Normally, you’d never call a kid like Jack out of the blue. You wait until he phones you. For me that’d be forever. When I speak to Jack on the phone, he tells me he’s already going with a gang of other kids from my class, so he tells me to meet him at the game. That isn’t the idea. I could’ve done that anyway. You want to show up with one of the Lund Gang, not run into them in public.
I settle down in the kitchen and play round after round of Solitaire, and the phone rings and rings. I ignore it because I know it’s for Kate.
Virginia pokes her head into the kitchen, annoyed. “Ford … the phone is ringing off the hook. Why don’t you answer it?”
“I don’t hear a thing.” I’m not Kate’s personal secretary.
“How could you not hear that? Never mind.” She grabs the phone off the wall, and I go back to my card game.
“It’s for Kate. Go get your sister upstairs. Tell her Theo’s on the phone.” It’s the Summer Solstice Dance night at the high school, and Kate’s getting ready for the bash. Theo’s her date, of course, and they’re double-dating with Vicky Fontaine and her boyfriend, Max Northrup.
“Jesus, Virginia, I’m not your slave.”
“Don’t push me, Ford! I’m in no mood.”
Fine. Twenty leaps up the stairs. A blow dryer rages at full volume. “KATE!”
She switches the hair dryer to a low buzz. “Get out, creep!” She arms her free hand with hairspray and aims it at my face like mace.
I yank the cord out of the wall socket. “Vomit’s on the phone.”
She smiles smugly in the foggy mirror, primps her fluffy hair, and says in a sweet tone. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”
I don’t think so; he can wait in dead silence. When she finally appears in the kitchen, wearing a yellow dress with ruffles adorning the wrists, I’m frustrated as hell because I have all four aces out, but I’m stuck with no move. Game over. I shuffle the deck and deal a new game. Kate stretches the phone cord out of the kitchen and down the block. She does this every time she’s on the phone, even if it’s one of her flaky friends. God forbid I overhear her conversation about something stupid like who’s dating Leif Garrett. The den door slams with a bang, and my cards jump out of their suits. A sobbing, howling Kate shakes the house.
“What’s wrong?” Virginia asks me, coming in from the mudroom with a box of Mix-Fare milkshake containers.
“Can’t you tell?” I smack my hand on the table. “I need the Queen of Spades to turn up or I’m done for.”
“Not you, Kate.”
“How should I know?” Or care.
It turns out Theo dumped her at the last second, and Kate will be going solo to the dance, if she goes at all. She spent a quarter of her summer savings on a dress only to get blown off by Theo. Maybe she’ll realize now she’s wasted six months of her life on that dope. I normally couldn’t care less, but I can’t be totally heartless to my loser freak of a sister. So I collect my cards from the table and find Kate moping in the den. She inserts an old 8-track, and the Cher song “Cherokee Woman” fills the room. Perhaps Kate will don some war paint and shoot Theo in the heart with a bow and arrow like he’s done to her. I wouldn’t blame her one bit. For a second, I consider offering to go with her to the dance, but that would be weird and awkward.
When we were little kids, we played a game whenever one of us got depressed for whatever kid reason. It worked like this: We’d pretend we were married, and I was the lord of the manor, and she was the lady. Kate would make tea. I’d make crumpets out of rolled-up Wonder Bread with Peter Pan peanut butter spread. We’d sit outside on the patio and pretend the whole block was our estate, and the people that lived there were our servants. Virginia and Pop were the maid and butler, respectively. Billy the court jester. We haven’t played that game in years, of course, but it occurs to me now how close we used to be. We never once fought until we hit our teens, which might sound weird for siblings close in age. To me, Kate has been the calm port in the Quinn storm.
So I open up the den door and see Kate in her pajamas, her dress crumpled on the chair. “Forget about the stupid dance,” I say.
“Don’t worry, Ford, I’m okay.” Moist Kleenex is piled high in her lap. “Really.”
Usually it’s the other way around. Kate was the one who protected me. For example, when I was about ten, our family spent our summer vacation at Walloon Lake. Uncle Mitt was there with his family and my cousin, Mitt Jr., who has always been called Mitty.
