The Crazy That Happens

Sometimes crazy stuff happens and then sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes you can go through a whole week without having anything really amazing or interesting happen, and then some weeks are weeks from hell--you have a ton of homework, tests, quizzes, your lab partner's got chicken pox, and your parents just killed your allowance to help pay for the dent in the fender of their new car. Maybe you don't have a lab partner and you can't even drive yet--that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what you look like, or what school you go to, or who you hang out with. All that matters right now--as your eyes go from line to line--is that sometimes crazy stuff happens and then sometimes it doesn't.

HERE'S THE SCENE: Party after prom. Middle-class suburbia in a house.

This is someone's house, but most of the kids here don't know whose--and they don't care. That's just something that happens sometimes. You go to a party at someone's house, spill all kinds of stuff on the floor, puke in the tub, watch your friends pour malt liquor in the fish tank and then you go home without even knowing where you've been. Sure, maybe not you specifically, but that doesn't matter. Nor does it matter whose house this is, why no adults are around, or how these kids got a hold of two kegs and some bottles of liquor. All that matters is that crazy stuff is happening right now and you're watching.

MAIN CHARACTERS:

Carvi Macaroni–17, fast-food worker, bored with extra-curriculars, has a huge crush on Wes Pudinski, went to prom with Wes and did not have fun. Normal height, normal weight, long brown hair she wears in a braid most of the time.

Wes Pudinski–17, plays baseball, uses Carvi when he needs to, does not learn from mistakes. Tall, muscular, short red hair, wears ball cap wherever he goes, left ear pierced.

Tony Verde–16, a good friend to have, sensitive/caring guy, has poster of Christina Aguilera on his bedroom ceiling, parents killed by drunk driver. Average height, six-pack gut, cocoa skin, hair long enough for girls to run hands through.

Michelle Duphopolous–17, almost 18, on dance team at school, parents are loaded with dough. Short, good build, medium length dark hair that is very curly, tongue ring.

NOT-SO-MAIN CHARACTERS: Twenty-three other high school teens.

Carvi has been smoking for six months now. She steals packs of cigarettes from her father's stash in the kitchen pantry. At night, she touches herself and thinks of Wes being on top of her. Wes does not know this and she will not tell him. She won't tell anyone, not even her best friend Michelle. Wes has this thing about himself that boils down to him thinking that he's better at most things than he really is. He's a pretty good short-stop, that's about it. Sometimes his acne gets out of control and he feels insecure so he runs to Carvi for some affection. She always gives it to him. The guy has been treating her this way for two years now--ever since they broke up after five months of going out for a pizza and to a movie. Even though he'll deny this if you ask him, he broke up with Carvi because she wouldn't have sex with him. BUT...she still digs him so that's that.

The only reason Carvi is at this party is because she's a push-over. Michelle talked her into coming tonight--and Wes wanted to come, too. Carvi Macaroni hates her last name and used to get teased when she was a chunky little girl. Two years ago Wes told her to lose more weight so she stopped eating three times a day. She cut it down to once a day and started exercising whenever she had a free minute. Walking two miles before school then jogging two miles after school became her daily routine. When school got out for the summer, she would watch television on her stationary bike and ride fifteen or twenty miles a day. On top of that, she was taking a diarrhetic three times a week, throwing up the food she just ate, and lying to her parents when they asked about all the fast food bags in the trash. Carvi would tell them that she had her friends over sometime during the day. Then she got really sick and was admitted to the hospital for a week. She'd lost thirty pounds too fast and her body couldn't handle it. She was dehydrated and way too thin to be healthy.

After twenty-one counseling sessions and a healthy diet, Carvi has gained back fourteen pounds. And she still rides her stationary bike five times a week for exercise. Crazy stuff happens sometimes, and Carvi still liking Wes is crazy. Right now, she and Wes are in the kitchen eating pretzels. Wes has a cup of beer and is looking for a way to ditch Carvi.

Michelle Duphopolous went to the prom with her kind-of boyfriend, but he isn't at this party because he has church tomorrow. So she came to the party with Tony, Wes, and Carvi. Tony never asked a date to the prom but went alone and had a blast. He danced with all the girls who had boyfriends afraid to cut loose and jam with their friends. Tony told the girls they had wuss boyfriends. While at the prom, he thought that he might get lucky later on because he's what the girls call a hottie without being a real hottie. That just means that he's got a sweet smile, good manners, charm, and a tight butt. He's not like Wes, Mr. Hunkyman, but he's got other stuff to offer the ladies and they know it.

Michelle, unlike Carvi, likes her last name, and she is a tad bit more secure with herself than her best friend. Instead of a thumb on her left hand she has a nub, but it doesn't bother her- -she was born like this. Michelle has been experimenting with inhalants at home as a way to get a quick buzz. Dying from the experimentation has never crossed her mind. Some kids are smoking pot around the side of the house right now. But she's not with them. She's with Tony on the couch and his hand is touching the side of her thigh, and he is so turned on by her tan legs. Michelle wore a very short, tight, red dress to the prom, but now she's wearing a pair of cut-off jeans with a gold top. And Tony's got on his favorite blue cargo pants with a gray Adidas T-shirt. Nasty thoughts are running through his head right now but Michelle has no clue.

Tony is really good at math and he really digs his math teacher, Ms. Pepper. He's the teacher's pet and he loves it. More than anything he wants to be a math teacher, and he studies his butt off so he can get into either Stanford, Duke, or Penn State. Michelle gets her highest grades in Technological Advancements of the New Millennium. Chatting on-line with boys from other countries is what she's mostly into. A boy in Rome, whom she chats with on a regular basis, is teaching her little bits of Italian that she practices each night before going to bed. And Michelle keeps her home-page up-to-date with the details of recent dates, what happened on that week's episode of Popular and Dawson's Creek--that sort of stuff. Lots of girls hit on her page to get the scoop on certain guys. Michelle is still a virgin, but also a flirt. Though she never comes right out and says she's slept with any certain guy, she doesn't mind embellishing a bit about her dates.

Michelle and Tony are getting cozy on the couch. Right now Tony would love to make a move on Michelle even though he knows that he'd get shot down. The way she smells is driving him crazy and he really likes the way she talks to any and everyone. It never crosses her mind that Tony is turned on because they have been close friends for six years. Michelle stands up and stretches her arms over head, exposing a tanned belly. Tony's eyes stare.

Wes is talking with a fellow baseball player by the fireplace. Destiny's Child is blaring from the stereo speakers. Four girls are dancing in a circle by the speakers and they're singing loud. One girl looks a lot like Lucy Liu. Wes and the guy he's talking to are looking at the girls and commenting on their bodies, marking each one with a score from one to ten. The reason Wes knows the girl with the tight lavender dress is a ten is because he's been with her before. Back in February they had unprotected sex in the band room at school. One week later, when his pissing got unbearably painful, he went to a nearby clinic to find out what was wrong. Turns out he had chlamydia and was prescribed some pills to take care of things. At first, Wes was really pissed off that lavender-dress girl gave him chlamydia, but after talking with the doctor, he found out that she probably doesn't even know she has the disease because the symptoms in girls can take years to show up. What's crazy is that Wes never told the girl that he got chlamydia from her.

Two minutes ago Carvi was on the back porch trying to have a conversation with a boy from her Spanish class but he kept trying to kiss her. His name in class is Francisco but she's not sure what his real name is. He smelled like beer and cigar and Carvi was getting sick from the smell. So she got up and walked to the line outside the bathroom. The girl in front of her is talking to her friend about being alone with the guy Wes is talking to. Because they see that Carvi is standing there, they don't say any more. Carvi really wants to go home, but she also wants to see what can happen with Wes a little later on. She can't get him out of her head.

The guy that Carvi was talking to on the porch has just found her and he sweeps her away into the dining room. As he kisses her mouth she thinks he's gross. Now she thinks to hell with Wes and she gets into the kissing. She reaches down and squeezes this kid's butt. A return squeeze is given and Carvi feels good. Smiling as she kisses makes the whole thing even more awkward. His braces have cut her lip. When he turns to puke on the carpet, Carvi walks away to find Michelle.

Michelle is not on the couch anymore. She and Tony have walked outside to the pool area. Michelle has a cup of beer in her hand. She really doesn't like beer, but she's drinking it anyway. The same kids are still smoking pot on the side of the house, and Michelle and Tony go over. After taking a hit, she passes the joint to Tony. He declines and that's cool with her. So she passes it off to the guy who brought the four joints. The party has been going on for an hour and already this is the third joint of the four. There are five people standing with Michelle and Tony and they are stoned stoned stoned, laughing and carrying on. One of the guys keeps looking over his shoulders.

Wes is in the upstairs bathroom with a girl he knows from school. Her name is Lois and she's new to the neighborhood. Sitting on the counter in front of Wes, she lets him touch her bare breasts while they kiss. Wes has an erection and he wants to do something about that. He pulls Lois from the counter and leads her into the adjoining bedroom. They take turns strip- teasing. Walking to lock the door, Lois trips on a shoe and falls. But Wes doesn't ask if she's okay--he just lies there and laughs. The lights are off and they are on the floor kissing and groping each other. Both of them are feeling the brunt of the alcohol. On top of Lois, Wes fumbles around for a few moments before the penetration starts.

Tony has left Michelle with those five other guys and now he is talking with a very tiny girl. He is laughing at a joke she just told him and he touches her arms. That horny feeling returns to Tony's body as she whispers into his ear. He pulls the girl's hand to his lips and kisses it. Now she is blushing and telling him that he's sweet. Playing this girl would not be Tony's style. He really likes her and has for a few months. One problem Tony has is that he likes all kinds of girls at the same time. He just likes to experience new things with different girls. That's something his aunt told him was part of growing up.

Six minutes after starting, Lois and Wes are finished. Here they come downstairs. Wes has a big hickey on his neck. Just as he rounds the corner, Carvi spots him and flags him down. When she sees the mark on his neck, she starts kissing him, grabs his crotch, and he yelps because it's still a bit sensitive from the action upstairs. Carvi doesn't care. She keeps grabbing and grabbing. Wes is wondering why she's being so aggressive. She unbuttons his shorts and pulls them down, boxers and all. Wes's mouth is hanging open. Three guys standing close by start laughing and yelling at Wes. Then Carvi turns around and walks away--goes to sit on the couch and is offered a cup of beer. Knowing that she does not handle alcohol well, she accepts the beer and sits with a girl on the couch drinking away. Carvi gulps and gulps. She knows that she may puke like her kissing friend, but she doesn't care. The cigarettes in her pocket are burning a hole so she goes outside to smoke.

TIME CHECK: A few hours later. The house is emptying out.

Michelle and Carvi are dancing with some other girls on the back porch. They are laughing and pretending to be pop stars. Although the night air is getting chilly, all of the dancing girls have taken off their tops and are parading around in their bras. Now Carvi quickly puts her shirt back on because she's embarrassed. After three cups of beer and four hits on a joint, Michelle's buzz rocks so much it worries her because she didn't realize how much she was taking in. When she is offered a swig from a bottle of tequila, she plays it cool saying that she hates tequila and got sick on it at another party. Carvi and Michelle go to a quiet spot near the pool house to talk. Carvi has just seen Wes and can't stop crying. Michelle hugs her and tells her that Wes is a jerk anyway and that she should forget about him. Michelle doesn't know this yet, but a drunk boy just spilled beer on his pants and he's mopping it up with her shirt.

