Playing With Matches

by Brian Katcher

  Amy reached over and tucked the tag in my collar down. “Just wanted to say hi.” Her hand continued to rest on my shoulder. I felt like I was getting a mild electrical shock. I wanted to say something to prolong the conversation.

  “Hello, there.” The voice behind me interrupted the first lengthy physical contact I’d ever had with Amy.

  “Melody!” I jumped up, causing Amy’s hand to fall away. “Melody, have you met Amy?”

  For the first time, I introduced Melody to someone and she didn’t look at the floor. She was staring Amy down. I’d never seen her look so hostile. Amy, on the other hand, didn’t seem fazed.

  “Hello. Are you having a good time?” Amy spoke slowly, as if Melody was profoundly retarded.

  Rob and Johnny were gaping like a couple of yokels at an accident scene. Even Samantha paused, ball in hand, to stare.

  “We are having a fine time,” Melody replied pointedly.

  Amy yawned. “That’s nice. I don’t care for bowling, myself.” She examined her perfectly manicured nails.

  “Then don’t let us keep you here.”

  Amy bent over to get her purse, and stayed in that position for several seconds. Johnny got up for a better view. By the time I realized I was staring down Amy’s shirt, Melody had noticed. She tensed.

  Amy trotted off in the direction of her date. “Nice to see you, Leon. Oh, Melody, I like your wig. You can’t really tell it’s not your real hair.”

  No one can out-cruel a girl.

  Melody deflated. Her shoulders slumped; her head tilted down.

  “Who wants nachos?” barked Johnny, and he and Rob ran for the snack bar. Samantha attempted to pick up a spare.

  “Melody?” I took her hand. It was limp; she didn’t squeeze back. Her other hand carefully adjusted her wig. Two lanes down, someone was screaming profanity at the ten pin.

  “Mel, look at me.”

  She lifted her head. She was biting her puffy lower lip, and her eyes still faced the ground.

  Once again, everything I could think of to say would sound trite. Just because I was nice to her, it didn’t mean anyone else would be.

  “Mel?”

  “What?”

  “It’s your turn.”

  Melody straightened up. Amy wasn’t the worst person she’d faced in her life. Hell, Amy probably was just trying to be friendly in her own clueless way.

  I watched as Melody threw two gutter balls. When she sat down next to me, she was smiling. I draped my arm around her.

  “Leon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You might want to tell your little friend over there she’s not supposed to bowl in street shoes.”

  I kissed Melody’s cheek. She smelled like peaches and body lotion.

  “Get a room!” bellowed Johnny as he returned with a tray of junk food.

  17

  PARENTAL ADVISORY

  “So when do we get to meet her?” asked my Mom the next day.

  “Who?” I asked, knowing full well who she meant.

  “Melody. The one you’re always talking to on the phone. I was wondering when you were planning on inviting her over.”

  “You never seemed anxious to meet my friends before,” I replied. Meet my parents? Introduce her to my family?

  “Well, Melody probably won’t leave toilet paper in our trees,” my dad said, laughing.

  “You have no proof that was anyone I know!”

  “Yes, I’m sure it was one of your mother’s friends. Listen, invite the girl over. We’d really like to get to know her.”

  “Why?” I was defensive.

  “Well,” said Mom soothingly, “if you two are dating, I think we have a right.”

  So Mom and Dad knew we were more than just a couple of friends. I could put this off only so long. The thing was I’d never told them about Melody’s accident. They’d probably pictured her looking more like Amy.

  “Listen,” I said, “Melody and I are going to the basketball game this Tuesday. She’s picking me up; you can meet her then. And, Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “Wear a shirt, would you?”

  So now I was stuck. My parents were going to meet Melody. Quite frankly, the whole idea made me uncomfortable as hell. It wasn’t like I was ashamed, but, well, I’d kind of grown accustomed to the way things were. When you cared about someone, you overlooked their imperfections. It was easy to forget that to an outsider, they might not be so perfect. They might even appear weird, strange, or freakish.