Mitty and I ventured down to the gas station to buy night crawlers to fish with that day. A local boy no more than eleven came by in a wife beater T-shirt and the biggest muscles I’d ever seen on a kid. He wasn’t a big kid with big muscles; he was skinny but ripped. He wore a crew cut and didn’t mince words to Mitty.
“I’m going to beat the crap out of you if you don’t give me those worms.” Mitty handed over his night crawlers without blinking. “You too, weasel dung.”
He shoved me in the chest, and I stumbled back. I wanted to give him my worms, but fear paralyzed my arms. I saw a fist coming toward my face in slow motion. Out of nowhere, a hand blocked the bully’s punch. A hand flew into the kid’s face, slapping him square in the nose. Mitty’s muddy worms splattered on the concrete. The boy fell down in a heap, clutching his bloodied nostrils. Kate pulled the kid up by the hair, and while blood dripped from his nose, she said, “Get lost.” The kid looked up, realized he’d been popped by a girl, and ran off down the street.
“Do you remember the game we used to play? So you’d make us feel better?” I ask Kate.
“Lord and Lady Kensington.”
“Yeah. I guess we’re too old for that now.”
“It’s okay, Ford. I hate dances anyway.” Her eyes are dry now, and the 8-track player clicks to Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe.” “And everyone is so fake in this town, anyway.”
You mean heartless. I’m about to say “I’ll take you to the dance” when the doorbell rings. A moment later Virginia strolls into the den, shuts the door, and whispers. “There’s a boy at the door for you. You need to tell him you have plans.”
Good for you, Virginia.
“Who is it?” Kate asks. I know she’s hoping it’s Theo. He can screw off if the cad thinks he can crawl back to my sister.
“Why are you whispering?” I ask Mom.
“It doesn’t matter who it is, you can’t go with him.” Theo’s got Mom convinced he’s Elvis reincarnated, so I’m confused.
“Go where?” Kate asks in an exasperated tone. “The dance?”
“Forget it, Kate.” She turns around to leave. “I’ll just tell him you’re not home.”
“Jesus, Mother.” Kate pushes past Virginia, and I follow.
“Kate, come back here!”
A familiar boy appears in the living room, holding a white corsage. At first I don’t recognize him in clothes, let alone in an ill-fitting blue tuxedo. Pauley Clark from next door rises from the couch and bows.
“I’d be honored to take you to the Summer Solstice Dance tonight, Ms. Kate Quinn, if you’re so inclined to accompany me.”
Seems Pauley’s had a crush on Kate.
Kate’s face turns from Coppertone brown to bright red before a smile emerges from her lips. “No … it would be my honor to go with you, Mr. Pauley Clark.”
He holds out his arm to escort Kate out the door. I pull the front door open, bow, and wave them through with a royal gesture, knowing very well Kate’s not going anywhere just yet. “I have to change into my dress, Pauley.”
He pulls his lapels tight. “No, you’re very fine the way you are.”
“Pauley, I can’t go in my pajamas.” She holds her index finger in the air. “Just wait here a sec. I’ll be right back.”
As Kate gets dressed, I’m tempted to hug Pauley, who I normally only hear playing the same Emerson, Lake & Palmer songs from their Brain
Salad Surgery album on his ukulele out his open bedroom window. Or that time I caught him attempting odd, clumsy yoga poses. Mom once told me Dr. Clark follows some fringe liberation “unschooling” movement, which espouses parents teaching kids at home, which I’ve never heard of and sounds like some version of hell. Anyway, Pauley and I stare at each other for a few moments when he bends over and utters to me, “Billy.”
I reach down and untuck Pauley’s pants leg, which is caught in his sock. “Billy’s not home.”
“I know.”
I’m not sure how Billy figures into all of this, if at all, because he could care two wits about our sister, but Kate comes in just then with her yellow prom dress on and her face radiating happiness beams. I imagine them slow dancing to the Bay City Rollers at the Misfit Prom.
Pauley doesn’t drive, so Kate drives them to the dance in Pop’s Impala. I wonder how Pauley knew to come at just the right time to save Kate. There’s only two ways Pauley could have known. He either tapped our phone, or it had something to do with Billy, as Pauley seemed to hint at.
After they leave, I return Kate’s diary to the drawer in her nightstand. She’ll have something new to write about tonight. I don’t think she stole my poetry notebook because she would have weaponized the information by now. As far as sisters go, Kate’s annoying, but not half bad.