The girl who gave Wes chlamydia is talking to his friend--the same one he was talking with by the fireplace. Wes sees the two of them heading to the downstairs bedroom. Because he doesn't want to feel like a prick, he lets his friend go with the girl. Wes sees Tony in the kitchen and the two of them do shots of vodka. This is all that Tony has had to drink, except for a warm can of Coke that he found in the garage. Wes is really blitzed and starts slurring his words and hanging all over people. There are flecks of powdered cheese in the corners of his mouth and his finger tips are orange from the puffy cheese things he's been stuffing into his mouth. Right now Wes's very loud voice can be heard over the very loud music. And he's got cheesey finger streaks down the length of his white T-shirt. What a mess he is. Even guys try their best to stay clear of him. He tries to dance with the pretty girls on the porch and falls. No one helps him up. Not feeling so good, he stays put for a few minutes.

Carvi wants to leave the party because she has to be home by two-thirty. She tells Michelle to go sit on the couch and wait for her. When Tony flops down beside her, the poor guy starts hiccupping. Michelle giggles at him. By this time, Wes has made his way into the bathroom to throw up. He gets most of it in the toilet, but the rest splatters on the ceramic tiles. He doesn't clean it up because it's not his house and he won't get into any trouble. Wes walks out of the bathroom and plops down on the couch beside Michelle. When she smells his putrid stink, she sits on Tony's lap to escape. Of course, Tony doesn't know what to make of Michelle's mixed signals. He guesses it's just the alcohol--he also knows that Michelle's a flirt. Because she is not wearing a shirt, and can't even find the one she came with, Tony offers to find her one. He goes to an upstairs bedroom and rummages through some drawers. Five minutes later he returns with a very large purple T-shirt. It reaches Michelle's knees, but she's short anyway. The four leave the house.

Michelle knows that she can hardly see straight. Tony does not have his driver's license. Wes is a mess. So that leaves Carvi. It is her car and she did promise to drive everyone home. Even though she's feeling a little light in the head, she decides to drive. The four pile into the car. None of the kids at the party knew this, but the cops had set up a drunk-driver's check-point. When Carvi makes a right onto Hillcrest Avenue, she gets a rude awakening. Wes tells her to play it cool and nothing will happen. A bit relieved that Wes said that, Carvi begins to think that she can pass on through without any problems. Right after Carvi pulled away from the curb, someone called that house to warn the others of the check-point. Too bad for Carvi and her crew that they didn't wait a few extra minutes before leaving.

THE SCENE: Police station off the boulevard. Two-forty AM.

At the police station, the kids sit in a cell not speaking to anyone. Because they are under eighteen, each of these teens needs to be picked up by a parent or other adult family member. Carvi has called her father. Michelle has called her father. He wants Michelle to suffer in jail for the night, but Mrs. Duphopolous convinces him to go and get their daughter now. And Wes's parents have left town for the night, so he will call his older brother who is sick with the flu. First he has to take time out to puke in a trash can. Tony has called his aunt. There are seven other kids from their school in the same cell. Carvi is crying on Michelle's shoulder because she knows that her parents will not trust her for a very long time. Tony knows that his aunt will want to kick his ass for being so stupid. Before he left the house, she told him to use his head.
Mr. Macaroni has just arrived. His daughter's license will be revoked for six months and her car has been impounded. This, he is told, is what happens to all under-age drunk drivers. Because he is so pissed off, Mr. Macaroni yells at everyone in the cell for being so irresponsible. He doesn't care whose kids they are. All of the kids in the cell don't know that one guy from the party gunned his car down the street and crashed into a parked van. His neck was broken and he was taken to the hospital, paralyzed.

LAST SCENE: Funeral home, four days later.

Sometimes crazy stuff happens and sometimes it doesn't. But a lot of the crazy that does happen is not good crazy. It may feel like good crazy or fun crazy at the moment, but later, you might change your mind. Or get it changed for you. Take, for instance, the kid with the broken neck. When he gunned that car down the street, that was fun crazy to him. But he's no longer laughing.

Counseling sessions at school are available and the kids got half the day off to attend the services. Placed here and there are pots and displays of pretty flowers. Carvi and Michelle are whispering near a large mirror with two other girls from school. Lots of teenagers are mulling around the parlor talking to each other in loud whispers. Some have never been to a funeral before. Most of these kids are wondering how the crash happened because their friend wasn't that drunk.

There is a short service for the boy who died. His parents are very distraught and his little sister is just sitting there like a zombie. Once the service is over, the congregation moves into the parlor again for a spread of finger foods. The casket is wheeled into the parlor and will be taken to the cemetery when guests leave. Groups of guys huddle in the corners talking about how much they drank at the various after-prom parties. And there's Wes talking in one of the groups. The navy jacket he's wearing is too small for him and his baggy khakis are in dire need of ironing. He just told his friend that something like this would never happen to him because he knows how to drive under the influence. The friend turns slowly to look at the closed casket.

JOURNAL ESSAY

May 14, 2001

Mr. Ziggler wants us to write an informal "essay" in our journal about a person that has inspired us. I like write. I'm sure he thinking of a positive roll model like Oprah, Mia Hamm, or my Uncle Wayne who's a pedeatrician. After some serious thought I decided that the person who has inspired me the most is my mother because she's alcoholic. And this essay will pretty much talk about the bad that goes along with living with my mother how she has inspired me not to be just like her.

Alright. Here goes nothing I guess.

To begin with, to most people, I probably seem like a regular fifteen year old girl in tenth grade. When I was younger, I thought that all families were made up of a mom, a dad, a daughter, a son, and some sort of pet with a goofy name. I been taking care of my brother Danny since I was nine. That's when Dad left us with nothing but a dirty little house. Even still, that's better than what some people have. Mom had to get a job to support Danny and I. She's had four or five jobs since then I think.

Not too long after my dad left, this guy Dirk moved in and my mom started drinking a lot more. Which was more than she did when she and my dad were together. I know that my dad's mother was an alcoholic too, and I also know that kids of alcoholics have a good chance of being one themselves. (Not me though. No way.) I guess all that's besides the point. Dirk and Mom would stay up all night doing shots of whatever until they passed out. One morning I found them bare naked on the living room floor and covered them with a brown Mexican blanket before Danny saw. You can call me overprotective if you want to. But I had to grow up alot faster than the kids I know at school. It sure isn't easy taking on the mother role when I want to hang out with friends or join an after-school club but I do it for Danny because he's too little to do everything for himself.

I liked Dirk. He didn't swear in front of us like Mom does. He made sure the bills were paid on time (for the most part), and he even tossed around an old football with Danny once in a while. One night Dirk came into my bedroom to talk about Mom. I cried and he hugged me. I know he felt bad for us kids.

"You get drunk too," I said to him.

"Yeah, but I can control my drinking."

"Can't you make her stop? What if you don't drink with her?"

"I don't all the time. She don't need anyone to drink with her, Erika."

"I wish you could control her."

"I control myself. The alcohol controls her," he said.

Unfortunately, about five months or so after that conversation Dirk left us. Mom made him leave. I heard him yelling at her one night because she was cursing at him because he didn't have any more money to give her. She was calling him all kinds of bad names that she should have been calling herself, really. (Mom has a tendancy to yell and get really mad when she's drunk and can't have her way all the time.) All of sudden, he threw her cheap bottle of vodka against the wall. She tackled him and knocked out his tooth. There was blood all over him and the floor. Danny started crying and hugging my waist but I didn't know what to do so I just stood there like I was frozen, like in a scary movie when the killer is walking toward the victim and the victim can't do anything but stand and scream. I tried to cover his ears is all I could do. Mom walked away like nothing happened. I gave Dirk an old towel to help stop the bleeding. We haven't seen him since.

I learned about alcoholics in Health class last year. It seemed like someone had wrote about my mom in the textbook. What it said was that some alcoholics are happy and carefree. Then there are those like my mom they always make piecrust promises, get violent on occasion, and blame other people or things for their life being crappy. Many alcoholics have jobs and function in society--they don't have to be the stereotypical, bummy slobs on the street corner.

From my own experience, I know I can't control my mom's drinking or cure her. Sometimes I lay in bed and I wish I could turn into a superhero and change things because this stupid disease is effecting the whole family. She doesn't get drunk everyday but I see her drink everyday. Sometimes she can be pleasant and we all get along. But other times, she gets so mad over the most stupidest things that I think she must be going crazy. And there are other times when I want to feel sorry for her when she's crying and being nice to us. That sorry feeling just doesn't come all the time because its too hard to forgive her for being mean and irresponsible.

I won't say I want a normal mother. The Carol Brady kind is not realistic to me anyway. I just want the kind of mother who cares about her kids and herself. For example, the kind that picks me up from school and takes me to the mall to buy new shoes or teaches me how to bake brownies or shows me how to do anything useful really. Mine hardly even speaks to me. And when she does its usually to boss me around.

One night about a year ago Danny and I were cleaning up the kitchen. We heard a car spin wheels on the street then Mom came stumbling through the door. Neither one of us said anything to her because she had promised to be home to make dinner for us. Before she left for work she was excited about it. Then that all changed.

"Can't you say hello to your mother?"

"Hello, Mother," I said to the dishes.

"Look at me! Whodaya think you're talking to?" A drunk lunatic. I thought, as she grabbed my arms and shook me. Then she turned toward Danny and cursed him for looking like our father. Before I could react she shoved my face into the dirty dishwater and mashed my nose into the sink. Danny pushed her away then she started throwing Grandma's crystal animal figurines on the floor, knocking stuff off the counter, and causing a huge mess that Danny and I had to clean up. I cried later about the crystal animals because she smashed them to pieces. Mom knew I really liked those figurines too. I stood there dripping dirty dishwater all on the floor like I was frozen. For example, just like that time with Dirk and his tooth. Even though she's made me so mad and upset over the past however many years, I have never tried to hurt her deliberitely. Talk about growing-up quick. Later that night I saw her on the couch, rocking back and forth, hugging herself. She was mumbling something that sounded like "sorry" but I never got any closer. That was one of those times I kind of wanted to feel sorry for her, but she had physically hurt me and I just couldn't do it.

That time in the kitchen was the first incident like that. There's been a couple more pretty similar like when Danny hurt his arm playing baseball. Instead of comforting him, she told him to be a man. (If she hadn't been drinking I don't think she would have said that.) I pushed him into the bathroom, filled up the sink with cold water, added some ice, and made him soak his arm for twenty minutes. I'm not sure how I knew to do that, but I did. Mom really made me mad. She didn't even care that he was hurt. That sucks big time.

Furthermore, it's stuff like that that makes my mom so inspirational. My mom works six hours a day, five days a week at a coffee shop a few blocks away. I guess she makes pretty good money. Even there I'm sure she sneaks whatever cheap liquor she has into her tea. She won't drink coffee because she says it's bad for the body. When the bills need to be paid, there's always her checkbook and a note on the table telling me to deposit the money and pay the bills. I must be fair and say that now my mom makes sure there's enough money for food and bills. Two years ago, my Uncle Wayne had to bail us out of hot water almost every month.

