Criss Cross

by Lynne Rae Perkins

  Combs, Hector had noticed, were everywhere. Not here, but when you were walking down the street. They were usually the short, black, plastic kind, as if that kind was especially hard to keep imprisoned in a back pocket or a purse. You could sort of picture them, springing silently out of pockets and purses all over town. All over the world. Boing, boing, boing. Free! All over the world, hands digging into pockets and purses, searching. But it was too late. They were gone.

  He was thinking now that it might not be a good idea to bring Meadow here if it was, like, a drinking spot. For one thing, he didn’t know whose drinking spot it was, or how often it was used. He felt a sudden sensation, as if maybe he wasn’t alone, as if maybe someone was there right now. He looked, at first just moving his eyes. Then turning around, slowly. But no one was there. He couldn’t see anyone.

  It was such a pretty little place. The furry creature reappeared from the brook and scampered calmly along the bank. Hector didn’t know what it was, but he didn’t think it was a rat. He didn’t think rats could swim. The Pied Piper and all that.

  He squatted down and started filling the potato chip bag with broken glass and whatever else would fit. The shoe was not going to fit into the bag. He considered some of the circumstances under which a person might lose one shoe without noticing it was missing.

  The trash looked old. It wasn’t fresh trash. He thought he would clean it up and check back, and if fresh trash didn’t appear, maybe it would mean that no one came here anymore and it could be his spot. He thought that until a car rumbled by and a paper grocery bag sailed through the foliage just inches from his head. It landed with a thunk and a rip and released its contents at the water’s edge. Someone’s kitchen garbage. Eggshells and coffee grounds, pork chop bones, a ketchup bottle, some cans and plastic, some greasy paper towels …

  A breeze stirred the whispering honey locusts, lifted a few wadded-up Kleenexes from the heap, nudged them into the brook. Gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily. The furry thing was watching, too. Hector felt a kinship with the furry thing. As the so-called higher life form, he felt compelled to remove his fellow-human’s garbage from the furry thing’s home. It occurred to him that the furry thing might like one or two things in the bag. But he wasn’t going to pick through it to find them.

  He turned the bag so that the rip was on top and balanced the chip bag full of broken glass on top of that, then carefully stood up and turned. He made his way up the steep path, hoping his unstable parcel of mold, rot, shards, and contagion would not fall apart all over him.

  Because his burden of garbage was large and precarious, he could not look down at the path and had to go by the feel of the dirt under his sneakers. He also had to go sideways so he would remain vertical, i.e., not tip over backward. Brambles clawed at his shirttail. Sour aromas filled his nose and swarmed over his skin and clothing. A small jar (olives?) worked itself loose and bounced back down to the bottom.

  “I’m sorry,” said Hector. “I can’t come back for you. I would if I could, but I can’t.”

  At the top he maneuvered backward between the fence and the bridge wall with luck and grace, and he emerged onto the sidewalk with a feeling of triumph, of savoir faire. Until he realized he didn’t know what to do next. And that there wasn’t a lot of time to think about it. The paper bag was damp. From damp to soggy was a short distance, and from soggy to not even there was even shorter. He strode purposefully toward the center of town, keeping an eye peeled for a garbage can. Something sloshed with each step—he could feel a wetness on his midriff—but he walked on. It was remarkable how under-garbage-canned this area of town was. Also, how much traffic whizzed by, and how so many people stared from their car windows at someone walking down a sidewalk. He tried to maintain a jaunty, nonchalant air as he walked on. A slight ache began to spread through his arms because he could not alter their awkward position.

  Hector was within two blocks of the gas station and the blessed garbage can that he knew was there when he felt the paper bag separate into two sections. It was a slight but significant movement. He spread his fingers and tried to increase the viselike grip of his biceps and forearms. He clamped his chin down and shifted into a very fast shuffling walk that had no ups and downs to it, just a smooth forward glide. He moved fluidly in the direction of the garbage can. His whole being was focused on the thought of the can. It was when he reached the edge of the gas station’s property line that he came into view of the can itself and saw, remembered, that it had a top on it, a rounded top with a little swinging door, a door too small for his explosive bundle. He wouldn’t be able to lift it off without letting go. The garbage can was just outside the door, though, and the door was opening. Someone was coming out. Hector shouted.

  “Help!” he yelled as loudly as he could without moving his chin. “Take the lid off the garbage can! I’m going to explode!”

  The person looked at him quizzically, then grasped the situation and pulled at the lid, though the lid was heavy and grimy and it was clear that the person didn’t want to do it. The lid came up, the heavy load fell in, and Hector experienced an exquisite relief. His arms tingled with renewed circulation. His legs straightened and his major muscle groups spasmed quietly back to their usual configurations. He felt light and free and happy. Then he felt wet and smelly and stupid.

  “What are you doing?” said the person who had helped him. Who was his sister, Rowanne.

  “So you were going to take this girl to a drainage ditch?” said Rowanne.

  “It’s a ravine,” said Hector. “It’s more like a ravine than a drainage ditch. It’s a really pretty spot. Except for the garbage. I don’t think it’s gonna work. I don’t know where else to go, though.”