  Then again, maybe everyone felt that way about their parents. In the meantime, I wondered if I should mention Melody’s scars before she came over.

  On one hand, I never brought that up. I wanted Melody to feel that her burns didn’t matter to me at all. If that was the case, why would I go out of my way to tell people? I wouldn’t say to my parents “Oh, by the way, she’s blond,” or “I want you to know ahead of time, she’s a little tall for a girl.”

  On the other hand, meeting Melody could be shocking for people, even the most open-minded, well-intentioned people. Ever since I started hanging out with her, I’d noticed people staring at her in a sneaky sort of way. Or staring at her in an obvious, rude sort of way. More and more I understood why she disliked going out in public.

  In the end, I decided to say something beforehand, just to avoid any awkwardness. If she had been blind or in a wheelchair, I would have mentioned it. The last thing I wanted was for my folks to look startled, even for a second, when they met Melody.

  “Mom, Dad,” I began the next night, “there’s something you need to know about Melody. Something kind of bad.”

  Mom and Dad exchanged a brief look. They seemed strangely nervous.

  “Go on,” said my dad.

  “Well, she…listen…”

  “Yes?” asked my mom. She looked upset for some reason.

  “She was in a fire when she was little. Her face…well, she has some bad scars. I just wanted to give you a heads-up.”

  Now, was I imagining things, or did my parents look a little relieved? Why would they be relieved to know that my date had been injured as a child? What, did they think I was going to say that she had two noses or something? Or bit the heads off puppies? Or…or was pregnant. That was it. They thought I was going to say I had gotten her pregnant. Parents, sheesh.

  That Tuesday, I paced nervously. Melody would be there any second. Mom and Dad had promised me they’d be on their best behavior, but I had my doubts.

  “So what time is your girlfriend getting here?” asked my mom.

  “Soon.” I let the girlfriend comment pass. It was more or less true.

  “Okay, okay.” My parents were grinning at me. What horrible thing did they have planned? I had already made sure the family albums were hidden and made them swear they wouldn’t bring up any childhood stories about me.

  “Did I mention the basketball game starts in half an hour?” I repeated. “She won’t have time to stay long.”

  The horn on Melody’s truck blasted like an air-raid siren. “Whoops, there she is. Gotta run.”

  “Go invite her in.” My mom was smiling, but it wasn’t a request. Glumly, I obeyed.

  “Hey, Leon.” Melody leaned out of the cab of her truck. She was wearing makeup. Unfortunately, makeup could only accentuate or hide. It could not create features that were not there. Melody wasn’t wearing her wig; her baldness was covered by a baseball cap.

  “Hey, Melody. Want to come in for a minute?”

  She frowned. “We really need to get going.” This was obviously an excuse; the game didn’t start for quite some time. I remembered when Melody had come over to work on the history project, and how she’d darted off when Mom was about to show up.

  “My parents really want to meet you.”

  Melody took a deep breath. “Okay, Leon. Let’s do it.”

  My parents to their credit, didn’t bat an eye when they saw Melody. Who knows, maybe they’d been expecting worse.

  “Won’
t you come in?” asked my mother sweetly. “Leon’s told us so much about you.”

  “Mom…,” I warned.

  Melody, though nervous, seemed more at ease than I was. She took a seat and glanced around the room.

  “Lovely place you have here,” she commented.

  “Thanks,” said my dad. “We really like it. You wouldn’t believe the work we had to do on it.”

  “Dad, Melody didn’t come here to hear your remodeling stories.”

  Mom, without my noticing, had disappeared into the kitchen. She returned with a tray of snacks. Good Lord, just shoot me now.

  “So,” said my mother, obviously secretly enjoying my torment, “Leon tells us you’re going to the Missouri Scholars Academy.”

  “Yes. Leon thinks I’m crazy, all those weeks of work in the summer.”

  “That takes me back,” said my dad.

  “Were you in the program?” asked Melody, taking the bait.

  “No, I was in the military. The air force. I signed up in June and was in basic training all summer.”