Grandma asked me once if I wanted to live with her and Poppy in St. Louis, but I told her that I couldn't do that. She sends me money to buy Danny new clothes when he needs them, school supplies, and what she calls odds and ends. Also, Uncle Wayne drops by every other month or so to talk with Mom. He's my mom's brother Uncle Wayne also takes Danny twice a season to watch the Phillies play. That's something Danny looks forward to all year long.

I used to wonder why my family members don't force my mom to get help.

"We've all tried," Uncle Wayne told me during a visit. "She doesn't want to hear anything we have to say. Tells us to stay out of it. She says, I pay the bills. Those kids don't starve. I'm sorry, Erika."

I asked why he keeps trying. He asked why I didn't move to St. Louis.

"Because I love her," I whispered.

"Me too."

"She's not drunk all the time and when she's not, I really like being around her. She's a good cook. And she and I get all dressed up in her good clothes sometimes and put on tons of make-up. That's fun."

"Sounds like it, kid," Uncle Wayne said and he hugged me.

"It just seems like she hates us more than she loves us."

"Don't question whether or not she loves you, Erika. Your dad was no good for her or anyone else. It's too bad that she let herself get sucked into all of this. Now she can't get out."

"And that's her fault," I said.

"Yes. That's her fault."

Believe me when I say that I have asked my mom to get help, but it's like she doesn't even hear what I'm saying. It makes no sense to me--maybe it makes sense to her, I don't know. She won't even try to help herself. Mom has her up days and down days, but most of the time she hardly notices my existence. For example, when she's sobber and home then she's usually watching television or talking on the phone. If she ever asks about school I tell her what's going on, but she seems bored with what I'm saying. That makes me study harder so I can stop thinking about her and her problems because I have a life to live myself. And I want it to be a better life than the one she has.

Basically, I am a fifteen year old with no real social life. I hang out with friends from school once in a while on the weekends. A lot of the time they just want to drink some beer. I hate that. I'm not about to tell them about my mom though because I would be humilliated. Sometimes I stick around a party and not drink anything with alcohol. It scares me. My friends think that I'm allergic to alcohol because that's what I told them to get out of being pressured to drink. To add to that, I'd really rather not start killing any brain cells at fifteen. AND I don't want to end up like my mother or like Dean Davis--he's paralyzed from the waist down from driving drunk after Rob Green's party last month. Unfortunately, he killed a married couple that had a three-month-old baby girl with them. It was horrible.

Danny and I cannot have friends come to the house. Danny wants his little friends to spend the night and make sleeping bag forts and be a nine year old boy. He can't. I can't have any friends over to listen to CDs or watch movies. It feels like our lives are being put on hold because of something my mom doesn't want to give up. We aren't able to lead normal lives because we have an alcoholic mother. Maybe if my dad wasn't an alcoholic too then Mom wouldn't be the way she is. And because he left her with us on her own, she's very angry. That's what I think, anyway. Poppy never liked my dad because he feels like my dad dragged my mom down the tubes. That's kind of what Uncle Wayne said too. I just can't understand why my mom doesn't want to help herself get better. I hear her crying pretty often. Mumbling to herself, saying sorry about this and that. This just doesn't make any sense. Sometimes I go to her and let her hug me and pat my hair down and sometimes I just let her feel alone. (She's the cheese–she stands alone.) However, I do want to hug her back and really love to be with her, but she makes that too hard and I get pushed away then I feel bad so I go read something or do my homework over again.

In addition, it's not fair. I could leave Danny to fend for himself. I could worry about my mother until I make myself sick. However, that would cause my grades to fall and I will not let her sickness ruin my future. Someone has to be responsible. When Mom's crying and screaming and tearing things apart I clean up her mess. And now Danny seems to be turning into a neat freak. For example, goes around the house with a dust cloth when he comes home from school. He makes sure everything is in place for when Mom gets home. Maybe he thinks that'll help her somehow me, I'm either studying or reading something. I try to make sure that she's up in time to get to work. Sometimes she drinks so much she cannot get up on time and has to go in late. As a result, that's how she got fired from her other jobs.

When school gets out in a few months, I'll be working at the community center. Being a day camp counselor for five weeks should be fun and Danny gets to attend the camp for free. We both like that idea. Plus, I'll be making $6.50 an hour so that's pretty good money for a six hour day playing games with fourth and fifth graders.

To conclude, when I told Mom about the job she actually smiled then told me to make sure I kept the house clean. I rolled my eyes, but not so she could see. And she even drove me to Wal-Mart so I could get some new khaki shorts and two red tee shirts. Of course, when we got home, she made herself a drink. My mom may not be a good role model, but she's a great inspiration.

Leo Capistrano Tells Last Week's Tale

Most weeks, nothing extraordinary ever happens. Unless you call extraordinary me going a few days without a zit erupting on my face like a volcano. Actually, now that I think of it, that would be extraordinary because I get zits all the time. I'm not alone, though. My Del Rio school is one big oozing pimple. Instead of Harbor High School, we should be called Zit-Zone High and our mascot should be a humongous bottle of Neutrogena, because, according to dermatologists, it is the number one recommended acne fighter! (I've seen way too many commercials. But Jennifer Love Hewitt in a towel is something I can watch over and over.) Like I was saying, most weeks are boring for me, but last week...yeah, last week was...well, I'll get to that in a minute.

I know that lots of kids have parents who don't even talk to them about the stuff that needs to be discussed. Like not drinking, not smoking, succeeding in life–that sort of thing. And some of the kids I know hardly even have a relationship with their parents. But my parents and I have a pretty good relationship. The whole family, that includes my twin sisters, plays board games on Saturday nights, at least twice a month. Mom and Dad usually leave me to sit with my sisters the other two Saturday nights. My point is that my parents talk to me and are interested in my life. But, even though they ask me about school and keep track of my studies, they have no clue at all about the pickings I get. Now, I don't wanna come across to you like this kid that gets beat up all the time because that's not it at all. Yes, I do get picked on. I'd rather have some moron call me names and maybe poke me, than pummel me once a week in the locker room then shove my face into a pile of crap in the toilet. That's why last week...oh, last week.

Just so you know, I'm a pretty small guy for sixteen. And being small makes me a target. I think I'm a pretty average and good-looking guy. I'm not that big into fashion, but I always match and smell good. However, I'm only five-seven right now and I weigh like a buck-twenty. Sometimes I try to find my muscles, but it gets so tiring and depressing that I just give up. And Meeko...well, I feel bad for Meeko. He's only three inches taller than I am but he outweighs me by a good eighty pounds. The two of us hanging out draws attention, and kids sometimes chant, "Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean."

I've gotta tell you more about my best friend. Meeko usually mumbles something to the idiots who chant at us, about him being rich and one day stomping on all of those little people, firing them from their jobs or not hiring them at all. And that laugh he cackles is kind of like when Dr. Frankenstein brings his monster to life. It's a maniacal laugh. I believe he'll do it some day when he's able to because Meeko's family is really, really rich. When the time comes, Meeko has his pick of four successful businesses to take-over. There are times when I feel like he will snap on some prick guy who goes too far. Even so, I don't think he's the type to blow up a school or something like that. As a matter of fact, Meeko and I talk about revenge a lot, but in non- violent ways. Those guys from PE have had it coming for a long time. Then, last week, we actually put some of our little plans into action.

Okay, well, because I'm so stinking short and skinny, and because I'm so darned lucky to be in gym class with like every guy that plays anything remotely athletic at my school, I absolutely, utterly, entirely, infinitely, and unadulteratedly hate going to PE. Like I was saying, I detest gym class, and Meeko is not too fond of it either. At least, though, he can throw far and knock guys down when we play anything that involves contact. Meeko never abuses his power on smaller guys. It's funny sometimes to watch him one-on-one with some prick. When there's more than one, the trouble starts.

Now, I give you last week, beginning after dinner.

Sunday: Meeko stopped by and we hung out in the garage for an hour or so just talking about our targets. He asked me, as if he really needed to, if Linda had talked to me yet. Of course that was a stupid question because he'd be the first to know after me. (That's Linda Hamburgh, a girl that I really dig. I have never tried talking to her because that's not the easiest thing in the world for me to do, and she has never attempted talking to me. More on her later.) So, we made a short list of guys to hit, then we made a longer list of guys to hit, recycling some of the names. Meeko wanted to put Mr. Krull's name on the list (he's one of our PE instructors) but I told him to leave the teachers out of it.

"That's the problem, man," Meeko said, sitting down on my old mini-bike. I was hoping the tires would support all that weight. And they did–somehow. "They're out of it. They see those pricks pick and pick at us and stuff and they don't do a damn thing about it. I want 'em on the list–at least Krull 'cause he's the worst."

Meeko had a point, but I convinced him that we didn't want a bunch of static from teachers.

"Okay, so you wanna do all this stuff without gettin' caught and without gettin' the recognition? You're nuts, man. You're a handful of cashews, man. No, a big old scoop of almonds and walnuts mixed together–that's what you are."

"Thanks, Giani," I said, dropping to the floor from the pull-up bar my dad hung forever ago. "So what if we don't get any attention? That makes it better." At this point, my friend pulled out a Kit-Kat he had in the pocket of his black pull-aways and he opened it up. He offered me one stick but I refused it. I could tell it was all hot and melted–Kit-Kats are best right out of the fridge. Anyway, I knew that Meeko was not convinced of what I was saying. "Look, this isn't about recognition, my friend, it's about retribution! Vindication! Retaliation!" I was beginning to feel like Patrick Henry rallying the colonists. "Righting all the wrongs even if that stupid saying two wrongs don't make a right is right." I stopped to catch my breath. I was really worked up.

"You're a confusing somethin' else, man. Don't get all–"

"I just want the satisfaction of knowing that the two of us, Leo Capistrano and Meeko Giani, made the big tough guys look stupid and silly and that other stuff." I felt that maniacal Meeko laugh welling up in me like a geyser about to shoot toward the sky. But I held it back. The mile-wide smile on my face showed enough emotion. Meeko, however, did laugh. His whole body shook and jiggled. Then I had to let out my own laugh, but it wasn't a geyser laugh. It was just a regular old Leo laugh. Kind of loud and fast, but not too distracting.

Monday: Saw Meeko just after first period. We were both on our way to Honors Biology. Had a substitute which was pretty cool because Meeko and I discussed our plans a bit more. Went to gym class later with a smile on my face that some six-foot tall guy almost knocked off with a volleyball. After school I went to my job at Zucchini's Sundries. Guess who walked in? As usual? Oh, but the lovely and fair Linda Hamburgh. (Too dramatic?) I wonder what she eats on her hamburgers or does she only eat veggie burgers? Her long, curly auburn hair is so curly, just like curly fries that go with a nice juicy hamburger. I want to touch her hair and her skin that looks like a bar of Ivory soap. Okay, it's not that white. Linda comes into Zucchini's Mondays and Thursdays after she leaves choir practice.