  “Why don’t you just come here?” asked Rowanne. They were sitting on a bench at the Tastee-Freez, eating ice cream cones.

  “I mean, for starters,” she said. “Then you could work your way up to the drainage ditch.”

  Hector licked his cone, considering. He was a licker. Rowanne was a biter. She was halfway done and he had barely made a dent.

  “You could sit on this bench,” she said, “and look at the view.”

  “What view?” said Hector. The bench looked out over the A&P parking lot. Also in sight were the used car lot, the gas station, and the Idle Hour Restaurant, with its bobbing neon chicken advertising “Chicken in the Rough.” That meant you ate it out of a plastic basket lined with wax paper instead of from a dish. They were in the heart, though not quite the entirety, of Seldem’s commercial district.

  “The chicken sign is pretty cool,” said Rowanne.

  “I like it when the lights come on in the car lot,” said Hector.

  “Oh, so do I,” said Rowanne.

  “Bring her here,” she said. “It’s a good place to start. And then I’ll try to help you think of something else.”

  “I’ll try, I guess,” said Hector. “Ice cream is always good.”

  “Ice cream is good,” said Rowanne. “Ice cream is always good.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Japanese chapter

  The plum tree blossoms, the new yearbook is opened. Is that who I am?

  Debbie and Patty sat in a wooden gazebo. The flowering plums outside were covered with blossoms, as if a giant bowl of popcorn had spilled from the sky, which was blue, and landed in the branches. They were looking at the senior pages of the new yearbooks.

  The seniors could have their pictures taken in different settings—leaning against a tree, by a fireplace, wherever they wanted—and they could wear whatever they wanted. A tuxedo, a football uniform, a leather jacket. A beautiful evening gown. A T-shirt and jeans. They could use props: a motorcycle, a guitar, a rose.

  A committee of students had chosen a quote, from literature or history, to accompany each person’s photograph in the yearbook. They picked them from a book of quotations that was divided into categories like Music, Art, Sports, Intelligence, Friendship, Beauty, Sincerity, Humor, Courage. Ther
e were even literature-y ways of saying Headed for Trouble.

  You had to wonder how some people felt when they saw the quotes that had been chosen for them:

  “Strength lies not in defense but in attack.”

  —Hitler

  This was because he was an offensive lineman on the football team.

  “But still,” said Debbie. “Hitler?”

  Or

  “He is happiest of whom the world says least, good or bad.” —Jefferson

  and

  “A nice, unparticular man.” —Hardy

  “You can tell they didn’t know what to say about him,” said Patty.

  “I think they should do haikus,” said Debbie. Maybe because of the gazebo and the plum blossoms and the sparkling water. “Then it can be about nothing but sound like it’s about something. Like

  The page is empty.

  Who knows what mystery will

  be written there?”

  “It still sounds like there’s nothing to say about him.”

  “Empty isn’t a good word. It should be more like, ‘The page is waiting.’

  The page is waiting.

  Will anything be written?

  It waits and it waits.”

  “The page gets bored and falls asleep.”

  “Go to our class.”

  “Okay. Here.”

  “Is that how I look?”

  “No.” “But it’s a photograph.”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “Jeff White is handsome,

  but his hair is so greasy.

  If he would wash it—”

  “Look, here’s Dan Persik …

  I could look at him all day.”

  “Too bad he’s a jerk.”

  “He has hidden depths.”

  “You think that about everyone.”

  “Because it’s true.

  “Like Sara Stavor.

  She seems kind of boring, but

  then she makes you laugh.”

  “What about Pam Burke?

  She doesn’t have hidden depths.”

  “Her depths are shallow.

  She has hidden shallows.”

  They fell silent, perusing the familiar faces:

  all those necklaces and bracelets,

  she jingles

  When I think of him,

  I feel sorry for him, but

  look: he looks happy.

  roly-poly, but graceful, how does she do that?

  maybe he’s brilliant

  sometimes friendly and funny

  sometimes sarcastic

  you have to check his mood before speaking

  like putting your head out the door to see how cold

  That sleepover in sixth grade.

  The dance when she

  The thoughts were that quick. But each thought could hold a story. Like

  I went to a sleepover at her house when we were in sixth grade. Somehow I was cooler then, I think. (What happened?) Other people were there—it was a pajama party—but I was the chosen friend of the evening. I don’t know why.

  She said, “Come with me while I shave my legs. “ We went into the bathroom and I sat on the edge of the tub while she shaved her legs with an electric razor.

  “I have to shave them every other night,” she said. Wow, I thought. I had never shaved my legs at all and felt suddenly how golden and furry they were, like a bumblebee. I was wearing shortie pajamas that were my favorites, but now I wished that they were long ones, or a nightgown. Or one of those exercise tents that your whole body fits inside so you can sweat.

  She looked so elegant, shaving her long, tanned legs. Expertly. You could tell that she really did do it a lot.

  Later on, a year or so, we went to one of the dances together. There was a boy there, older, who liked her. She was so pretty, and she looked older, too. Mature or sophisticated or something. They danced together a lot.

