Crap! I mustered my courage and stepped forward to join the ranks of men. I looked at Danny’s costume and the trash-lid shield... I couldn’t tell my dad to make him leave.
It was that moment–as Danny circumvented our mini platoon and stepped toward the girls–that I realized Mara’s fear was a transcendent reaction, emitting from her spirit like a radio signal for those of us attuned to the proper station. We didn’t need to see her expression to know Danny’s presence made her ill, we could feel it–all of us–clear and persistent like the tip of a rattlesnake’s tail.
Ryan stepped left and cut the bully off. Whit and I approached from the rear like raptors on the hunt.
“Where do you think you’re goin’?” Ryan asked.
“I–”
“I’ve heard stories about you. You’re a little punk.”
The other girls sensed the change in mood and turned to face us. Mara was frozen, cat in her arms, eyes on Danny. Livy slid an arm around her waist.
“I thought I could help,” said Danny.
Ryan puffed his chest. “What are the flowers for?”
Danny’s eyes flicked between Mara and the ground. “They’re snapdragons.”
Ryan scoffed. “She doesn’t want your dumb present.”
“I wanna tell her I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
Whit inched closer and pressed his footrest into Danny’s heel.
“For being an ass. For pushing her against the tree and for scaring her.” He tried to sidestep Ryan–right, left, then right again–but he was like a scrawny goblin facing a armored knight. The veins constricted in his neck. His scar–only a foot from my face–turned from light pink to boiling red. Suddenly, he rammed his shoulder into Ryan’s chest. “Faggot!” he blurted “Let me by!”
The other boys finally noticed the commotion, left the planter, and formed a semi-circle between Danny and his pretty victim (one of Ryan’s friends had the gall to place a hand on her shoulder.) In the garage, the mothers remained cheerfully unaware.
My empathy for the well-intentioned bully evaporated at the word “faggot.” I balled my fist around the collar of his Polo and jerked him back. “Go home, Danny.”
He dropped the shield, flowers, costume and sword, then planted his palms in my chest and pushed. “Shut it, Fatty!”
Maybe it was my newfound confidence that secured my feet to the paver-brick drive; maybe it was my need to match Ryan’s heroics. Whatever the reason, I didn’t budge.
Dad turned around.
Hank stepped forward. “What the hell is goin’ on?”
Danny’s head was a pimple about to burst. “They’re bein’ jerks, Hank! I tried to–”
“You stupid boy. Yer gonna ruin this night, too?” He wrapped his fingers around Danny’s neck. “Yer gonna embarrass us in front of these nice folks?”
Dad adjusted the bridge of his bifocals and scratched the back of his neck. “I think we just have a misunderstanding–”
Before he could diffuse the situation, the front door opened and slammed. It was A.J., standing on the patio in his usual camouflage duds.
“Age?” Danny said, nearly a whisper.
A.J. locked eyes with his friend, then grabbed the door handle and jiggled it, but it had locked behind him.
Danny glared at A.J., then at me. The moment of silence summoned Mrs. Greenfield and Mrs. Conrad to the opening of the garage.
Suddenly, Danny lunged toward the patio, forgetting he was still caught in his uncle’s grip. Instead of charging A.J., he writhed before us like a hooked gar. “Fuck you, Age! Stupid fucking traitor!”
“That’s it.” Hank tightened his grip and yanked Danny toward the truck. He looked to Dad. “I assure you folks I’m gonna teach this kid some respect. Sorry ‘bout the intrusion. Enjoy yer evenin’.”
Danny sneered at my father. “Screw you, old man,” he said and reeled again. “Screw your son and his little bitch of a girl!” He looked to Mara. He pointed at the smeared petals and broken stems. “I picked those for you! I was tryin’ to be nice!” Hank covered his nephews mouth, but Danny spat and screamed between his fingers. “Fuck your stupid movie! Fuck your stupid friends and fuck your stupid cat!”
And then it was over. Danny was secured in the cab of the truck. Forward, reverse, forward, reverse; the brake lights washed our faces with crimson.
Mom joined the women at the garage door.
Livy ran to Ryan and touched his cheek.