This is as good a time as any to talk more about Linda. I did say that I'd get back to her. You may wonder why, if she's always at the drug store, I have not really talked to her. It's because I always pretend to be really busy. I know a lot about biology and math, not girls and dating. One of my uncles told me it would come naturally. Yeah, right. Anyway, I look up at the ceiling mirrors and watch Linda and her friends go from aisle to aisle, staying an aisle ahead or behind them. Sometimes I get caught off-guard when I'm really, really busy. Then all of a sudden she's there in front of the magazine rack or filler paper. Or she's browsing the shelves for hair conditioner and face cream. Her skin may be smooth and clean, but she gets pimples like the rest of us. Linda has a very natural look, as if she can just leap from her warm bed into the bathroom, give herself a quick look, brush her radiant hair and bright white teeth, and be finished with herself for the day. At least she looks that way to me. Once in a while I'll be at the register and I ring her out, but she always has her head turned, talking to one of her friends. Every so often, though, she looks at me. That's a good sign, right? Anyhow, I work everyday after school except for Wednesdays.

Tuesday: Not much happened this day. I had a geography test. It always makes me laugh when I study and get good marks, then the lame-o jocks (not that all jocks are lame-o's) think that they can just breeze through by cheating or getting a padded mark. It can maybe work in other classes, but not in Mahoney's. That guy's last name should be Hawk because he watches you like one–like a vulture–like a bob cat–like a lion. Besides that, he sneaks up on you. I never cheat, but he has a way of making me feel like I am or that I have. Hawk-eyes will come and look over my shoulder for thirty or forty seconds and watch the answers come out of my pen. He hates it when a kid gets a perfect on his test and then gets the extra-credit right. Ha, ha, sucker!

Wednesday: Our plans were coming together a bit more. Because I did not have to work, Meeko and I met in my room right after school. His mom gave us a ride because Meeko was complaining about having to walk so far when it was so hot outside. Give me a break. We only have to walk one point three miles each way to school. It's a twenty-minute walk. Of course, I'm in much better shape than my best friend. Once Meeko was situated with a nice, fat salami sandwich and a cold glass of milk, our little meeting of the minds began.

"Whatcha been thinkin', Leo?"

"That we need to do this Friday."

"Whoa, there, man. Take a shower or somethin'," Meeko said, pink mushy bread showing between his teeth.

"I swear you oughtta do stand-up," I said, not laughing. "You're a regular Chris Rock." Meeko smiled so I could see all that mush in his teeth. "I'm serious, Meeko. Friday."

"How come?"

"Time's running out. There's a home baseball game. Plus, we're almost ready. Get out your papers." I felt devilish and deceitful. Yeah!

So, we looked at Meeko's papers, his drawings and diagrams. Then we took a look at mine and compared. There were times when we laughed so hard that we couldn't talk for a few minutes. The thought of what we were planning was too hilarious. And the revenge factor made itself known–that's for sure. We knew that we had to pull our pranks quickly and without bringing attention to ourselves. And there could be no physical brutality–harmless with a punch, so to speak. My plans were to let other people do most of the work for me. I just had to plant the seed. We knew that the pickings we got would not stop, but we would be satisfied with just a bit of revenge.

There was one thing that we were missing: Ava. Ava Valido has a problem with some of the girls at Harbor High. Her difficulties in no way amount to my and Meeko's problems with the guys in our PE class. (Of course, who am I to judge?) All in all, she is one of us–one of the pickees and she hates the guys we hate just as much as we hate them. With Ava, we could cover more ground. If Ava wasn't legally blind in her left eye, I'd say that she'd be an Army general in fifteen years. She's just got that kind of mind, if you know what I mean.

So, I called Ava. In case you're wondering why I have her phone number if I'm afraid to talk to girls, it's because I don't look at her that way. To me, she's one of the guys except she's a lot better looking and her voice isn't as deep. I've hung out with her more than any other girl except my mom and sisters. (I did go out on a few dates with a girl last year, but we always just met at the mall or movie theater where we had some make-out sessions. She moved away and I haven't talked to her since.) Ava joins Meeko, another friend or two of ours, and me for cards sometimes. And she's come bowling with us on a few occasions. Because she isn't much into clothes and doesn't spend four hours in the morning worrying about her hair, she gets teased by some of those girls who do that stuff. I'm not exactly sure what she's called by them, but evidently Ava's pissed off enough to want to mess with them.

Since eighth grade, Meeko has been attracted to Ava. Personally, I think he's too insecure about his weight to tell her. Ava is a nice-looking girl, but I don't have the fluttering for Ava like I get around Linda. It's weird–they're both physically attractive but in different ways. And I'd never try to start something with Ava knowing how Meeko feels, or doesn't feel. It's confusing. What can I say? We're sixteen. Who the hell knows how hormones work? I sure don't, and believe me, I wish I could figure them out because they're a pain in lots of places. Like I was saying, just as I was about to put the dinner ham into the oven, the doorbell rang. There stood Ava Valido. Smile on her face. Notebook in hand. Accessories in bag in hand. Appeared that she had been cooking up her own plans for awhile.

Thursday: Here's something unusual–I did not get pushed around this day in PE. I actually won our bombardment game because I wove my way around the bigger guys who aren't as fast. After work, Ava and Meeko came by so we could put the final finals on our plans. The fun would begin in the parking lot before school even started. Most importantly, we would dummy the pin-heads on the list during school so other kids could watch the fun. Ava, Meeko, and I could only hit so many individually, and in one day. Ava picked the two on the list that she could kill with one stone, so to speak. Meeko picked two and I picked three. These picks were people in our classes because our access to them was better than some of the other ones we couldn't get to as easily.

Still Thursday: This is what Ava had planned.

"What's next?" I asked her, plunking myself down on the picnic table. We were in the backyard so my parents wouldn't hear what we were talking about.

"You guys know that I have a plants and soils class."

We nodded.

"I know that Francesca Arboles and Courtney Chang are only in that class because they have the hots for Mr. Delta," Ava said. "It's disgusting the way they sit and check him out, practically salivating when he's near them or showing them how to do something the rest of us understood the first time he explained it."

Meeko and I sat quietly and listened to Ava spout off at the mouth for a few minutes about these two girls and how they always look down at her for never complaining about getting dirty and for actually enjoying what she's doing. And then she started talking, very quickly and with flailing arms, about Courtney and Francesca ragging on her clothes and the boots she always wears.

"They don't take anything seriously," she told us. "They're just jealous because Mr. Delta likes me more than he likes them and he always compliments my work. With them, he gets run ragged because all they do is whine about breaking a nail or having a bug crawl on them." Ava rolled her eyes a lot during her little speech and was more cocky than I'd ever heard her. "So, I'm going to make sure that they get a lot of bugs and worms in their soil. They bug me so I'll bug them, fellas. Every work station they go to tomorrow will be crawling with little critters."

I think I saw Ava's eyes turn red for a couple of seconds as she wrung her hands and let a devious grin stretch across her face. Meeko just stared at her with infatuation. He wouldn't admit it, but I think he fell in love right there in my backyard.

"And both Arboles and Chang are in my lunch so I just might surprise them with worms in the cafeteria, too. I still have to work that out, but I think it's possible." Ava sat down on a wicker chair, stuck her legs out in front of her, and crossed them. She looked very satisfied.

Friday: I couldn't really sleep Thursday night. Tossed and turned. Tossed and turned. I had a hard time figuring out if I was excited or scared. Then I decided that I was both.

First off, in the parking lot, Meeko and I saw a bunch of our PE friends smoking cigarettes and taking swigs out of a liquor bottle. Just as we expected. Meeko pulled out his cell- phone and called the sheriff. Said that some students were buying drugs in the parking lot at Harbor High. Described the guys and all that. Then we sat at a table by the cafeteria to watch the show. About two minutes later, two unmarked deputy cars pulled up and four deputies jumped out. Then the sheriff showed up with sirens roaring, blowing, screaming, and wailing. Satisfaction. I looked at my watch and had seven minutes to get to class to hit my next target–Kyle Gary–an almond-skinned kid about six-two who kind of looks like a wrinkled version of Shaq. He wrestles and holds the school's high jump record.

When I got to my English class, I was alone. That was exactly what I wanted. I quickly went to the bookshelves and pulled from behind the dictionaries Kyle's notebook and textbook. Because he's too lazy to take his books out of the room, he hides them behind the dictionaries. One thing my English teacher always looks for is if we have our books and notebooks. These two items must be on our desks when she enters the class or points are deducted. And other stuff can happen too–like humiliation.

I put Kyle's materials in my book bag and left the class. When I was in a very crowded area of the hallway, I took out the extra book and notebook and dropped them on the floor. My work was finished. I heard a bunch of kids talking about what happened in the parking lot and that one guy got arrested. In class, I had to control my loud, fast laugh while the idiot who would always pluck my head as he passed me in the hallway, trip me while playing flag football, or would stab my butt with a pencil when he sat behind me last year in history, searched and searched in vain for his stuff that was no doubt trampled on and kicked down the hallway, far, far away. You can imagine how happy I was when my English teacher walked in and my target was out of his seat. For that, he had to stand in the corner with the dunce hat on, which is a silly Shakespeare-type hat with a huge plume. And because Kyle did not have his materials on his desk, he got double points taken off. The fun had only begun. We got an open-book quiz sprung on us that Mr. Pencil-stabber could not take and got an automatic goose-egg. The teacher said a bunch of stuff about his making sure he makes it to practices on time and working harder on sports than in the classroom. Most everyone in class was laughing and pointing at him. Not used to being teased, the guy was almost purple with embarrassment. Or was he angry? Anyway, that little joke was painless compared to what happened to Miguel during third period. Just so you know, Miguel doesn't play anything at school, but is part of the PE hit squad. He wears a scruffy beard and looks like he's about twenty-five–of course, he acts like he's fourteen, even though he's graduating in June.

When I got to biology, I told Meeko about Kyle. "That's excellent, man," he said. Then he told me what he heard about our parking lot friends. Turns out that the guy that got arrested did have some weed on him, and all the guys with liquor on their breath got busted. No baseball victory for us last Friday because six players got suspended. That meant that JV guys had to take their spots on Varsity. Because my last target, my shot-put friend, was part of that gang, I couldn't pull my prank on him during PE. I didn't care.

Fifth period came and I went to my technologies class. And that's where I would get back at Miguel for all the shoves in the locker room, and all the needless hits to my shins with a hockey stick–that kind of thing. The night before, I typed up and printed out a short note from a girl that I planted in the network printer in class at the right time. The tech-spec, a short and big- shouldered guy, who stands by the printer to make sure everything runs smoothly, usually reads some of whatever comes out. When the time came, I got up to toss a piece of paper in the trash can. I was near the printer and I slipped in the note before the tech-spec got there. Again, my work was finished. Believe me, I was definitely risking getting caught and I was shaking like a loose shingle in a hurricane. What the tech-spec does is this–he waits for five papers to be printed out then he takes the papers to the students that printed them. Because the tech-spec is a kidder himself, I knew he wouldn't pass up reading the note aloud. So, the note that read like this, Dear Miguel, I had such a good time with you last night. I hope that what you said about breaking up with Sandy is true because I could kiss you like that for the rest of my life, was lifted off of the printer with the other papers. The tech-spec laughed and said, "Miguel, this is for you," then, as expected, he read it to the class. Here's the best part–Sandy is also in the class and she stood up demanding to know who wrote that note. Before she went to the principal's office for all the racket, she yelled, "Miguel shaves the hair inside his butt and he sleeps with a stuffed duck named Gretel!" Then she broke up with him using some very nasty language that got her campus-detail for a week and a month's worth of Saturday detention. (News like this spreads quickly in a high school.) I laughed at him with the rest of the class. I had tears in my eyes and my nose was running. Miguel didn't actually see anyone laughing because his head was down on the table. The tips of his ears looked like raspberries. I don't know why, but he never asked who sent the note, so I'm thinking that what I wrote actually happened. Funny how life works sometimes. I felt an ounce bad for Sandy, but then, she is one of those girls with an attitude. Miss Oh-Look-At-Me-I'm-Better-Than-Everyone-Else.

