantry.
“Poor Lady.” Mrs. Dickinson bent to scratch Lady’s head. “Her hearing is so sensitive, you know.”
Jennifer, who was very well behaved indoors, stood next to Lady whom he loved. Buster was tied to the leg of a kitchen chair. He couldn’t be trusted inside.
“Mrs. Dickinson, is ninety really old? I mean . . .” I didn’t actually know what I meant by that question. My own grandparents were around seventy, and that seemed really old to me. I suppose I wanted to see how Mrs. Dickinson would react to that number. Would she swoon with shock and amazement?
“It depends.” She looked frankly at me as though trying to size up what was behind my question. “I know a ninety-five-year-old lady, a lovely lady. There’s nothing she can’t do. She keeps up with all of us at the Senior Center. Then again, I know people at seventy who are already resigned to the rocking chair, if you know what I mean.” I thought I did.
“It all depends on the individual. Their mental well-being. Their physical health. Their desire to persevere. It’s not easy getting old, you know?”
“I guess it wouldn’t be.”
“Why do you ask, Hudson? Is it Len Pirkle?”
“No.” I was afraid I’d revealed too much. Mrs. Dickinson was clueless in some ways but pretty sharp in others. “Just curious, I guess.”
But she wasn’t about to let it go at that. “How is Len these days? Is he still a client of yours? I haven’t seen him at the Senior Center in a long while.”
“Yes, he’s still a client. He’s doing just fine.”
“Well, you tell him we’d like to see more of him. Men are in high demand at my age. Especially the ones who can still see to drive at night. But you don’t have to tell him that last part,” she winked.
That was a quality I hadn’t considered.
“Mrs. Dickinson. If you don’t mind my asking, what do you do at the Senior Center?”
“Why, all kinds of things. We have luncheons just for socializing. We have classes. Computer classes, art classes. Discussion groups on current events. We even have our own library. Stop by sometime and take a look. It’s wonderful.”
“What if a person is really old? I mean, I don’t know how old in years but . . . not active the way you are. Would there be something for that person to do at the Senior Center if they could get there?”
“Of course, dear.” She put her hands on her hips and gave me that questioning look again. “You’re sure we’re not talking about Len Pirkle? Because the last time I saw him, he seemed to be in perfectly good health.”
“No, not him. I know a lady, another client of mine. She’s really nice, but she has trouble getting around, and I don’t think she has anything to do during the day. She’s always by herself.”
“Well, then we must do something about that.” She set down her box of batteries and rummaged through the kitchen drawer for pen and paper. She wrote a few things down and handed the note to me. “You give this to your friend and ask her to call me. I can arrange for the shuttle to pick her up and take her home. Our city taxes pay for these services. They’re there to be used.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. “Her name is Liza Dupont. She’s really nice, I think you’d like her.”
“I’m sure I would. If I don’t hear from her in a few days, I’ll call on her. You talk it over, and if she’s agreeable, just give me her address and I’ll pop by.”
>>>
Missy and her mother arrived late that night to take Jennifer home. Both owner and dog were overjoyed to see each other, but I have to admit I felt a little dejected. And maybe a little jealous too. Jennifer had become a real pal with an uncanny ability to know what I was going to do even before I knew it myself. It had been nice having him around. Mom, the notorious pet-hater that she was, admitted even she was going to miss him. And Jennifer, a pale salmon-colored shadow of his former self, left behind only the pink stains on my sheets to remind me he was ever there.
Drug education was part of our middle school curriculum . . .
. . . or rather, anti-drug education was. We learned about addiction and how some people can become addicts because the receptors in their brains somehow line up perfectly with the drug (or drink) of choice. Kind of like an electrical plug that only fits into one outlet. Or Cinderella’s glass slipper that only fits one foot.
I can’t remember a lot about it because I wasn’t paying too much attention, but that was the general idea. For a while, I worried about having an outlet in my brain that was a perfect fit for some innocent drug just minding its own business. I’d be walking down the street and . . . ZAP! I’d turn into an addict.
I’d thought about how this same concept could apply to love. What is love, and why does one person fall for another? I mean, really fall, beyond a crush. Beyond lust. It can’t be measured objectively, or everyone would be in love with the same person. At times, I’ve wondered if love was just a matter of being drawn, like a magnet, to the person who will make up for your own inadequacies. Cinderella’s slipper in search of a foot. Nothing more than an addiction.
What else explains the absolutely illogical nature of love? Why would a normal-looking girl light up the room for her lover while other, more beautiful women, fade into the background? Why do so many girls want a “bad boy” instead of a nice guy like me? Why does some guy with absolutely no sense of humor triumph over a funny guy (again like me) even though girls are always saying the number one thing they look for in a guy is a sense of humor?
It doesn’t make any sense, and I don’t know why it happens, but I do know the exact moment I realized I was in love with Alana Love. And I remember how the realization shocked me. And scared me, too. It wasn’t at all the pleasant experience I imagined it would be.