My father sighed.
Trapped in the center was our wingless angel. We empathized her pain and shared the sting of utter abashment. We longed to hold her, to comfort her, to banish the hurt and defend her honor... but we were stuck. A dark revelation kept us frozen in the drive; the slow realization that our empathy for Mara was a paradox where the problem’s solution was the problem itself. To give her comfort was to be like Danny; our words of encouragement would be nothing but a trampled bushel of flowers.
Mrs. Greenfield succeeded where the men failed. She hugged Mara, then ushered her on a stroll of the castle grounds. For thirty minutes they walked and talked while the parents picked up and the boys reenacted highlights from the epic confrontation.
“I’ve never heard such language on a twelve-year-old,” said Mrs. Bullard as she wiped sauce from the chili pot.
“It’s the music they listen to,” replied Whit’s Mom. “Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins; they’re to blame for kids like Danny.”
* * *
11:45 PM.
Testosterone clung to the lead pores of my bedroom walls. Boys were draped over every available surface like chimps in a tree. Doritos, popcorn and cookie crumbs littered my bedsheets and peppered the berber with crunchy specks.
Whit and A.J. sat beside me in the corner of the room. Together, we admired the lounging jocks. One of the boys rushed to Ryan, sat on his lap, farted, and laughed.
Whit broke the seal on a packet of Tic-Tacs, tipped back his head, and dumped a mouthful.
“Can I get one of them mints?” A.J. asked from the edge of my bed.
Whit didn’t respond, but picked up an empty Coke can from the nightstand and balanced it on A.J.’s head. He formed his fingers into a gun and aimed it at the reformed-bully’s face. “Ka-pow,” he said and pulled the trigger.
I grabbed the can and crushed it. “Whit isn’t as forgiving as Mara,” I said. “You’ve been Danny’s stooge for a long time.”
Whit rolled the heap of mints in his mouth. “That kid’s a primordial ass.”
“He’s gonna kill me,” A.J. said.
“You know what I’ve been thinkin’?” I asked. “I think Danny’s no different than Bobby or Jake. He likes Mara but he doesn’t know why, so he pokes her and calls her names.”
“Yeah, ‘cept the twins don’t carry a pellet gun and scream obscenities.” Whit watched as two of Ryan’s buddies stood face to face for a game of ram sham bo. “Think they like us?” he asked.
One boy spread his legs and clenched his face. The other pulled his foot back, grinned, then wailed his bare toes into his buddy’s crotch.
Whit popped another Tic-Tac. “Told ya Mara would get us friends.”
Ryan abandoned his buddies, took two giant leaps across my bed, and plopped between Whit and A.J. “Give me a mint,” he said and Whit obliged immediately. He held the mint between his front teeth as he scanned our faces. “Who wants to make twenty bucks?”
“Me!” A.J. said.
Ryan put his arm around the kid’s skinny back. “The money’s yours, little dude. But you gotta do me a favor.”
A.J. was skeptical. He responded nervously, as if the wrong words might scare away the offer. “Whatcha need me to do?”
“During the game tonight, dare me to kiss Mara.”
* * *
11:55 PM.
Half the boys were left trading baseball cards between plastic sheaths on my bedroom floor; half the girls were asleep on the ballroom couch. My parents, I hoped, were in their be
d, unaware of the faction of kids preparing for a game of Truth or Dare in the castle walls.
Evil forces were at work as the girls chose their seats among the boys. I found myself squished between Livy and A.J. with Mara on the opposite side of the circle snuggled between Ryan and Whit. My sister fared no better; her crush was sitting knee-to-knee with Haley and the most beautiful girl in the world.
Mara’s pjs were a far cry from the footie pajamas she wore the night we met; socks, a pair of purple Sophies, a tie-died tank with swirling shades of teal. If she was still shaken by Danny’s violent and public advances, she didn’t show it now.
As always, Mickey Mouse provided our light.
Ryan raised his hands as high as the ceiling allowed. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “these are the rules!”
“Hey, Blue Eyes,” Whit interrupted. “Who made you king of Truth or Dare?”