I decide to bike alone to the baseball game after all, and I meet up with Jack Lott and a bunch of kids on bikes milling around the fence next to the bleachers. My front tire nudges into the circle, and I say hello to Jack. The boys’ handlebars are pointed toward Jack and Nick Lund as the leaders of the pack. Nick Lund shakes his pompadour cool and says, “Hey, Quinn, I saw you hanging out with that fake mod in the parka who thinks he’s the second coming of Sting. What’s his name? Nigel? Oliver?”
“Owen.” I should have tracked down Rooney and headed to the arcade tonight. There’s been some rumors of a dust-up between the Lund Gang and public schoolers at Stoner’s Lake. Owen hasn’t mentioned a thing to me about any turf war, but I noticed a faint shiner on him the other day that he wouldn’t talk about other than mumbling something about “he’ll get his arse warped.”
“You both caddy. Pretty lame if you ask me.” In Nick’s world, “caddy” only translates to the luxury car brand. Lund turns his head to our fellow Holy Redeemers. “Hey, guys. You should get a load of Quinn’s new mate.” Nick laughs so hard he almost falls off his bike. Fat Albert shows a goofy grin. I feel my cheeks turn Jolly Rancher red, and I want to punch Nick in the face. Owen’s a decent guy.
“Let’s blow this pop stand,” Jack Lott says.
They swing their front tires around to follow Jack’s bike, and mine gets tangled with Nick’s rim. I lose my balance, and my Schwinn collapses into the fence and on top of me. Lund laughs back at me and rides out of sight. He did it on purpose for sure. No one even notices as they ride to the other side of the field to find girls. I pick up my bike; the rim’s bent, so I slink off to sit in the stands and watch the game alone.
The baseball players run onto the infield, creating a red dust storm, and the crowd rises to cheer them on. I spot Pop in his usual seat. He rarely misses a Royal Knights game. I clang up the metal bleachers and perch next to him. “Hey, Pops.”
“Hi, Fordo. Get yourself something to eat.” Pop pulls a two-dollar bill and a Washington from his wallet and hands it over to me like old times. “The Royal Knights have their hands full tonight against the Polar Bears.”
Jack and his friends circle like sharks below me under the stands. It’s a long wait before they ride off into the night. At the concession stand I buy a box of Cracker Jack, a roll of Necco Wafers, and a Coke. To hell with Jack Lott and his buddies. I’d rather watch the game with Pop anyway tonight. We’ve been going to minor-league baseball games together as long as I can remember. Baseball is the one thing we both love. Golf is becoming a close second, though.
We laugh and clap the Royal Knights around the bases all night. He gets around to asking me about how my golf game’s coming this summer. I tell him I’ve changed my grip (but don’t tell him Mr. Valentine’s role), and I’m playing pretty well. Broke 85 for the first time this past Monday, I tell him, which lifts one of his eyebrows and causes him to bob his chin in approval. That’s as close to a compliment one is likely to get from Pop, but I’ll take it.
During the seventh-inning stretch, he waxes nostalgic and tells me a story about how he and his two brothers, Uncle Mitt and Uncle Fred, had set a trap for guests during one of Grampa and Grandma Quinn’s blowout parties at Cass Lake. They’d dug a deep pit, covered it with a blanket, and lured some of the drunk dads out the door to their demise. A burst of laughter from me causes the third-base coach to turn in his cleats.
Pop leaves in the bottom of the eighth inning to pick up Virginia from a bingo match at the church reception hall. Before he leaves, Pop tells me we should play golf together soon. That’d be nice—just Pop and I doing something we both enjoy together.
After the game ends, I drag my misshapen bike home alone and wonder when the neighborhood had suddenly changed. Growing up, the single block of Dorchester between the Masons and the Olivehammers seemed as big as a village. Back then, before Virginia rang the dinner bell, twenty kids aged eight to fifteen would play smiley ball. The Olivehammers’ driveway served as home plate, the paved road the infield, and the Carters’ side yard centerfield. A large green plastic ball with a smiling face was pitched underhand. I hadn’t needed to phone a soul to find a friend.