  When they sat down on the bleachers, I went over and sat down, too. I mean, we came together, and they were just sitting there.

  She turned and looked at me and it might have been pity or it might have had an apology in it, but it was definitely Get Lost. Don’t be a child.

  I sat there for a few seconds more, looking into the dark room full of people dancing while she and her guy gazed into each others eyes and palpated each other’s hands. Then I said, “Well, see you later.” I went to the girls room and looked at myself in the mirror. I thought I still looked okay. I came back into the gym through a door toward the back where it was really dark, and climbed up to the top row of the bleachers. I felt ten years old and a thousand years old, but I didn’t know how to be my own age. I had never felt that way before, but now I feel like that a lot.

  Later, while we waited for our ride, she acted like nothing had happened. But it had.

  That sleepover in sixth grade. The dance when she That quick.

  The sparkling water, purple concrete elephant: Seldem Pool & Patio.

  Other faces had other stories.

  Out of the cocoon, something new: is this one still a caterpillar?

  With the sleep-over, the dance in her head, Debbie looked at her own picture and saw a caterpillar.

  When Patty looked at it, she only saw her friend. Her gaze bounced over to Lenny’s picture, and she smiled as she remembered how just that day in science class, Mrs. Lewandowski had asked her to find a place to plug in the overhead projector. All the visible outlets were full, so she had crawled under a table on her hands and knees. When she came out, Lenny was standing there.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Looking for an outlet,” she said.

  Lenny said, “Have you tried tennis?”

  She looked up from the yearbook to tell Debbie about it, but Debbie spoke first.

  “Look, there goes Hector.”

  “I wonder why he’s running.”

  “His bag is breaking.”

  The bag was a grocery bag, but the items escaping from it—crumpled tissues, bent cans—looked like used groceries, also known as garbage. Why was Hector running down the street in this part of town with a bag of garbage?

  His shirttails flew out behind him. He was too far away to call out to, over the traffic noise. It was interesting, Debbie thought, how you could recognize a person, even from a distance, and even when you couldn’t see the person’s face. Even when the person was scuttling along the sidewalk like a crustacean. What was it, exactly, that you recognized?

  In Hector’s case, it was probably his hair. But there was something else, too, she thought. Something so Hector-y about his whole self. She watched him for a moment, wondering what it was that gave him away. She wondered if she had something like that.

  CHAPTER 15

  Guitar Progress

  It wasn’t that hard to make one beautiful sound on the guitar. The easiest thing in the world was to hold down the two strings for the ? minor chord and draw your thumb across all six strings, down below. A really beautiful sound. Melancholy, but satisfying.

  Hector was developing callouses on his fingertips, which was good. He could play some songs and sing them at the same time. “This Land Is Your Land,” “Greensleeves,” a few others.

  Sometimes he felt fine about where he was. And sometimes it seemed that there was no road that led from the church basement guitar class to where he wanted to go. Sometimes he couldn’t even remember where that was, or why he had wanted to go there.

  But he had gotten into the habit of going into his room and picking up the guitar. And once he picked it up, he did all the things he knew how to do, then messed around a little bit. A lot, sometimes.

  CHAPTER 16

  Home Work

  Lenny dropped his books on the bed and picked up a magazine. The creak of floorboards in his parents’ bedroom told him that his father was awake. Leon was on third shift, sleeping all day with the curtains drawn and waking up in mid-afternoon to the aromas of the beginnings of dinner: onions and celery softe
ning in melted butter. It wasn’t a bad way to wake up. There was still some afternoon and a full evening ahead. Working day shift, you got home around this same time, but you could be too tired to enjoy it. That was just his opinion. Leon opened his bedroom door and walked the two steps to Lenny’s open doorway.

  “Good morning,” he said. The afternoon light was dim and indirect on this side of the house, but it was enough to make him squint as his eyes adjusted. The movement of squinting triggered the tumbling down of a few more locks of dark hair onto his forehead.

  “Good morning,” said Lenny. He had to grin at his dad’s face, unshaven and puffy with sleep, eyelids hunched together to keep out the brightness that wasn’t even bright.

  “You didn’t get enough beauty sleep,” he said. “You better go back to bed.”

  “I don’t think it would do any good,” said his dad. “Listen, we have some time before dinner, can you give me a hand getting that old washing machine out of the cellar? There’s a guy at work who wants it. He fixes them up and sells them.”

  “Sure,” said Lenny.

  They went down into the basement, which was more of a solid than a space. It was a Chinese puzzle made out of a haphazard accumulation of snow tires, lawn chairs, suitcases, cases of unreturned pop and beer bottles, picnic coolers, furniture and boxes of dishes from Lenny’s grandmother’s house that Edie didn’t like but Leon couldn’t bear to get rid of, along with boxes no one had even peeked in for years. Who knew what all was in there? The washing machine was roughly in the center of the whole mess, its shiny, rounded surface glinting out from under a couple of rolled-up carpets and clothesline props. Extricating it without causing the entire arrangement to collapse would be like pulling out the middle pickup stick. A really heavy pickup stick. Lenny and Leon studied the situation.