Friday after school: Our pranks were complete and we had gotten our revenge. We were satisfied. For that go around, anyway. There's more to come. Perhaps a prom fiasco? Ava, Meeko, and I met at the pizza place next to Zucchini's for a couple of pizzas and milk shakes.

"Why do you order peppers when you know I don't like them?" I asked Meeko, for about the millionth time since I've known him.

"So I can have more, that's why, hot-shot." Meeko glanced at Ava, probably wishing she wasn't seeing him stuff his face and body with greasy pizza.

"Nice, Meeko. Wait and see what happens to you now."

Ava started telling about the pranks she pulled and how she felt and what the other people did and all of those juicy details.

"I did manage to throw a worm down on Franny's notebook while she was in the lunch line," she laughed. A piece of chewed pizza flew across the table and landed on Meeko's plate. He simply pushed it aside. "Oh, sorry, Meeko. I forgot my manners." Ava's face blushed. She continued to talk and laugh. "When she got back to the table...and saw that thing...she started screaming again like she did in class. I almost peed my pants." Here, Ava had to take a breath because she was laughing so hard. "I'll tell you, seeing those two girls freaking out over the worms in their soil...and the beetles...and the slugs...will last me a lifetime." She wiped the tears from her eyes, then Ava sat back in the booth with her hands on her lap. I knew that her legs were stretched out and crossed. And Meeko, well, he looked like Cupid shot ten arrows into his big Italian body.

When I got to work, Mr. Zucchini was fuming at me. I didn't care. I apologized, though, and put on my dark blue apron. Pinned on my name tag. Went about stocking tissues, paper towels, maxi pads, tampons, and those panty things that have wings on them. And then I started thinking about Linda Hamburgh and my mind floated away to a different time. You thought I forgot about her, didn't you? No way. As the hours ticked by, I thought more and more about Linda. I had this overwhelming sensation to just take her into my arms. Then I would kiss her passionately on her plump and juicy lips. And she would like it.

Just before closing at ten, I heard the little dingle bell ding. I looked to the left so fast that I hurt my neck. Linda was there. She was alone. And I was alone at the register. That was my chance. Even though I conquered big bad bullies earlier that day, I had enough energy to speak to Linda. My mind was made up–I would ask her a question. What that question was exactly, I wasn't too sure.

"Hi," I said to her at the register. She was buying mousse for her radiant auburn curls–the same mousse I used.

She smiled. Her hair was pinned up on the sides by a barrette so I could see the ruby studs in her ears.

"Find everything you need?"

She nodded. Okay, she still wasn't talking to me. You know how I said before that most weeks nothing extraordinary happens? Well, on top of the whole retaliation thing, Linda looked up at me with her quarter-sized brown eyes, kind of shy-like. We held eye contact for three long seconds. A record!

"You got the time, by any chance?" I asked.

"You're wearing a watch, Leo."

She knew my name. How did she know my name? I laughed a really stupid laugh that I had never ever heard come out of my mouth. EVER. The strawberries surfaced in my cheeks and on the tip of my nose; I could feel them. To top it off, I sneezed three times. When I recovered, Linda looked like an angel standing there, holding out her vanilla-pudding hand for her change.

"Bless you," she said quietly. I could see by the expression on her face that she was politely holding back her laughter. I was just so ridiculous-looking, my face all red and my eyes filled with water. If I were me in her position, even I would have laughed at me.

"Thanks. How'd you know my name?"

"You're wearing a name tag." My fingers touched my plastic tag. Idiot. "Plus, I always see you in here," she said with an angelic voice, her eyes looking down at her hand still resting on the counter, palm up, waiting for her change. But I had forgotten about it by then–her change, I mean.

"With tax, that's gonna be three-sixty."

She wrinkled her brow and told me that she gave me a five and was waiting for her change. My brain was on overload. Hell, it was a miracle that I was still able to move my lips. So I said something else stupid and handed her the change. But I couldn't shut up.

"How's choir going?" Wow! A conversation.

Her eyes got wide. She obviously wasn't expecting me to ask that question. "It's good. Real good, thanks."

"Sure," I said, wiping my right eye with the back of my hand. "Sorry about the watch thing. I was so overwhelmed by your presence and voice that I forgot I was wearing it." OH NO! Did that pop out of my mouth? A perfect example of the sixteen-year-old male mouth out of control and honest.

You wanna know what happened next, right? Well, I'll tell you quick so I can go eat dinner. Two seconds after my little outburst of delirious whatever you want to call it, Linda's face looked like it would burn off of her skull and I almost fainted from embarrassment. Seriously. If I hadn't grabbed the counter, I would've fallen backwards into the film and instant cameras. As it was, I knocked over the Wrigley's display. Those little five packs of gum went scattering all over the floor in front of the counter. I think the heat in my face killed the acne virus because my skin has been clear all this week. And things that night worked out okay for me. Linda said she was flattered and that I was sweet.

So, who knows what happens from here. I saw Linda in school yesterday. She was wearing a long black skirt with a short-sleeve yellow sweater and her hair was shiny and flowing, just like auburn waves. Hormones began bumping into each other when I saw her. Linda waved and smiled. Now, I'm not saying that anything much will come of a simple little wave and smile, but stranger things have happened.

THE SUMMER MY LIFE ENDED

Just thinking about leaving Briggs Beach made the tears come. I had grown up in the town for sixteen years, and leaving just didn't make any sense. It didn't matter that we were poor back then; it didn't matter that Dad and Uncle Dom lost their furniture shop; it made no difference that Mama was sick and just had to live somewhere else, away from the damp, coastal air. No. All that mattered was that I had just turned sixteen that summer, had become a young woman, and my whole life was falling apart. Of course, nothing would ever be the same. And the warm tears flowed and flowed, just like the Briggs Bay into the Atlantic.

Two years later, I can still remember it like it happened ten minutes ago. Cousins Jeff and Tamara were outside with me by the old oak tree. The sun's beams broke into slivers of light through the tree's large green leaves. We were sipping very sweet lemonade and talking about different locals we knew were leaving for the summer and those summer refugees we knew would be returning to the east coast of Maine for a few weeks or for the whole season. Cousin Jeff was incessantly yapping about his baseball team, the Lobster Traps, traveling north for the week to play a series of games against another team of teenagers just like his–-minor league hopefuls.

My life changed right there under that tree, sipping Mama's lemonade in my new light blue bikini top and board shorts, carelessly swinging on the old tire swing my dad had hung when I was a baby. Uncle Dom came sauntering out from our screened-in porch. He was holding a can of beer that was stuffed tightly into one of those trashy beer huggers sold at gas stations. It was all black except for a white image of a naked lady with pink nipples. I had never seen Uncle Dom with a beer before, nor had I seen his face as long as it was right then. The darkened skin under his eyes drooped–-as did his chin. He looked older than he had earlier that day when he kissed Mama's cheek and poured himself a mug of hot, fresh coffee. A really bad feeling poked the insides of my stomach and I could feel acid wanting to make its way up my esophagus. I recall swallowing until I had no more saliva to keep the acid down. My throat burned.

As Uncle Dom approached us, I dug my feet into the sand to halt the tire swing. Jeff stopped talking and Tamara lowered the glass of lemonade from her lips. The three of us quickly looked at each other; then our focus remained on Uncle Dom, Jeff and Tamara's father, my father's brother.

"What's up, Pop?" Jeff asked, leaning his back against the cool trunk of the oak.

"A lot, son."

There was just something ominous in the way he said those three words that made me want to cry. And for some reason, I knew what he was about to say. I mean, it was really no secret that Dragon Furniture was not the most successful business in Briggs Beach. Ever since Dad and Uncle Dom started making furniture back when they were in high school, they never found the right groove. There was always someone else, a bigger corporation, that could do everything faster and in volume. But my dad would say, "Damn those big guys, anyway. We can't let those pricks get to us. We do custom pieces and our customers love every bit of what we do." And then Uncle Dom would usually say something positive before telling Dad that Dragon Furniture needed more than just a few satisfied and loyal customers. Then Dad would call Uncle Dom young and immature. Seemed like Dad blamed a lot of his brother's visions and ideas on the fact that he was eight years younger. Uncle Dom had plans to expand, to be bigger–-better. To make Dragon Furniture the most respected, well-known, and successful furniture business on the whole east coast. But Dad would never listen to him; he'd just twist the top off a bottle of beer and go by the water and think.

I cried almost every day for the three weeks before we actually moved away from the only place I'd ever really known. And it wasn't only because I was leaving my friends, my school, my soccer team. It all boiled down to me leaving my home. Briggs Beach held all of my memories. The grocer, banker, sheriff, mayor, car wash operator, all knew my name and had known me since I was too little to remember them giving my cheeks pinches, or handing me a lollipop. Maybe it was the ocean air that I loved so much that made my home my home. And two years later, it is still hard to explain. I just knew that I loved Briggs Beach more than anything and that I could never love another place the same way.

Some of the older people in my family thought that all of my carrying on, as they called it, was silly and nonsensical. The ones not moving away would try to make me understand one pragmatic reason after another why it was the best thing that we move somewhere else and start again. How much better Mama would be now that we could go somewhere less damp than the east coast of Maine. How Dad would have steady work and could pull the family out of debt. "You're only moving down fifty miles and over another fifty. Come visit whenever you want." Aunt Cheri told me that a dozen times one day. Surely she would have made it a baker's dozen had I not asked her to keep quiet and leave me alone. The nerve of that woman telling me how it was when she wasn't the one leaving. She wasn't sixteen and leaving the best place to live on the planet. "You'll make new friends," others would say. No matter what I told any adult, that person didn't really hear my words.

One night after a late dinner with Uncle Dom, Jeff, Tamara, Mama, and Dad, I took a walk. I could hear the waves crashing against the rocks beyond my backyard, and the smell on the heavy air was something that I could never forget. The way the salt could get into my nostrils and linger for hours was amazing. And the moon was following me around every turn I made through the sleepy neighborhood. I would have walked down by the water, but that was off limits to me at night when I was alone. I never fought about it either because that's something that made sense–-even as a young girl who wanted to do whatever she wanted to do whenever she wanted to do it.

"Hey, Ginny," I heard behind me. "Hold up a sec."

I knew who it was without turning around. Jeremy Castle was one of my childhood friends. He'd always been kind of sweet on me and that made me feel good when I was going through a bad period. Puberty was not very nice to me. I developed lots of areas before many of the other girls in my school. I didn't mind so much in the summer when I'd wear my bikini because the older boys would want to talk to me, thinking I was older than what I was. But playing soccer with breasts like mine was no fun. Just to minimize movement, I would wear two sports bras at the same time.

