“Oh, you did a pattern.” She tilts her head so that the hair around the front of her face covers her eyes, and she smirks. “You are so predictable.”
She drags out the word “so” just long enough to make me feel stupid.
“I don’t like to be so obvious, she continues.”
Again, she says the word “so” like it has four syllables, and looks down at her nails, which are polished haphazardly, a different design on each nail.
Ashley has great albums, which we’re not allowed to touch, but when she goes out, Willow and I sneak into her room to get them. We play the music loudly, confident that she won’t be home for hours.
In our hands, we hold fake microphones and mouth every word.
My body moves to the music freely, at least as freely as can be expected for a kid in private school whose parents vote Republican and drive a Cadillac.
With closed eyes I dream of my teacher, Mr. Kelvidge, who every Friday devotes the last half hour of class to music. He sits on the rug with us, bent over his guitar, strumming, and we sing “Blowin’ in the Wind,” reading from sheets he’s handed out. As I dance, my mind wanders and I recall him leaning over me, pointing to a faraway place on the world map, and I smell his long wavy hair, a commitment to freedom, love, and peace.
In the late afternoon, we watch The Brady Bunch, our favorite show, and return to the kitchen for a snack. There are warm cookies on a tray and Willow’s mother, tall and blonde, serves them to us at the table. She walks to the other end of the kitchen, and I pay attention to the sound her slip-on heels make as they hit the tile floor. She is wearing skintight black leggings and a short top that ties in the back. Positioned behind the sink on the windowsill there is a radio, and she turns it on. Soft music plays in the background, and she reaches for her pack of cigarettes and her lighter. She lights up, throwing her head back before she exhales. She places the cigarette on the edge of the white Formica counter, and I watch as it burns. She dices onions on a cutting board, stopping every few seconds to lift her cigarette to her mouth, allowing the ash to grow, becoming impossibly long, and hanging, threatening collapse. I’m certain the ash will fall when she runs the water and puts the cigarette out in the sink. She moves back to the cutting board and continues to chop. Tears collect in the corners of her eyes, and she uses the back of her hand to wipe them as they cascade down her cheek. She leans and stirs what simmers on the stove.
“Does that hurt?” I ask.
She picks her head up and looks at me.
“Does what hurt?”
“You’re crying.”
She laughs, “I’m not crying.”
Running a finger along the knife, she detaches stuck onions and moves the cutting board away, to the other end of the counter.
“The onions burn my eyes, that’s all.”
Just then, Mr. Johnson, Willow’s father, appears in the kitchen. He shuts off the radio and stands next to his wife. “What’s for dinner?”
“Soup,” Willow’s mother answers.
“I can see it’s soup. What kind of soup?”
Willow’s mother stops stirring and she rests the spoon on the counter. She covers the pot with its lid and relocates herself away from the stove.
“Pea soup,” she answers gently as she glances at us and smiles.
SUNLIGHT disappears from the sky as if a giant eraser has come and erased the light away. Darkness approaches against my wishes. Although I know I must go home, I hesitate.
Outside the sky is purple. The wind feels fresh on my skin, and I talk to God as I cross the backyard. It’s not like I talk about anything important; it’s not religious in any way, it’s not even a prayer, it’s just that I know He’s there. If anyone saw me doing this, they’d think I was crazy, so I speak without moving my lips. Like a ventriloquist’s, the voice comes from within, but I am sure that He hears me.
The back door is not locked, and I walk inside. There are no lights on. I feel for the switch and brighten the room. The screen door slams behind me, and everything inside feels still.
I call through the house, “Mom?”
She’s not in the kitchen or the den.
“Dad?” I’m hopeful as I continue past the bedrooms, but no one answers.
My younger brother doesn’t hear me calling. He’s in his room with the door closed. I peek in to find he’s sitting in the dark watching Star Trek. Without turning his head, he says, “Mom and Dad went out to eat. They’ll be back at nine. JoAnne’s babysitting.”
By now it’s dark outside, and I’m hungry again. I open the freezer door the way Bob Barker opens Door Number Two for his contestants. As a contestant chooses a trip to Hawaii, a set of dishes, a car, or a washer/dryer combination, I choose from tall, neat stacks of Swanson’s dinners: Hungry-Man turkey, macaroni and cheese, Swedish meatballs, or chicken pot pie.
THE next day is hot and sticky, nearly one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. I stroll through our backyard, stopping to touch blossoms on our trees. I pull a bud from its stem and petals unfold, revealing its center. Crawling through the hole in our fence, I emerge on the other side, in Willow’s backyard, and notice for the first time that it’s getting more difficult for me to fit.
Willow and I drift to her front lawn and sit under a tree, Indian style. We watch a family move into the house down the block and searching for clues, we scrutinize their belongings—sofas, paintings, and night tables—as they are unloaded from a truck and carried into their new home.
Willow takes a piece of gum from her pocket and begins to unwrap it.
“Can I have a piece?”
“It’s my last one,” Willow says.
I remind her that just yesterday I shared my last piece.
She lifts her eyebrows in disbelief.
“You gave me the smallest crumb, it was nothing.”
Snickering, she sticks out her tongue, frog-like, and holds the gum near the tip of it. She waits just long enough to make me think she might change her mind before she devours it. The gum folds as it enters her mouth.
I look away, absorbing my anger the way a paper towel absorbs spilled juice. I don’t say a word. The silence lies between us, heavy and unyielding. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Willow looking at me, waiting for the chance to bring me back in.
“Let’s go there,” she says, as she points down the block to our new neighbors.
I’m willing to let the uncomfortable moment pass for two reasons. One, I like the idea of spying on our new neighbors, and two, I don’t want to push Willow too far. If I stay angry, Willow will accuse me of making a big deal out of nothing, and she’ll snap. I can envision her face, eyes narrowing, the top and bottom lids almost touching, nostrils flaring, and I can hear what she’ll say.
“So why do you stay with me if I’m so mean? Why don’t you just go home?”
We walk down the block toward our new neighbors and see a boy near the side of the house. Head down, he’s leaning against the red brick.
“He’s cute,” Willow whispers, covering her mouth with her hand.
He has golden skin and while the sun seems to have darkened his body it has lightened his hair, leaving streaks of sunshine that dangle freely in front of his face. I can feel my heart pumping through my chest, and I’m actually afraid that this is noticeable.