  I buried my face in my hands. As an ex–enlisted man who never came within a thousand miles of a battle, Dad managed to bring up his military record on every occasion.

  “Were you a pilot?” asked Melody, opening us up to three hours of stories.

  “I was more in what you’d call intelligence.”

  “He was a file clerk,” I groaned.

  “That can be stressful work,” countered Dad.

  “It’s true. He still wakes up some nights screaming ‘Paper jam!’”

  “You know,” said Melody, “my father was in the army. Worked in the motor pool.”

  “Really?” said my dad with interest. “Where was he stationed?”

  “Whoa, look at the time! We’re going to be late as it is.” I grabbed Melody by the arm.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Sanders,” called Melody as I hustled her out the door.

  As soon as we were out of my subdivision, I began hammering my head on the dashboard. Melody’s eyes didn’t leave the road.

  “Leon? Why are you doing that?”

  “My parents. They swore they wouldn’t embarrass me.”

  We stopped at a red light. “Knock it off, Leon. Embarrass you? I thought they were sweet.”

  “Nice of you to say. But, um, you’re the first girl I’ve ever really brought home. I just thought they’d tone things down.”

  Melody laid her hand on my knee. “They didn’t embarrass me. And that counts for a lot.”

  I smiled. “Green light, Mel.”

  18

  HORSEPLAY

  In my opinion, there was only one reason a person should climb on top of another living creature, and it had nothing to do with transportation. That was why when Melody invited me to go horseback riding, I was sure I’d end up reenacting Brokeback Mountain (the broke-back part, not the homosexuality).

  Of course, Melody seemed to think I could ride a horse and since she was a girl, I couldn’t show fear. (Girls are very much like bears in that respect.) Which was why I found myself, on a misty April morning, standing in the muddy pasture behind Melody’s house. We’d been dating now for a couple of weeks, and I was still at the point where I wanted her to think I was macho.

  Melody wore a pair of cowboy boots (encrusted with mud, which proved they were no fashion statement), worn-out jeans, a bandana around her bald head, and a light flannel shirt. I didn’t care for these bulky clothes. Her loose spring clothes had shown me that her disfigurement did not extend below her neck, and my curiosity had grown. When she got back from the Scholars Academy, maybe we could go swimming….

  “Leon, meet Charger.” Charger was brown, with a splotch of white on his forehead. He was also big. Big enough to drag a man caught in the stirrups for miles. It could happen. I’d seen it on TV.

  I tried to ignore that voice in my head telling me to express my fears to Melody.

  “Hello, Charger,” I said, tentatively patting his nose. “Why the long face?”

  Melody laughed. “Do you know how to mount a horse?”

  I decided not to make a taxidermy joke. “No.”

  “It’s easy. Just put your left foot in the left stirrup, then swing your right leg over.”

  People who are good at something tend to squash everything into two steps. Step one: build a spaceship. Step two: fly to the moon. Simple as that.

  Resigned to my doom, I put my foot into the stirrup, started to jump, panicked, and almost fell on my rear. Charger whinnied, ready, I was sure, to kick me square in the face.

  Melody was laughing into her hand. For once, we were on her turf. Broken legs or not, I had to try again.

  It took three attempts, but I finally made it into the saddle. Charger immediately began to walk.

  “Hey! Stop! Um…whoa?”

  Melody touched the horse’s flank and he stopped. Then, in one fluid movement, she leapt onto the back of her horse, Samson.

  My fears were momentarily forgotten when I realized how blisteringly uncomfortable a saddle was. Melody didn’t seem to mind, but then again, she didn’t have testicles.

  Her horse sauntered over to me. “Just follow me, Leon. Dig in your heels.” Samson started trotting.

  Charger was much less responsive but eventually began following his equine pal. This wasn’t too bad. Then, after about two minutes, Charger started wandering along his own path.

  “Melody, help!” I didn’t care how sissy that sounded.

  “Just pull the reins,” she shouted.

  I tried, but a horse is a lot less responsive than a Buick. Eventually, Charger fell back into step.

