Thirteen

She was nauseous.  Unsure if it was the eight hours spent driving in the summer heat without air conditioning or the impending visit eight years in the making.  Who was she kidding...it was the visit.

“If I had to chose someone on this planet to meet my father before...well, to meet him, it would be you,” he shared with her when they discussed her overnight stop.  

“OK.”

He watched a red, 2-door Sudan hesitantly roll down the street blatantly trying to read house numbers and stay on the pavement.  He met her in the driveway.  No expectations.  Increasingly nervous.  Why?

In all of this upheaval--she felt like home.

She checks herself out one last time in the rear-view mirror, accepts the disheveled look as reality and slips out of the driver’s seat.  Eight hours on the interstate with the windows down felt more like twelve and the shear desire to escape that car is the only thing propelling her forward now.  He wonders how, for days, he has been willing the hours to move faster--but in the last few, tries to lengthen every minute.

But there they were.  Adults.  Strangers.  His hesitance forces her to make the first move.

“Hey,” she broaches.

“Hey.”

“I made it,” she notes nonchalantly.

“Yup,”  he takes her in.

“Awkward. So fucking awkward.  He’s going to make me work for this,” she panics to herself.  “Hug him.”

Before he realizes what she’s doing, she’s maneuvered herself into his arms.  Not even close to comforting.  Not for either of them.  Quick release.

“Do you need to grab anything out of the car?” he asks.

“Uh, ya.”  She runs to her car, composes herself, and heads back up the driveway.

He is very grateful no one is home from work yet to witness this reunion.  It has to get better.

They make small talk.  She asks about his father, his other family, who she is going to meet.  He explains the new dynamics and how this living situation isn’t going to last much longer.  He just wanted to know his dad.  She understands nothing, but gets everything.  

As they talk, she gets flashes of their childhood--sitting on the paved stoop watching his three older sisters pile into their father’s car for the weekend leaving him behind.  Life was different now, but she sees the same boy in front of her as they wait for his father to come home for introductions.

His father eventually does.  Cordial greetings.  Skeptical inquiries about tonight’s sleeping arrangements.

They off-set the questions with an agreement to go out and get drinks.  Alcohol has to help.

It does.  Conversation is casual.  Long-time friends catching up through music and laughter.  They close down the bar and head back to his father’s house, knowing full-well this reunion tonight is short-lived.

Back in the driveway, he pulls her into his arms just as he had done countless times before tonight.  She melts the way she always did.  This moment should have been their, “hello”.  

She jokes to ease her own anxiety. “Don’t,” he replies, proving his strength by pulling her in closer.  One unit.  At first she doesn’t resist, but drunken antics set in and she spastically tries to wriggle her arms free from his.  He resists.  Their game continues as it always has.  

A game of cat and mouse from the driveway to the porch.  She’s quick, but he is always a step ahead in brute force.  He plays with her head.  He can see her wheels turning--she isn’t used to him flirting back.  She’s cautious.  

They’ve been here before many years ago.  Cat and mouse.  From the porch to the living room.  They give it a rest. Separate couches. Nothing has happened.  

She could be making the tension up in hear head as she thought she had always done.

Bantering continues.  She refuses to back down this time.  He’s going to let her think she’s won and allow her to bridge the gap.  She does.  Into his lap.  She hovers just long enough to force his lips into hers.  So easy.  

Cat and mouse.  From the living room to the bed room.  They catch sense in the most nonsensical situation. Almost twenty years of missed opportunities and conflicted emotions bottled into this one night together.  For the first time in their relationship, no games from either side.  

As the sun rises and sheds a new light on their friendship, he slips out of her arms to the awaiting couch downstairs.  The only time he has ever let go of her first.

In a few hours, she is back on the road towards home.  This time, driving far and fast away from him.

Twelve

“She’s on the bus?” he’s confused.  “What’s the occasion?”

She isn’t even positive this is her bus until she sees his face half-way back. 

“No ride today?”

“Nope.  No rehearsal either.”

He isn’t even sure how she gets back and forth to school anymore.  No one he knows has their license yet.

He catches a glimpse of the nervous red-head kid a few seats in from of him awkwardly sliding closer to the window and casually sliding his bag to the floor as she approaches them.  “Is this guy thinking she’ll sit with him?” Laughable.  She doesn’t even notice.

She drops everything in her arms into the empty seat available between the two.  “Yellow twinkie it is!  At least until I find someone to take me home.”  She kneels on the bench backwards and rests her head on the seat back.  “Whatcha been up to?”