>>>
“Look at you.” Fritzy nudged me with her elbow, nearly pushing me over even though we were sitting down. “Who would’ve thought?”
We were two games into the league, and I could safely say I hadn’t yet embarrassed myself. Our team consisted of three girls and two guys (myself included). Our fifteen minutes of post-game team camaraderie was over, leaving just Fritzy and me sitting on the hood of her truck, basking in the cool autumn sun and the glow of our win.
“You did good,” she said. “The others respect you.”
“That’s because I’m part of a package that includes you.”
“That may be true for now.” Fritzy didn’t deny it like I was hoping she would. “But the more you play, the better you’ll get and people will judge you on your own merits.”
“Gee, thanks Fritzy.”
“What?”
“I just didn’t expect you to agree with me.”
“Well, then why did you say it?”
“Never mind. You’re so . . . literal.”
“Oooh, I’m offended.” She tickled me in the ribs, and I jumped off the truck. “C’mon Hudson, if you want a compliment, just ask me. I’ll compliment you.”
“What’re you doing for the rest of the weekend?” I changed the subject.
“Date tonight. Frankie’s concert tomorrow, don’t forget.”
Frankie was the only one Fritzy addressed by first name (actually his middle name). I suppose that’s because, being her brother, they shared a last name, and it would just get too confusing.
“I know. I’ll be there.”
“What about you?” she asked.
“Working on my college applications.”
“Right down to the deadline. How many are you submitting? Just the two?”
“That was the agreement with my mom.”
“Are you still set on not going?”
“That’s the plan.”
“You’re crazy, Wheeler. Just sayin’.”
>
“And why is that?”
“The whole world is going to pass you by while you’re sitting around doing nothing.”
“Traveling around the world and writing a novel is doing nothing in your world I suppose?”
Fritzy leaned back against the windshield of her truck and closed her eyes against the weak November sun. She didn’t answer, which I knew was her infuriating way of concurring with my last statement.
“Maybe you’re the one who’ll be doing nothing while the world passes you by,” I said. “In your little world of high school on steroids.”
“College is not high school on steroids, Wheeler.” She didn’t move from her reclined sunbathing position as I strutted furiously around the truck.
“And you know that how?”
“It’s just not. That’s how I know.”
“Good answer.”
There we went again. I swear we must have been siblings in a past life; we fell into this squabbling so naturally.
“So, you’re still planning on accompanying Tat Girl on her travels around the world?”
“Don’t call her that.”
“Why not? You’re the one who told me about the tattoo.”
“It’s demeaning. She has a name. And I told you because I thought you were my friend.”
“I am your friend.” Her voice rose just enough to tell me I’d hit a sore spot. I was getting through to her. She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the truck. That confirmed it. “Your friends are the ones who are going to tell you the truth. No one else gives a shit.”
“I’m just saying, don’t call her ‘Tat Girl.’ I hate it when you do that.”
“Then tell me her last name.”
“Love.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m not kidding.”
“Okay, Wheeler, here’s what I really think. I think you’re an idiot for chasing after Love when she obviously doesn’t feel the same about you.” That stung. “To me, she sounds a little nutty, forget about the tats. She’s dating the quarterback of your football team and refuses to watch him play. She’s talked you into following her around the world and giving up on college.”
“She didn’t talk me into giving up on college. I decided that before I knew her. And I’m not giving up. I choose not to go.”
“Well, whatever. You’re definitely not going to college now, even if you wanted to change your mind.”
“So, your idea of nutty is someone who doesn’t like football and doesn’t want to go to college. That eliminates more than half the world right there.”
“Okay, Wheeler, you win. I’m not getting anywhere with you when it comes to Love, I can see that. I’d say you were pussy-whipped, but you’re not even getting any.”
“Shut up.” I threw the ball at her, but with lighting quick reflexes she snatched it out of the air and threw it back at me, twice as hard. I climbed back on the hood of the truck, shoulder to shoulder with her.
“I meant to tell you . . .” Fritzy began. She had the admirable ability to move on without a trace of hard feelings. “I woke up last night at about three o’clock and went down to the kitchen to get a drink. I looked out the window and saw Pirkle’s house all lit up. Every single light in the house must have been on. I almost texted you.”
“He does that,” I said. “I don’t know why. Maybe he gets up and reads or watches TV or something. Maybe he doesn’t like the dark.”
“What’s that on your leg?” she cried out. I looked down quickly, expecting to swat away a yellow jacket or worse. “Oh my God, don’t tell me! It’s a muscle.”
I glanced down at the part of my leg just above my knee to confirm the muscles I’d recently noticed were starting to assert themselves visibly. I flexed my foot to make them pop. Muscles. Such a new concept.
Fritzy pulled up to the curb in front of my house to drop me off. I grabbed the towel I was sitting on and twisted around to get my gym bag from the backseat.
“Well, what do you know? Love has arrived,” Fritzy said. “Is that her?”
I swung around and saw Alana sitting in the shadow of my front doorstep. I was surprised to see her since Saturday wasn’t a day she normally spent with me.