The relationship Jeremy and I had was mostly platonic. Thank goodness he never pushed the issue because that would have spoiled everything.

"Why you going so fast?"

"I'm not," I said. "Hey, let's go by the water, okay."

"Sure."

I was glad that Jeremy showed up. He would do that once in a while. Just show up. And it's strange that he could appear when I needed him the most. Tears had been trying to fall from my eyes the whole time I was eating dinner, listening to the moving plans, not participating. Seemed like I was the only one in my family who hated the idea of moving away from Briggs Beach. Even my cousins, who also grew up there from birth, were not opposed to the idea.

Jeremy and I walked along the coastline, our sandals loosely dangling from our fingers. As we imprinted the hard sand with our bare feet, I could feel him moving closer and closer to me. I didn't mind at all. Right then I liked it. I was able to really understand the feelings he had for me. What I couldn't understand was why I couldn't feel those same feelings for him. The tears started to fall.

"Gin, what's the matter?" Jeremy asked, holding out his arm to stop me from walking any further.

"The same thing. Moving."

"I don't know what to tell you, Gin," he said thoughtfully. "I know you don't want to hear anything positive, like what you say your family tells you. I think I can understand what you might be feeling."

His eyes locked on mine. In the moonlight his eyes looked black, but I knew they were the brightest green eyes I'd ever seen. He reached out and hugged me. We had hugged before, but this hug was different. It all had to do with the look he'd given me.

When he pulled away, I could see that he, too, was crying. I took his hand and led him up the embankment so we could sit down. He wrapped his right arm around me and I let him.

"You're leaving," he said so softly I almost didn't catch what he said. "We've been friends since we were five or something like that. Out of that time, out of the time I've thought about kissing you and holding your hand, I never thought about being apart like we'll be. This'll be pretty tough on me, Virginia Dragon."

What he said made sense and it did not make me feel uncomfortable. Right then I realized how much of an effect my moving would have on other people, too. Like my soccer team. And Kate, my best friend. Jeremy Castle. I thought about that for a minute, then focused again on what was at hand. I was moving away and that would forever change my life.

Jeremy and I sat like that for about an hour. The sand was cool under my feet and gritty between my toes. Although the wind was chilly, it felt nice on my face and in my frizzed-out hair. Chill bumps covered my legs. I began to shiver, but did not want to go home. With my right hand, I used a stick to dig a good-sized hole I was hoping would suck me in and keep me there forever.

When Jeremy looked at his watch he groaned, knowing he had to be home very soon. So, he stood up and pulled me to my feet. We walked in silence toward his house, along the humid coast, hearing the water lap against the shore and break over the rocks. Here and there, small white crabs scurried about. Just before we reached his house I stopped. I looked up at Jeremy Castle and moved toward him a bit; then I kissed him. He pulled me to him and we stood like that, the tips of our tongues touching, in and out of each other's mouth. Even though I could feel his erection on my stomach, we still kissed.

"Thank you, Germy," I said after I pulled away.

Normally, he would have laughed at the nickname and rolled his big, green eyes. But Jeremy didn't laugh; he didn't say anything back to me and he didn't even really smile. Jeremy looked sad. I think he knew what I meant by what I said. Then he walked to his back gate and disappeared into the tall hedges lining the path to his porch door. Watching him walk away, I wondered if I would ever see him again. And I stood there, out of the moonlight, grinding shells into the sand with my heel, and I cried for my friend.

The morning we left Briggs Beach the sun was blazing and it was business as usual. The amusement ride workers were riding their bikes or skate boards to the small boardwalk where they would stand in the sun for eight hours, hearing kids scream, praying none of them vomited. The fishermen were coming and going, right on schedule. Delivery trucks were abundant along the one main road in Briggs Beach. I had gotten up before the sun showed over the horizon. When it did show itself, its gold made me squint through the tears in my eyes, making them burn. The relatively calm Atlantic sparkled like a field of diamonds under the dawn's light. This was moving day--my last Briggs Beach sunrise. To me, it was worth more than gold.

While everyone was running around checking this and that, I spent my last hours on the coarse sand, thinking. My tears were hot against my sunburned cheeks. I held my hand against my brow to shield the sun as I looked to my left, hoping to see Jeremy. I don't know why I didn't just go to his house. Sitting there, I thought about a couple of weeks ago when I kissed him, and he kissed me back. The look on his face before he turned away from me hurt; it was burned into the backs of my eyes. His eyes seemed so dark and deep. That look screamed a thousand words and emotions all at once. I was trying to figure out why he was in my head so much, and what was that feeling in my gut?

I looked to my right and saw the big rock with the names of many kids all over it. Mine was near the top, printed neatly in small block letters with silver nail polish. I got up and walked to it–-climbed up and traced my name with my finger. The night I painted the name Ginny Dragon on that rock was the night of my first kiss. Nick Brewster was a kid from New Hampshire who always came to Briggs Beach for the summer until his family moved to Alabama; that was the year I left Briggs Beach. His parents were white, but he was from Puerto Rico, adopted as an infant. He had jet black hair that he kept longer on the top than on the sides. And he always wore a black shell necklace around his tanned neck. I thought he was so cool with that little gold hoop in his left ear and a rope bracelet around his wrist. Nick liked to body board and I watched him everyday. He noticed me, introduced himself, and we hung out for a few days. The rock-painting night we kissed for the first time. I was fourteen; he was fifteen. For the two remaining weeks of his vacation in Briggs Beach, we met every night by the rock and talked and kissed and I would let him go to second base if I felt like it, never beyond.

Nick Brewster left my home town just before a huge storm hit the coast. We said our good-byes down by Mackey Market's dock as the men were bringing in traps filled with huge, snapping lobsters that would soon be sold and eaten. The next summer, Nick and I acted like we didn't even know each other. That was strange. But that was part of growing up.

The time I had left in Briggs Beach was quickly dwindling. It was as if I had a gigantic clock strapped to my back that was ticking like a time-bomb, never letting me forget what was happening, not even letting up an ounce. My cousin, Jeff, had to come find me on the beach. He knew exactly where I'd be. For a while, we chucked rocks into the water. What was great about that moment on the beach with him was that he didn't say anything to me. He didn't try to delude me by saying what everyone else in the family was saying. Jeff knew that the only home I could ever have, as a younger person, was in Briggs Beach. Leaving his home, three blocks from mine, was not a big deal for Jeff Dragon because he had better baseball opportunities in Boston. Tamara, though, his younger sister by two years, was not as psyched about leaving, but she understood that Dragon Furniture had more of a future in Massachusetts. And because she was always so materialistic, the move suited her just fine.

We pulled out of the driveway that morning before the real traffic started. The kind of traffic that made me so glad to live on the water and close to downtown all at once. I sat in the back of our 1988 Cutlass and watched, with tears in my eyes, on my face, and in my lap, as we passed under the archway sign that read Welcome to Briggs Beach, Maine. I knew that I would always be welcome there, just like any stranger, but a part of me died right then. My heart pounded so hard in my body that I thought I might pass out. Mama reached over the seat and held onto my right knee; she was crying, too.

I looked out the back window, hoping to see Jeremy Castle riding his bike or Kate or Robin or Micha or Tiff or any of my friends, chasing the car, forcing my father to pull over, tearing me from the seat, not letting me leave.

In my head I made leaving so dramatic. It was the absolute worst thing that could possibly happen. I had just turned sixteen and didn't even have my driver's license. My last two years of high school would be completed at a different school, with different people who had different ways of living. That is not what I wanted. I wanted everything to always be the same. Of course, nothing would ever be the way it was in Briggs Beach because I wouldn't let it.

Autumn began to show its presence just before Labor Day; the hot summer air had cooled off a bit by then and the air had a different smell–-a dirty, leaf-changing smell. It was September again and I was beginning a new school year at a very new school. Lake Shore High was definitely far away from any sort of lake and it was twice the size of my old school. I was immediately intimidated. Going from elementary school to middle school to high school were changes I could make along with my friends. This change of schools was much much different. The kids at this new school dressed like it mattered and most of the girls were so vain that it made me nauseous to look at them. At least I was able to join the soccer team, but even a lot of those girls were more worried about their hair and nails than actually playing the game. At lunch time, I would take my brown bag, usually containing a sandwich of some sort, a small bag of cookies, and an apple or orange, out to the edge of the trees by the playing fields. It all boiled down to me trying to find some place where I could be alone and sulk if I wanted to.

Under the trees I found a spot I liked. By myself, I could view the school and the other kids walking around by the cafeteria, talking about this person or that person, late night television, or some upcoming test or project details. I would imagine myself with those people, except those people were my friends from Briggs Beach.

And then one day, a Friday, as I sat alone under a huge oak tree that reminded me of the tree with the dangling tire swing that I left in my backyard, two girls from my soccer team and three players from the guys' team walked up to me. They stood there watching me chew the last of my chocolate chip cookies. I brushed the crumbs from the corners of my mouth.

"Ginny, how's it going?" asked Andrea, one of the girls on the team I actually liked. She didn't care about make-up and nail polish. Andrea liked to win. She was a very tall girl for sixteen, about five- nine or ten. Her short hair made her seem taller than that. For a goalie, she was on the skinny side, but her right leg and hips could punt a ball almost to the fifty.

"Good, thanks," I said.

"This is Jacob, Larry, and Grady," she said, pointing to each one as she named him. "And you already know Tabby."
I nodded at Tabby Gingham, a fair-skinned girl with gloomy brown eyes, whose mouth naturally curved down into a frown. I stood up, stuck out my hand to each of the guys and said it was good to meet them. When I said that I was Ginny Dragon, all three nodded and said they already knew that. I felt my face flush a bit, but knew it could not be seen through the sunburn on my cheeks. It was an awkward situation for some reason. And there was this strange feeling in my stomach like something was about to happen. With so many things running through my head at once, especially because Jacob reminded me of Nick Brewster and Grady looked a lot like Jeremy, I was unable to say anything else. So I just stood there, looking from person to person. I raised my eyebrows at Andrea and she started talking again.

"Oh, well, we didn't mean to disturb your lunch," Andrea began, "it's just that I wanted you to meet these guys."

"Yeah," Tabby said. Her eyes were dark under the bill of her kiwi-colored golf visor. "They were interested in meeting you."

All three of the guys looked at the ground and found a stick or a stone to kick. I smiled. At that moment I felt very attractive, almost sexy, and that was weird. But the way Tabby said what she said made me uneasy; I couldn't figure out if she was being genuine or fake.

"We've seen you play," Grady said, jamming his hands into the back pockets of his jean shorts. He wore a new pair of black Mitre sandals and royal blue soccer socks.

"Yeah, good ball skills," Larry told me, pointing at my feet.

"Thanks a lot," I said. "That's a nice compliment."

As the six of us stood under the pine trees talking for the remainder of the lunch period about me and where I came from, graying clouds moved swiftly above the school; the sun quickly disappeared. Just after the bell rang, Andrea said that all of them were going to a local burger joint around six to hang out, eat, then hit balls at the batting cage. Asked if I was interested in going.

"I'm not sure if I can tonight," I lied. "If I can, then I'll meet you there. If not, then I'll see you guys at the game tomorrow, but thanks anyway for asking."