“Nothing really.”

They continue this way for the 15 minutes it takes to get to their stop.  Same intersection they waited at day after day in elementary school.  She smiles at this thought. 

Bus stops.  They get off.  3 of them.  The nervous red-head kid gets off, too.  She glances at him awkwardly.

“Hi,” initiates the awkward red-head kid.

“Hi,” she responds.  “Sorry, I never realized you lived this close.”

“My house is between stops.  You guys were getting off, so I figured I might as well.”

“What the fuck?!” he thinks to himself.  “This guy never gets on or off here.”  He’s for sure walking her all the way home today.  He underestimated the red-head.

She knows why he’s walking her home and not cutting up his own street.  Jealous moron.

She passes up rides home for weeks just to see what happens. She isn’t at all interested in the red-head but hopes the jealousy will get him to try something for once.  Perhaps one of their static-charged hugs before he runs up the hill will evolve into something more interesting?

It doesn’t.  She’s humiliated. She takes someone up on their offer to ride her home.

He’s not sure where she went.

Eleven

The phone rings 3 or 4 times longer than she had hoped it would.  His sister answers and tries not to sound so surprised.  “Ya.  He’s here.  I’ll get him.”

“Hello?” He’s cautious.

“Can you come down?” Every ounce of her pleading, “Please, I need you.”

“That’s what all the girls say,” he ignores the desperation in her voice.

“I’m not…I mean…please?”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“Be there in 5.”  He hangs up.  They both know he could be there in 1.  She times him.  It takes him 8 minutes to round the pines into her yard.  He walks right in.

“You rang?”

“I’m not sure why.”

“Not helpful,” he can tell she’s in pain but can’t help but bridle a bit. 

She’s not listening to him.  She feels the bricks building on her chest and sucks in whatever air she can.  She’s crying.  He stands and stares at her.

“Why am I here?  What happened?” He wants to move in to her.  It takes every ounce of will-power to stand firmly in place.

She tells her story.  The night before.  The party.  She pieces together the remains of her shattered night.  He’s vengeful.  They broke her.  For the first time since he has been there, he truly notices her in front of him.  Her wet hair.  Her pale skin pink from repeated scrubbing.  Her eyes drawn. Broke what was his. 

All he wants is to make it all stop.  Fix it. Protect her. He's afraid to make contact. He's furious.  She locks eyes with his.  Decided.  Her body recognizes the folds of his arms and fills every inch.  He doesn’t relax. 

“Who was it?”  He isn’t really asking. 

“Someone random.  You don't know him.” She knows why he’s asking.

“I need a name,” he whispers harshly in her ear.

“No.”  The word tastes bitter coming from her mouth.  She’s irrationally calm.

“Tell me!”  He has never screamed at her before now.

She repeatedly denies him the information.  She knows what he’ll do.  She regrets all of this. 


His mind spasms with conflicting thoughts and emotions.  He grasps hold of one. He's infuriated with...her.

“Why did you call me then?! How were you expecting me to react?!”  He leaves her no time to answer.  “I don't know what you want!  You call me—I answer. I haven't heard from you in months.  You tell me something like this—and nothing?  Why am I here?”

“I don’t know,” she says almost inaudible. 

"Why are you protecting his guy?!"

It's him she's protecting. Too many things damaged. Enough.

“Fuck," he cradles the back of his head in his hands hoping to pull words from the ceiling. "You don’t get to call all of the shots like this!   Give me the name!”

Silence.  She stares blankly at the hardwood planks beneath her feet.  She looks up to the sound of him pounding his way out the back door.  He knows he can’t leave her like this.  She doesn’t see him walk up her yard.   

After several minutes, he reenters the house.  She is exactly the same.  He makes room for himself next to her on the couch and moves her closer.  She doesn’t resist. 

Damaged. Not broken.  He relaxes.

Ten

“She hates scary movies,” he recalls.  Not nice.  Very funny.  As he compares these two variables and multiplies both by his state of boredom—he decides this is a good idea.  “She never should have told me she was home by herself.”

Phone—check.  Voice changer machine—check.  Freaky white mask and nondescript black clothing—check.

Ring.  Ring.  Ring.

“Hello?” she says politely.

Silence.

“Hello?” she asks again.

Sounds of deep breathing.

“Hello?” This time, not as self-assured.