Ryan was about to retort when Livy piped up, “Wait!” She jumped to her knees and scavenged the storage bin she had been using as a backrest. She removed a cardboard Burger King crown, then leaned across the circle and wiggled it on Ryan’s head. “There!”
“Thank you, minion,” he said and cleared his throat. “There’s only one rule tonight: what happens in these walls, stays in these walls.”
Livy raised a hand.
“Yes, minion?”
“And no kissing relatives.” She patted my knee. “No offense, little brother.”
I scrunched my face. “Gross.”
“Haley, darling,” Ryan said. “You start.”
I couldn’t imagine Haley Jenson playing Truth or Dare. She was a bashful girl who communicated with blinking doe-eyes instead of moving lips. Her hair was cute in blonde braids from a makeover session and her eyes asked, “What am I doing here?” I didn’t know what debauchery our game had in store, but I feared the corruption of Haley’s bunny-like personality.
“Umm...” she began, then her eyes fell on me. “I pick James.”
“Ooooo!” went the spectators.
I rolled my eyes and looked at the blushing girl. “Truth,” I said.
Ryan cupped his mouth. “Booooring!”
Haley spoke so softly that I had to lean forward to hear the question. “What’s your favorite hair color on a girl?” she asked.
I looked at Mara’s tangled locks. Apparently, she was the only girl who didn’t receive a makeover. “Blonde,” I said. “Definitely blonde.”
(Days later, my sister would explain that my rapid and direct response brightened Haley’s evening, as she too had blonde hair.)
Ryan was next. “I chooose...” He scanned our faces as if he hadn’t known for weeks who he was going to pick. “Mara!”
“Me?” she asked.
“Truth or dare?” he asked.
“Truth!” she said.
“Hmm...” he said, then pretended to think. “What turns you on?”
This game was a bad idea. Mara was twelve; a fact that no one seemed to comprehend but me. Girls aren’t supposed play dirty games in secret corridors until high school, and Ryan Brosh–the closest thing to an authority figure in that cave–was taking advantage of her innocence and disregarding the two vital years between them, first with this question, later with a kiss.
“What do you mean?” Mara asked. “I like animals...”
“Well... what can a boy do to get you excited?”
She pursed her lips to the side. The longer she considered her answer, the more I wanted to vomit on Ryan’s face.
“Sincerity,” she said.
Ryan nodded. “Interesting response. I like that.”
I looked to Mara to exchange our usual glance–the rolled-eyes, quiet rapport that discretely declared us as “friends”–but Mara didn’t reciprocate.
Instead, she looked at Whit.
And Whit looked back at her.
“Who’s next?” I blurted, a subconscious attempt to snuff the exchange.
“Mara’s turn, Mara’s turn, Mara’s turn!” said Kimmy.
“Me?” she asked.
“Yes, silly!”
Starting on her left, Mara chanted, “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe...”
“You’re such a geek.” Kimmy said.
“...catch a spider by its toe.”
“A spider?” A.J. asked.
“If it wiggles let him go. Eeny, meeny, miny...” Mara paused for dramatic effect, “...Moe! Haley!”
Haley covered her eyes. “Do I hafta?”
“Everybody hasta,” Ryan said.
“I’ll pick dare...”
“The first dare of the night!”
Livy and Kimmy giggled and toppled in the circle.
Mara perked. “Okay, okay, I got one! Haley, have you ever seen an R rated movie?”
“Laaame-ooo,” said Ryan.
“What’d I do wrong?”
“First of all, that’s not a dare. Second of all, it’s lame!”
“It’s spposta be dirty,” added A.J.
“Fine!” Mara said. “Haley... stick your finger in your ear... then lick it!”
Livy and Kimmy looked at each other with astonishment.
Ryan slipped his arm around Mara’s back, so far that his hand emerged on her other side. “Mara, honey, this is Truth or Dare, not recess.”
She growled. “Uhg! Haley Jenson... kiss Whitney... on the lips.”
The “ooos” rose again like a sitcom’s live studio audience. Livy and Kimmy provided a drumroll on the wooden floor.