That day I went straight home after school–-our practice had been canceled due to a brief thunder storm that blew through the area. So, when I got home, I went to my room, lay on my bed, and stared at the ceiling. I played over and over in my head what happened at lunch earlier that day. And I realized that there were people who liked me at my new school. At least Andrea had to, otherwise, she would never have agreed to introduce me to Jacob, Larry, and Grady. I couldn't be sure that Tabby really liked me, but that didn't really matter much. The fact was that after three weeks I finally connected with some people. By that time, my initial intimidation had really worn down, and I had spoken with others in my classes, but had not had any real conversations at all, even at practices. So, that invitation meant I had a decision to make.

Lying there on my twin bed, I weighed the pros and cons of going and not going. Many times I asked myself what it was that I was afraid of. Actually liking different people? Or forgetting about the other people I grew up with and loved? No matter how I felt when we first moved, about eight weeks prior, I knew that I had to stop feeling sorry for myself and start feeling glad that Mama, even in that short period of time, was more healthy, and that Dad was making steady money working with a third cousin of his who managed a successful furniture shop in Prampton, two towns over from Lake Shore.

It wasn't until around 5:30, when Mama knocked on the door asking if I wanted some dinner, that I made my decision. The pros won. My father dropped me off at Roger's Steak and Eggs, which was about a mile from Lake Shore High School. It was humid that night because of the storm. To avoid having my hair look like a big brown frizz ball encircling my head, I pulled it back into a pony tail. It wasn't like I was going on a date or anything like that so I felt comfortable enough with my informal look. And because it was still warm outside, I wore a pair of khaki shorts with a navy, long-sleeve T-shirt.

I was hoping that Grady would be more like Jeremy Castle than he was upon our first meeting. The first time I saw Grady in the hallway at school, I had to look three times to be positive that he wasn't Jeremy coming to look for me. Even though I missed Jeremy a lot, I had only called him once in the eight weeks I was gone. For some reason, I still couldn't get that forlorn look of his out of my head. Plus, after being accustomed to seeing him almost everyday of my whole life, it took a lot of adjusting. It's not that we even hung out together each day. It's just that I could always count on Jeremy being around.

I had called Kate a few times and she had done the same. Once when she called, Tiff and Robin were at her house, so I was able to talk with all of them. I heard about all of the cute boys that were in town for a few weeks, what happened during the beach horseshoe competition, which kids were a couple for the summer, who their teachers were going to be during their junior year. That was fun and refreshing. But once school started we didn't talk as often.

Before school began, every time I talked with Kate, or with someone else from Briggs Beach, I lost whatever progress I had made during the week. I was so completely sad for the five weeks before school started, that all I ever wanted to do was stay in my room and listen to the radio. I felt lost without the water in my backyard and the cool, soothing sand of the evening under my feet. No seagulls flew around my house. No store keeps knew my name.

Uncle Dom dropped by one day with Jeff. It was nice to see that Tamara wasn't with them because I was in no mood to hear her scratchy voice. We have always had a very good love/hate relationship that works just fine. Jeff brought a satchel of old books for me that he bought at a street fair. Most of the titles I didn't recognize, but there were some second and third Dickens editions, and one really great find–-a first edition Wizard of Oz. When I saw that book, I jumped on Jeff and tackled him. I laughed and screamed and laughed and screamed. It was the absolute best gift anyone could have given me right then. Too bad I didn't have my own pair of sparkling ruby shoes.

In the restroom at Roger's Steak and Eggs I found out from Tabby that Larry was gay. It seemed like she was expecting me to, or hoping I would, make a crude comment about Larry–-something very derogatory. That would have been her weapon to keep me out of their little group. All I said was, "Oh, I guess I won't hit on him then." Tabby didn't laugh like I did; I thought my comment was clever. It obviously wasn't the response she was looking for. She crinkled her stubby nose and walked out of the restroom, leaving me alone with the dripping faucet and loud hand dryer.

At the batting cages, Grady walked up to the concessions window with me to get all of us drinks. He started some small talk with me, trying to find out how I liked Lake Shore and how I was making out with my adjustment. Talking to him I realized that Grady wasn't much like Jeremy at all, and that was okay.

"I don't know if I should say anything right now because I hardly know any of you," I said to Grady as we waited in line, "but what's with Tabby? She doesn't seem to like me very much. For no apparent reason."

Grady touched my arm. "There is an apparent reason," he said, unconsciously looking at my chest. I never flinched, though. "When Jacob and I asked Andrea to introduce us to you, Tabby was there."

I looked at him blankly, knowing that there was an underlying reason that he thought I should understand. I shrugged and opened my eyes wider, an indication that I needed more information. When he glanced at my chest again, I put my hands on my hips to give him the whole effect. I was acting out of character, really, but it was fun. Grady flinched.

Ignoring the fact that I caught him looking at my chest, Grady laughed at himself and rolled his eyes. "Sorry," he said. "I forgot you just got here." He furtively looked over his shoulders as if he were about to disclose some ancient secret. "Tabby and Jacob used to go out. So when he asked about you, she turned green."

Grady told the girl through the small window that he wanted four large orange drinks and two large root beers.

"Oh," I whispered, more to myself than to Grady. "That's silly."

"You're right. Jacob's a good guy and he hates it that Tabby is like she is. He split up with her mostly because she was suffocating him."

"I don't want to make any enemies, you know," I told him.

"No. Yeah. I get it. I wouldn't want that either. Don't worry about it."

"I'll just put up with it until she gets to know me better, I guess." I reached for the three paper cups I was supposed to take back to the others. "Is there anything else?" I asked him once we were headed back toward the batting cages.

"What do you mean?"

"Come on, Grady, I saw you looking at my chest. Is she sad about that? Because she doesn't have as much?"

He stopped walking. Grady was not quick to answer.

"Kind of. Yeah. That's what Jacob told me she told him, but it wasn't really a nice thing she said." Grady looked embarrassed.

"You don't have to feel embarrassed, Grady. Boobs are boobs. You have too much or too little. I have too much and she has too little. Who knows," I said, "maybe she'll sprout big knockers by graduation." I was amazed that I said that to him.

Grady almost dropped the drinks he was holding. His big mouth opened wide when he laughed.

"That's funny, Ginny," he told me. "Mature, too, I guess."

"Well, if you had these things, you'd learn to deal with them, too."

"I know, I know–-guys just don't understand."

"Exactly."

I thought about asking Grady to keep our conversation to himself, but I got the feeling that I didn't need to, that he wouldn't tell anyone, anyway. It was really nice standing there talking to him, hearing everyone around us. The sky had cleared and thousands of flecks of glitter adorned the darkness above Lake Shore. It really was nice.

Tabby never admitted that she was jealous of the attention Jacob showed me that night, or the next Friday night, or the next one. It was all really harmless and I never had any stronger feeling for Jacob than one of friendship. He, like Larry and Grady and some other guys we'd hang out with, were fun to be around–-much more fun than many of the girls I grew up with who I thought were loads of fun.

By the time summer came, and I could go back to Briggs Beach for three weeks to stay with Kate and Tiff, I was feeling very comfortable in Lake Shore. My life hadn't ended after all, for I had found a nice group of friends to hang out with on the weekends, and I had other friends at school and on my team. Even though life for me was on the pretty good side, it was still really good to see my first friends again, to walk on the beach, to see my old backyard.

One night I went to Jeremy's house. His voice had gotten deeper and he had grown more than an inch taller. Jeremy wore a thin goatee that I thought made him look very sophisticated and a few years older. We walked along the water's edge chatting away. His hand hit mine and I grabbed it and held on to it.

When the scent of the ocean crawled into my nostrils, I couldn't help but smile; I was home. The deep breaths I took caused me to get a bit light-headed and I lost my balance. Jeremy was there to help me stay on my feet. Once he had me in his arms, he kissed me, confidently, and studied my face. Again, Jeremy said nothing to me, but the corners of his mouth twitched a bit, as if he was trying to smile. Softly he kissed my neck and ran his hands down the back of my thin sweatshirt. Underneath, his hands were steady and firm on my stomach, hips, back. I wondered where he practiced what he was doing and I felt a tad bit jealous of some phantom girl. Beads of perspiration formed on my body as he gently rubbed his sharp nose and soft lips along the curve of my neck. Jeremy Castle was sensual; he was sexual.

For a long time, Jeremy and I walked in the light of the full moon along the deserted strip of beach behind my old house. The new owners had strung Christmas lights along the roof of the back porch. I liked it.

We stopped by the colorfully-painted rock.

"It's great to see you, Gin," he told me again.

I nodded and grinned. "You, too," I said. "Look at you...all tall and hairy."

"Growing up," he said and flexed his biceps.

We both laughed. It felt really good to be there with him.

"You like your new school, then."

"Yeah. I guess. It's not as bad as I thought it would be." I was digging my left foot into the coarse sand, not looking at him. "Things are different here, now."

"Of course they are. Did you expect everything to be the same when you came back?"

I didn't answer the question with words. My body language answered for me.

Jeremy laughed. "Really? You thought--"

"Okay, okay. Enough," I said, slapping his arm. "I hoped!"

"Why? Don't you think you grow more when things change?"

"Yes," I said. "I do now. But back then...Hey, you weren't the one to move away, Castle-boy. I was!"

Jeremy was silent, just looking at me, smiling. "I know," he finally said.

"So, you like your new school, then."

I was about to tell him that he already said that when he pulled my face to his and kissed me. And as we stood there in an embrace, on the sand, under the moon, letting the mosquitoes bite our legs, I think I heard him whisper, "Some things will never change," but I couldn't be certain.

www.chat.com

Hammerhead829: hi Golden_goddess—u wanna chat?

Golden_goddess: sure

Golden_goddess: u there

Golden_goddess: hello hammerhead...u pmed me so what's up

Hammerhead829: sorry. Phone call.

Golden_goddess: a/s/l

Hammerhead829: 18/m/salem oregon

Hammerhead829: u?

Golden_goddess: 17/f/ontario

Hammerhead829: california?

Golden_goddess: ???????????

Hammerhead829: ontario, california?

Golden_goddess: no...windsor, ontario canada.

Hammerhead829: oh. cool

Golden_goddess: brb

Hammerhead829: ok

Kara McKay is Golden_goddess, a name she chose because of her golden skin and hair. She is a sun-worshiper and will most likely have a leather-looking face by the time she's sixty. Kara is working at an ice-cream shop for the summer to earn money for the grade twelve trip to Vancouver for spring break. After her OAC year, she plans on attending the University of Windsor to study communications. She wants to be a film-maker one of these days.

This young lady with hair the color of dried straw just told Hammerhead829 that she'd be right back. She has gone to get her pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her bookbag. Her parents are away for the weekend and Kara is at home with her older brother, Gary.

Kara hurries back to her computer and lights an Ultra-Light. On the cover of this package is a color picture of a cancerous lung. This does not bother Kara because she thinks she can quit whenever she wants to. She loves to chat online. Boys, boys, boys, is just about all Kara McKay thinks about. She has a boyfriend named Jason who she likes but only sometimes. She's confusing. Jason is really nice to her and she complains about that. She thinks he's boring and that their romantic relationship has no future.