“I see you,” declares the harsh and deep tones on the other line.

“Excuse me!?” There is the attitude he knows well.  “Hello?  Who is this?”

“You’ve seen the movies, right?” The deep tone echoes.

“Just stop.   I know it’s you.  We just got off the phone,” she says covering her anxiety with a coy tone.

“Who am I?”

Silence.

Click.  She hung up first.  He’s got her.  Down the hill he goes.  Mask in hand. 

He watches her maneuver her way through the house locking doors and scanning the yard.  “This could be a scary movie,” he thought, “they have a lot of windows.”  She disappears into the house.  

Mask on.  Place marked.  He aims for the brick wall right outside of their 1^st floor, family room window.  She’s bound to watch TV.  He sits.  He waits.  She enters the family room and immediately notices his perch.  She crosses her arms indignantly.

Not what he was going for.  He lunges.  She screams.  She was only acting bravely before.  She is petrified.  She keeps telling herself that it is him.  Tries to calm her irrational fear and anger and frustration that he would find humor in all of this.

“It is him, right?” she pleads with herself.  Straight to the bathroom upstairs with the window to the roof.  If it’s a murderer in this pleasant community, she has an escape route.  If it’s him, she’ll scream strings of profanities at him as he victoriously traverses his hill. 

Nothing.  Stillness.  Shit.

She scales the side of the roof which looks out into her backyard.  There he sits—waiting for her.  Mask to his side, eyes beaming with satisfaction, “It took you long enough.”

“I fucking hate you.”

“Nice escape route.  Dare you to jump.”

Nine

“What am I doing over the weekend? Wait…what?!” she asks in a shrill tone.

“Don’t you ever check your voice mails?” He chuckles.  He knows the answer.

“I heard your voice. I called you back,” she answers dismissively.  “Answer me! What do you mean, ‘What am I doing this weekend?’”

“We’re flying up.”

Both of them.  She isn’t thrilled.  He reads her well.  She fakes it.  She squeals.  He makes small talk. 

“I’d love your advice on some good restaurants or places we can check out while we’re up there.  It’s not a long trip—but I’d like to show off the city—and see a different side of it myself.”

She gets it.  She’s going to meet the girlfriend.  He’s going to make sure of that. 

“I can’t wait to see you.”  She isn’t lying.  They’ve only gone 3 years this time.

“I’ll call you when we land.”

Eight

He’s gone.  They were just in class together.  She was just feeling guilty for not spending more time with him, for not letting him stay a few minutes longer before her parents came home from work, for only being his friend in private.

She stared at the barely visible, red-bricked peak of his roof.  She cried.

He told her that he was moving—moving far.  She wouldn’t look at him.  She made some cavalier comment about how it wasn’t fair to move a year and a half before graduation.  He wasn’t impressed with her response. 

“Shut up,” he thought to himself.  She heard him anyway. 

He wrapped himself around her as he always did.  It wasn’t difficult.  She fit well inside his arms.  Their minds went numb.  He could have kissed her.  He didn’t.  She could have kissed him.  She didn’t.

Neither of them knows how long they stood there on her back porch or how he walked away.

She retraced the path from her house to his in her mind.  The once worn-down trail past the pine trees, along side of the tall wooden fence, traversing up the hill--long overgrown with tangled weeds and new growth.

Seven

“He doesn’t say much,” her father concluded.

“Maybe he’s just quiet,” her mother suggests.

“Kiddo, where did your new friend come from?  Where does he live?”

“Up the hill, Dad.”  She points to a roof top not too far away.  One row behind their new home and a few houses to the left.  The red brick and grey shingled roof just barely peaking above their pine tree line. 

“Bud, does someone know where you are?”

He shrugs.  His 5 year old brain intently playing with her little black lab leashed to the back porch.  She is exploding with excitement to have a friend her age to play with. 

“Ok.  Well…don’t leave the yard, Baby Girl.”

“Kay, Daddy.”

“Come on, we can see them from the back of the house anyway,” her mother nudges opening the back door. 

“Want to play on my new swing set?” she suggests to him.

“No.”

“Want to play hide-and-go-seek?” she tries again.

“No.”

“Kay.”  She looks at him confused but eagerly suggests several more options.  He doesn’t respond.  “Want to play with the puppy?” She says, dejected. 

“Yep!”  He grabs the mangled tennis ball from the dog’s feet and launches it into the air. 