“Yeah, that’s her.” I opened the truck door, feeling my heartbeat accelerating.
“Maybe she has paranormal powers and knew we were talking about her,” Fritzy’s voice was nothing if not loud. I shushed her as politely as I could.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Text me directions to the concert.” I practically fell over myself in my hurry to get out of the truck.
Fritzy took off without another word. I knew I’d hear about it the next time we spoke, the way I shushed her and all. But at the moment, I was only thinking about Alana and her sudden unexpected appearance.
Alana lifted her eyes to me as I walked towards the door, my gym bag slung across my back, a stupid grin pasted across my face. She wore a translucent blue top that dropped below the level of her left shoulder. Her eyes were pools of wonder, her expression soft and inviting. Her lips parted in a smile I was sure could melt the hardest of hearts. Without even knowing what had changed between us, I knew I was in love.
Here’s a horror story . . .
. . . it goes like this:
The old house sits on the corner of a street like any other street, unremarkable in every way. Nobody pays much attention to what’s going on inside the house. Nobody knows who lives there. People walk by every day on their way to work or shopping or dropping off the kids at school, but they’re consumed by the petty problems that fill their days and the fantasies that play out in their dreams at night. No one bothers with the old house on the corner.
One day a passerby hears a scream coming from inside, but then he’s not sure if it really came from the house or if it was just the squealing tires of a speeding car off in the distance. A few days later, a jogger hops over some splintered shards of glass on the sidewalk and notices a broken window. She jogs off, her thoughts already turning to other more pressing matters. Someone else, a neighbor, thinks he smells smoke coming from the house, and this gets his attention. But when he steps outside to sniff the air, he decides it’s probably just a barbecue, although he can’t remember ever seeing anyone in the house before. Eventually, the grass in front turns brown from lack of water. The paint peels off in long strips. It becomes obvious the house has fallen into a total state of disrepair that’s hard to ignore.
And then one morning, the front door has been left open. The people who live and walk in this neighborhood gather out front, until one brave soul agrees to go inside and see what happened. What he encounters, upon entering, is horrifying. Terrifying chaos. Madness and mayhem.
“Why didn’t we see the signs?” the people ask themselves much later. “They were right there in front of us the whole time.”
>>>
“Hey, what’s up?” Coming across Alana so unexpectedly. On my doorstep. On a Saturday.
“Hi,” she stood up and slung her canvas bag over her shoulder. “You doing anything today?”
“Nope. No plans yet.”
“Can we hang out?”
“Sure. What’s wrong? You seem kind of sad.” I unlocked the door and let us in.
“Bryce, what else? We had another fight.” She followed me into the living room where she flopped down on her favorite chair. Being as sweaty as I was, I remained standing.
“Hawaii again?”
“Yup. I don’t understand how he can do this to me. It’s so blatantly unfair, and he doesn’t even see it that way.”
I wasn’t in the mood to talk about Bryce. Truth is, I was never in the mood to talk about him. To me, the solution was simple. Break up with Bryce and be done with your pain. Move on to someone who appreciates you. Who won’t ever let you down. Who loves you. Woah!
&
nbsp; “Well, I guess you’ll have to figure that one out,” was all I could say.
“Who was that girl in the truck? Why are you so sweaty?”
“She’s just a friend. Lives across the street from one of my clients.”
“That big girl who came to your birthday party? Penelope told me about her.”
“Yeah, that’s her.”
“What’s her name again? Something weird.”
“Fritzy.”
“Fritzy,” she chuckled. “Cool name. So why are you so sweaty?”
I couldn’t tell Alana about basketball and all the training I’d been doing with Fritzy. I couldn’t tell her about the basketball league. I wasn’t sure if she’d laugh or maybe she’d just think that was something “people like us” didn’t do. She hadn’t noticed my new muscles. Too subtle.
“Just running around,” I said. “I’m going to take a shower. Be right back.”
“Hurry. I have something to show you.”
>>>
When I came out of the shower, Alana had spread ten sheets of drawing paper across the living room floor.
“Tah-dah!” She stepped aside so I could see. “You inspired me. I’ve been working on a graphic novel, and I wanted to wait until I had enough material to show you. Do you like it?”
The artwork was good. The story seemed intensely personal, having to do with a relationship spiraling into the depths of relationship hell. In the corner of each panel she drew a poodle, hovering over the action like a guardian angel. The first poodle was hot pink, but it faded with each consecutive drawing until, in the end, it was snow white.
I thought of my Arctic Circle story. It wasn’t at all personal, and it showed in the work. Ironically, Alana’s story, which wasn’t the kind of thing I’d ever read, was probably the kind of thing publishers would drool over. I wanted to feel flattered that I inspired Alana, but all I could feel was resentful. Why did she have to write a graphic novel? That was supposed to be the one thing I could do to shine for her. I was busy with old people and dogs and girls who didn’t want me and sports I’d never excel in. And the stuff I was really good at . . . well, that was going nowhere.
Going Places Page 9