Haley looked to me (in the moment, I interpreted her sorrowful gaze as a look of disgust; today, I wonder if she was trying to apologize for the impending betrayal). She crossed the gap on hands and knees and Whit closed his eyes to cage his bewilderment. Haley leaned forward. The group held a collective breath... and she pecked him on the lips.
“Hey Whit,” Ryan called. “Is that a banana in your pocket, or do you just like Haley?”
We laughed. A.J. and I applauded our friend while the girls patted Haley’s back as she returned to her seat.
“Simmer down, children,” Whit said. “Show’s over. It’s my turn and I choose Mara.”
“What gives? Whitney.” Kimmy put her hands on her hips, jabbing me in the gut with her boney elbow. “There are other girls here too, ya know.”
Whit ignored her. “Mara? Truth or dare?”
“Truth!” she said.
He didn’t hesitate. “Out of the four boys in this room, who’s the cutest?”
She scowled. “That’s a mean question! You’re all cute!”
“But who’s the cutest?”
Shedding twelve pounds wasn’t enough to make me “cute.” I could lose fifty pounds and never compare to Ryan “Junior Varsity” Brosh.
“I mean it,” Mara said. “You’re all cute in different ways. I like the look in A.J.’s eyes when he’s being kind.” She squeezed the necklace on her chest. “James has this funny face he makes when he writes. It’s totally adorable and reminds me of the insides of a grandfather clock. He focuses so hard that his forehead wrinkles and his eyes get all tight.” She mimicked the look and everyone laughed.
“Dead on!” Whit said.
“Whitney is just...” She studied his face. “...different.”
“Different?” he said.
Different? I thought.
“In a good way,” she said and tapped his knee.
“I’ll take it!”
She turned to Ryan. “And you look like a movie star!”
He smiled. (I swear I saw his teeth glisten.) “Guess that means I win!”
Livy was next. “I’m gonna hafta pick...” She fiddled with the rainbow beads in her hair. “...Ryan!”
“Sa-weet!” he said and thrust his fists into a victory pose.
Livy’s neck retracted until her shoulders covered her cheeks and, for the first time, I noticed Mara’s blue polish on her fingernails. She released a nervous squeal as if she couldn’t believe she was really going to say what she was about to say. “Ryan B
rosh... show us your butt!”
The girls feigned disgust. The boys covered their eyes.
“Gladly!” said the jock, then flipped to his knees, pressed his head against an exposed beam, stuck his rump in the middle of the circle, and pulled down his shorts.
I didn’t see Ryan’s ass, but I imagine it was a sculpted gift from the gods. My sister was certainly tickled by the sight.
When the laughter subsided, it was my turn. Set in my belief that “different” was the only way to win Mara’s affection, I ignored the instant gratification of physical contact and provided the poor girl a break from the onslaught of horny boys. Based on a hunch, I chose Whit.
“Truth,” he said and furrowed his brow.
Ryan sighed and leaned back on his elbows. “Lame.”
“When we were shooting the scene with the rowboat,” I said, “what were you and Mara laughing about?”
The truth was so benign that Mara had to help Whit remember their conversation. “Computers,” she whispered. “’Member?”
“Right!” Whit said. I was telling Mara about the operating system on my IBM PowerPC. She’s only seen computers in movies before the one in my room, so I answered her questions.”
“Whitney says we’re all going to talk through computers in the future. We won’t need phones! He can already send electronic messages to people.”
“I run a text-based program called PINE through Windows 3.1. I can even send and receive digitized pictures by connecting my internal modem to a file transfer protocol.”
The other girls gave requisite nods.
Mara was enthralled. “Someday, James’ll be able to put his camera right into the computer so people can see him in China.”
“Why would anybody want to see me in China?” I asked, annoyed that my simple question revived their buddy-buddy rapport.
“She’s not saying you’d want to,” Whit said, “just that it’ll be possible in the future.”
“Spoiled brat...” muttered A.J.
“My parents like to support my talent. Some kids get hunting gear,” he pointed to Age, “some get orange balls to throw at hoops,” he pointed to Ryan, “and I got a computer.”
“You’re a geek,” Ryan jabbed.
The Accidental Siren Page 13