They play for hours.  Long after the puppy retreats into the house content and exhausted.  Her parents call her into the house for the night and worry about her new 5-year-old friend making it back to his house in the dark.  “He’s fine,” they conclude. Her mother waits and watches for signs of movement from the back door.  His shadow scampers across the driveway and a motion light grants her mother a sigh of relief. 

A scene to be played out countless times.

Six

Thanksgiving.  Senior year of college.  Everyone is home.  They wink from one side of the bar to the other.  Harmless flirting ensues.  

She spends the evening reliving the glorious and less so glorious days with people four years older and four years younger than her.  Quick mental math reveals that not everyone here tonight should be. 

She tucks her hands into the back pockets of the man’s jeans standing directly behind her while she chats casually with former friends and high school acquaintances.  She isn’t really paying attention to their responses.  The man doesn’t reject—pushing back against her to acknowledge she’s there. 

It’s a game. 

Much later, she feels a deliberate, male hand passing across her back as he makes his way through the thick crowd of people.  “History,” she tells herself, “nothing more than a shared history.”

Her designated driver decides it is time to go.  She makes for the exit with her friend—glancing around to say goodbye. 

They storm through the exit, scoffing at tonight’s turn-out and the people they have been reintroduced to.  Her aged, male acquaintance stands outside—equally intoxicated.

“Leaving, too?” she asks.  The man nods.  “Follow us back to your house so I know you don’t die.”  He agrees.

They pass the man’s house.  Her friend rounds the block with the man still behind them.   She says her goodbyes and thank you’s for a safe trip home and b-lines for the car parked behind them.  She opens the passenger door.

“Miss something?” she asks.  The man smiles, holds her face with both hands, and kisses her more deliberately than she has ever been kissed before. 

“Meet you between the yards in 10 minutes,” the man insists.

“I…ok.”

She’s no longer the handicap.  Their age difference, no longer a concern.

Five

She hates this part.  She does it all of the time, but she really hates this part.  Door open, screen door closed.  Someone is home.  She skips up the front steps and knocks on the wooden frame.  

“I’m going out!” he bursts from somewhere behind the haze of metal screen.  “I’ll be…around!”

Whew.  She follows him to the back of the house.  Basketball.  

The sound of the ball hitting the pavement soothes them both.  He tells her how their neighbor called the police yesterday because he can’t stand listening to that ball hit that pavement 24 hours a day.

“Ummm…What did they say?” she asks skeptically.

“They asked us nicely to limit our basketball playing.” He shoots.  3 points.  “Fuck him.”

More kids join the game.  She’s the automatic handicap.  The last one picked. He purposely doesn’t pick her.  Why lose?  

The older boy doesn’t mind.  She is on the older boy’s team most of the time.  She practices.  It’s futile.  They work together and rarely win.  She knows it’s her fault.

But this time it’s different.  They are playing 2 on 2—The older boy and her against him and his sister.  She takes a shot—it goes in.  The passes are flawless.  The older boy shoots—it goes in.  They are winning.  

She taunts him a bit.  He smirks.  He still doesn’t think she stands a chance.  He scores.

Check.  The older boy against him.  She somehow ends up with the ball.  They give her space.  There is no chance in hell she will make this shot.  Swoosh. 

Her eyes are huge.  The older boy picks her up and carries her around the driveway.  She wins.  He says nothing.  She taunts him some more.  The only thing she remembers is the flash of pain and warmth across her face and the sound of the basketball bouncing across the pavement.

His sister shrieks and holds her face into the twilight.  Blood.  “She’s swelling—Help me get her inside.”  He jumps on his bike and doesn’t come home until he sees the light on in her bedroom. 

Four

Her first middle school dance.  He’s still too young to go.  She nervously slips into her scandalously high heeled shoes which she still can’t believe her father let her purchase. 

“Is he coming down?” her father asks. 

“Is who coming down, Dad?” she responds indignantly. 

“PICTURES!”  Flash.  Mom naively saves the day.

She and her newest best friend pose for blinding shot after blinding shot.  Flash.  Flash.  Some posed, some posed to look as if they aren’t posing.  As she reenacts the process of putting on mascara for the 50^th shot, (flash) there’s a knock at the door.

He’s covered in snow.  Hair disheveled, clothed in battered jeans and an athletic jacket.   No one would know that he changed 3 times.  He’d never admit how he stood in the cold for 5 minutes in her backyard admiring the way she moved in that dress—Flash.

The only picture she now has of the 2 of them.