A game of pickle or kick the can had been five yards from my front door. I’d simply step from our stoop into Dorchester Village. After supper, we’d play a game called prison in the humid, dark summer nights, hopping fences, trampling garden beds, hurtling box shrubs. We owned the street and the towering elm trees and everything in between. Every garage, tree fort, and front porch had been a potential hiding place.
When I get home, my street feels shorter and narrower, the yards private and small. Not a village at all. Now neighborhood kids pair off and form private alliances. When did this happen? Overnight, it seems.
he next weekend rolls around, and I can’t find anything to do except play Frisbee fetch with my dog until nightfall because Rocket’s grounded. (Every day is a Friday in the summer unless you have no friends. Then every night feels like a Monday school night, and you’re left watching TV, wondering who shot J.R.)
Bored out of my gourd, I go upstairs to mope and find Rocket has left me two things: a note on my pillow to meet him at a public-school party (he must be planning an escape) and a fancy blue cotton sweater. He knows an older kid from his high school named Ned Hinkelmann who works at Jacobson’s and has figured out an inventory-fixing scheme to steal summer sweaters. I pull on the thin V-neck sweater and head downstairs into the night air.
Cars are log jammed along the street, and kids are streaming toward the party house. A musclebound guy with a leather vest and a unibrow strides cockily out of the garage with a small posse following him onto the front lawn, and I stall out in front of him because the line to get into the party house snakes into the front yard. The guy’s wearing a chain necklace with crossbones.
His buddy eyes his knuckles. “You hurt your hand on that guy’s face?”
“Hell no.” He flashes his fist, along with a gold ring on his finger. I gawk at the guy, thinking he should be playing bouncer at a biker bar, and he says to me. “What you lookin’ at, asshole?”
I don’t wait around to reply and push through the bodies and Brut fumes clogging the front door. I take a few laps around the first floor but can’t find Rocket. They are mostly public-school kids, and I don’t see a single Holy Redeemer.
A kid with a hairdo that curves into his sideburns stops me and says, “Did you know sloths eat a plant that makes them stoned all day?” He drifts off. I deposit that factoid in my memory bank and squeeze past kids bouncing quarters
into a Detroit Lions coffee mug. The bass from the Cars tune “Let the Good Times Roll” thumps from the stereo speakers, and I wander out a back door and onto the patio.
“Fooord?” My sister Kate huddles next to two other girls, sipping from plastic beer cups. Her eyes are red and swollen, and at first I figure she forgot to turn off the sunlamp at home before realizing she’s been crying her Quinn eyes out. Her two friends shoot radioactive laser beams across the pool patio bow. I follow the trail and see Theo Nichols groping a girl on a lounge chair. I feel both happy and sad for Kate. The last guy in the world she needs to date is Theo, particularly after getting dumped before the dance. The girls whisper in each other’s ears. Vicky Fontaine, drunk as a wheelbarrow, grabs a plastic cup out of Kate’s hand, strolls across the patio, pretends to trip, and spills a foamy beer on Theo’s lap.
“What the hell, bitch?” He springs from the chair, revealing a dark, wet crotch to elephant laughter. He scurries inside, presumably toward the bathroom.
I log a few more laps around the party before landing back outside with Kate’s girl-squad. “I was supposed to meet Rocket here. Have you seen him?”
“I guess I forgot to tell you.” Kate crosses her arms, still simmering from getting played by Theo.
“Theo’s a jerk anyway.” Get over him Kate. “So? What did you forget to tell me?”
“Rocket got into a fight with Gorilla.”
I thought of the jerk with the gold ring I’d run into upon arriving at the party. “Now you tell me?”
She hands me a drink, and I shove it out of the way.
“How the hell did he do?”
My sister holds her palms out in Kate-drama style. “There’s a reason they call him Ga-Rill-A.”
Great. Rocket might be lying dead somewhere in the Hills.
“Christ. I’ve got to find him.” I knock over a hundred people and spill a gallon of beer exiting the front door. I sprint toward Dot Ave, hoping like hell Rocket’s still breathing. I reach the Olivehammer house and find a collapsed tent on the backward lawn. A light would be on in the house if Rocket’s been seriously injured, but it’s vampire dark, so perhaps he’s just got a bloody nose and a bruised ego. A spotlight beams on their in-ground trampoline from an early August moon. A quick check of the doors, but they’ve battened down the hatches for the night.
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