  “Just smack him on the rear if he won’t behave,” directed Melody.

  I couldn’t bring myself to wallop the horse. I lightly smacked him on the butt. I didn’t think he noticed.

  Melody led us around the pasture four or five times. She cut a striking figure in the cool spring air. From a distance you couldn’t see that she didn’t have much of a face. She was just a teenage girl, taking her horse out for a morning ride. Scars or not, that was kind of hot. I almost forgot the mortal peril I was in.

  We never went faster than a gallop. I told myself that was as fast as Melody ever went, but in all honesty, she and Samson probably ran like the wind and jumped hedges when I wasn’t slowing them down.

  After about an hour, Melody reined in her horse. Charger wandered over to them.

  “How you doing, Leon?”

  I grinned while gripping the reins. “I’m great. I could do this all day.”

  “Sure you wouldn’t like a break?”

  “Yes!”

  Melody led us to a building at the very back of their property. It seemed to be a small barn that was no longer in use but hadn’t fallen into complete disrepair. Melody gracefully dismounted. Luckily, she was tying up her horse when I jumped down, so she didn’t see me land on my butt.

  When both horses were secure, Melody gestured toward the barn. Apparently, we were going to take a load off in there.

  This reminded me of a story. “Okay,” I began as we reached the door. “There was this traveling salesman—”

  Something shot out of the darkness above our heads. Melody gasped and grabbed me around the waist. Without thinking, I wrapped my arm around her shoulder.

  “It’s just an owl, Mel. It’s okay.”

  She took a deep breath. “It startled me; that’s all. C’mon.” We separated. Almost. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I realized we were holding hands.

  “What is this place?”

  “Just an old shed. Daddy uses it for storage.”

  There were gaps in the walls and unmistakable signs of wild animals, but the roof was in good repair. In one corner sat an old but clean tractor. Various farm implements and tools hung neatly on the wall or lay scattered on a workbench. In another corner a few bales of hay were stacked. One had burst, covering the floor with straw. The whole place had the pleasant, mildewy smell of disuse.r />
  “Tony and I used to play out here when we were little,” said Melody, rolling a rusty tricycle with her foot.

  “So far from the house?” I sat on a hay bale.

  “We had to protect everyone from the terrorists that lived in the woods. At least according to Tony.”

  Melody seemed to remember something and went rummaging through an old crate. She eventually pulled out a shoe box and sat down next to me.

  “Treasure?” I asked.

  She opened the box and pulled out a filthy, naked Barbie doll.

  I smiled. “Did you actually get Tony to play with that?”

  She laughed. “Never. I’d play alone a lot.” She held the doll on her knees and stared at it.

  Feeling a tad uncomfortable, I glanced into the shoe box. There were a couple of other Barbies. One was nearly bald. I almost asked Melody if she’d given it a haircut when she was little, but then I noticed something.

  Picking up the doll, I confirmed what I thought I’d seen. Someone had carefully burned the face off Barbie, leaving a melted plastic mess.

  Melody was watching. “They didn’t make dolls that look like me,” she said bitterly, tossing her toys back into the box. She tried to stand up, but I took her hand.

  “It was just something I did when I was nine. I used to pretend that Ken still loved Barbie, and that all the other dolls still thought she was great. After a couple of years of school, I don’t think I opened that box again.”

  For a long time I looked at her. Just looked. The eyes, the wrecked skin, the single tear running down her bony nose. I thought back to elementary school: how Melody had always sat alone on the swings at recess, how we used to dare each other to run up and touch her. I wanted to go back in time. I wanted to defend her. If not then, now. To be her protector, her friend, someone who would always look out for her.

  “Leon, you’re the only guy who can stand to look at me.”

  I placed a hand on her cheek. Her skin felt fragile, though I knew from experience she was as hard outside as she was inside. Gingerly, I pressed her head to mine. We kissed.

  I kissed her large lips, her scarred cheeks, her missing ears. We kissed. We held each other. Our tongues touched. We removed our jackets.