Kara chats with guys from all over about whatever comes up. Sometimes she gets really turned on by what the guys are saying–and she can talk back just as dirty. But that gets old pretty quick, so a lot of the time, she just hangs out in a room and reads what's going on without involving herself in any conversations. Usually the guys come on strong with questions about physical characteristics. Strangely, Kara has taken on that role in this conversation with Hammerhead829. She is a bit more aggressive than usual.

Golden_goddess: ok

Hammerhead829: didnt think u were coming back

Golden_goddess: i wouldn't just not come back. That's rude.

Hammerhead829: lol

Golden_goddess: what do u look like

Hammerhead829: Ive got a head, two arms, two legs---the normal stuff.

Golden_goddess: lol...really though. what colour's your hair

Hammerhead829: light brown and the tips are bleached

Golden_goddess: so u have spiked hair then

Hammerhead829: yeah

Golden_goddess: sounds nice

Golden_goddess: what else...piercings

Hammerhead829: u use the british spellings? cool.

Golden_goddess: gonna make me guess

Golden_goddess: habit...I like it...different from americans

Hammerhead829: yeah, guess

Golden_goddess: aren't u mr. mystery...

Hammerhead829: guess!

Hammerhead829: i like people to just get to know me without me telling em everything.

Golden_goddess: ok. um... l. ear

Hammerhead829: no

Golden_goddess: r. ear

Hammerhead829: nope

Golden_goddess: eyebrow

Hammerhead829: which one?

Golden_goddess: r.

Hammerhead829: no

Golden_goddess: l.

Hammerhead829: uh-uh

Golden_goddess: how many do u have...u said one was pierced.

Hammerhead829: no i didnt. U just assumed. I asked which one?

Hammerhead829: make it easy on u----its my nose. I have a little gold hoop. One nostril. Golden_goddess: sounds cool hammer

Golden_goddess: u have a photo u can send

Hammerhead829: no scanner. U?

Golden_goddess: no. gonna get one with my bday $

Hammerhead829: whens that?

Golden_goddess: couple weeks.

Hammerhead829: yer a cancer

Golden_goddess: yeah! Lol

Hammerhead829: why lol?

Golden_goddess: guys usually aren't into that thing. What are u

Hammerhead829: virgo----August 29.

Golden_goddess: now i get the 829 part of your name.

Golden_goddess: wanna know your horoscope?

Hammerhead829: go for it

Golden_goddess: according to teen temptations you are a stickler for good sporssmanship but need to grab what u deserve cuz nice gyus finish last.

Hammerhead829: aw—i like being a nice guy

Golden_goddess: sorry but i suck at typing

Hammerhead829: yer fine...im no pro myself

Hammerhead829: yours?

Golden_goddess: it's a month of gettig my way and i should soar in popularity, social standing and style...gee...how flattering, huh

Hammerhead829: lol—any truth to that?

Golden_goddess: now that school done...not really. I did just get some new clothes.

Golden_goddess: are u still in high school

Hammerhead829: unfortunately. One more year left.

Golden_goddess: here we have 13 grades, so I've got 12 & 13 to go. I'm like the last year for 13 though. Then just goes to 12. U

Hammerhead829: just 12 left. Got held back in fifth grade cuz of a car accident i was in and missed 42 days of school. Ill be home schooled next year though so i dont gotta put up with the immaturity that goes along with going to my school. Hammerhead rolls his eyes.

Golden_goddess: sorry to hear about the accident...cool about home schooled. I never knew anyone that wass home schooled.

Golden_goddess: was...

Kara puts her cigarette in a cup full of water and ashes. She is wearing a yellow and green tie-dyed tank top that shows her tan very well. Her straw hair (meaning color and dryness) is pulled up on top of her head with a very large silver barrette. It is eleven o'clock on Friday night; Kara is yawning, but wants to keep chatting with this Hammerhead829 guy because he seems nice. He hasn't asked her yet what she looks like. This impresses her. Kara usually tells her chat partners the truth about everything. She's usually really serious and likes to get to know people on a personal level. Her email account is always packed full of messages from guys she's met online. What she really likes is when a guy is having problems with his girlfriend so she can help out.

Hammerhead829: ty----no big deal----its coool.

Golden_goddess: i get the feeling u don't like high school.

Hammerhead829: u hit the nail on the head.

Golden_goddess: lol lol lol...clever.

Hammerhead829: school really sux. Teachers give stupid work to do---boring. Glad its summer glad i just gotta put with my mom next year.

Golden_goddess: at least u don't have 13 grades!

Hammerhead829: good point.

Hammerhead829: why chose the name u did?

Golden_goddess: cuz i have a great tan all year

Hammerhead829: in canada?

Golden_goddess: it gets real hot here in the summer...tanning bed the rest of the time.

Hammerhead829: are u really skinny and blonde?

Golden_goddess: blonde yes...really skinny no. About 160 and 5'7"

Kara is lying to Hammerhead829. This is a ploy to see if he will leave her stranded in this chatroom. Kara is only 5'5" and weighs 128.

Hammerhead829: thats a good weight. Not starving yourself like lots of stupid girls.

Golden_goddess: know what u mean. Lots of girls in my school think they have to look like Naomi Campbell or one of those models.

Hammerhead829: u do drugs?

Golden_goddess: sometimes smoke pot...that's it

Hammerhead829: oh

Golden_goddess: u

Hammerhead829: naw---stupid.

Golden_goddess: hey!

Hammerhead829: sorry golden---but it is. Why do u?

Golden_goddess: ?

Hammerhead829: u dont know????

Golden_goddess: don't give me a lecture!

Hammerhead829: Im just wondering why do it when u dont know why---

Golden_goddess: lcs

Hammerhead829: whats lcs?

Golden_goddess: let's change subject.

Hammerhead829: u choose---anything u want.

Kara slips another cigarette from the red pack and lights it with a match. The smoke gets in her left eye and she rubs it. She puts the lit match in the water. Gary just told her not to be too much longer because he has to use the phone before midnight. Kara agrees with her brother so he won't tell his parents that she was smoking in the house. Both Mr. and Mrs. McKay smoke so Kara's smoking will not be noticeable...unless Gary tells on her. But he's twenty-three and past being immature.

Golden_goddess: are u listening to music?

Hammerhead829: yeah---jimi hendrix. U?

Golden_goddess: shaggy...his new one...hot shot. It's good.

Golden_goddess: are u a rocker

Hammerhead829: not really. Just like hendrix. Nirvana, chili peppers, papa roach, helvitica, moist and shiny, roadrunners. Stuff like that.

Golden_goddess: i haven't heard of most of those bands.

Hammerhead829: we get a lot of obscure bands in Salem. Its cool. U?

Golden_goddess: i like what's on the rafio for the most part.

Hammerhead829: boy bands?

Golden_goddess: oops, i mean radio.

Golden_goddess: some. O-town's ok now. Not much into bsb or nsync. U have something against boy bands

Hammerhead829: not at all. Those guys can sing and dance well---but i think musicians are people who can actually play music. Theyre ok for big bucks. Puppets for the producers. Their lives arent their own. I hate that when other people want to run your life.

Golden_goddess: you're pretty interesting Hammerhead829.

Hammerhead829: ty. Got any pets?

Golden_goddess: a cat...milo. He's black with white blotches.

Hammerhead829: im allergic to cats—have a black cocker spaniel named missy. Shes cool. Likes to chase balls. Good retriever.

Golden_goddess: Wanna email me sometime...I've got to get off so my brother can call his fiance...

Golden_goddess: u still there?

Golden_goddess: haaaaammmmmmmeeeeerrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhheeeeeeaaaaaaaddddd!!!

Hammerhead829: lol---Im here. Just ran to the bathoom. Yeah. Wanna know u better.

Golden_goddess: good...me too...ok my address is: Daffodil@screech.com

Hammerhead829: whats your real name?

Golden_goddess: Kara

Hammerhead829: Kilohana---good to meet you.

Golden_goddess: are u joking

Hammerhead829: bout what?

Golden_goddess: your name. What is that

Hammerhead829: thats not very nice Kara....its Hawaiian. Means "supreme"

Hammerhead829: bout the only thing about myself that my mom gave me thats any good.

Kara says aloud, "What's that supposed to mean?" She doesn't ask Kilohana that question. If he wants to explain later, then he will. That's her philosophy–don't pry and poke around for personal information. This chatting is a form of communication Kara is trying to perfect–according to her, anyway. She looks at it as just like meeting people face-to-face but not exactly. She wouldn't make guys uncomfortable in person so why do it on the computer?

Hammerhead829: email u soon kara----cu.

Golden_goddess: you've got a cool name. I like it. Ok, look forward to hearing from u. cu. night.
Hammerhead829: night.

Two days later, before going to work, Kara gets an email from Kilohana. It is very short, but intriguing.

From: "Hammer Head" <Hammerhead829@groundzero.com> Save Address - Block Sender

To: "Kara McKay" <daffodil@screech.com> Save Address

Subject: good to talk to you the other night

Date: Sun, 17 June 2001 22:40:42

Reply	Reply All	Forward	Delete Previous Next	Close

Kara, was really good to talk to you the other night. Anyone who tells me I'm interesting can't be all that bad. Here's a question for you to think about and answer. Maybe we can make a chat date for Friday if you're not busy. You didn't mention having a bf so I guess that's a question too because I don't want to step on some guy's toes. Here's the question: If I were to ask your parents three things that make you the person you are, what would they say?

Take it easy. Hope to get a reply soon.

Oh, what are you doing this summer? Working? Hanging out in the sun, Golden_goddess????

Kilohana

All through the mail Kara smiles and reads it over and again out loud. There is something very likeable about Kilohana. "What's up with all this talk about parents?" Kara says. "He seems like he doesn't like his very much." So she won't seem too interested, Kara does not reply right away.

While at work, Jason, her boyfriend, and two of his friends walk in. They ask Kara if she wants to play softball after she gets off work. She says that she's got other things to do. Jason looks at her strangely, as if he's hurt and wondering what her deal is. "Can I talk to you a minute, Kara?" he says. "Just a sec, okay," she replies. "I've got two splits to make then we can talk for a few minutes." Jason's friends leave the ice- cream parlor and head across the parking lot to the Harvey's.

Kara is wearing one of the two shirts she has for a uniform; the golf shirt she's wearing is plum-colored with white embroidered lettering that reads THE SCOOP making an arc over a one-scoop cone. The other shirt she can wear is lime green with the same logo. And she wears black pants with non-slip shoes. After dishing out the two splits, Kara waves Jason over.

"What's going on with you, eh? It's like you don't want me around you anymore."

"It's kinda like that, Jay," Kara says quietly. "I don't know...things just aren't like they were before. And it's summer and all. I guess I think we should split up for now."

"For now?" Jason questions. "Like we'll get back when school starts? Forget it, Kara. I'm not going for it."

"Fine, then," she says, "just forget it. It's been a hoot the past five months. See ya around, eh?"

"You aren't gonna get all bitchy toward me when we see each other are you?" Jason asks.

"Nooo," Kara says through a smile. "Couples break up all the time. No biggee, ya know. Friends?" She sticks out her hand.

"Friends," Jason says, gripping her cold hand, looking into her shiny hazel eyes. "That's it then?" he asks. Kara nods her head, still smiling at him. "You're a hard one to figure out. You know that, right?" he says.

Kara continues to nod and smile as if this is all a big game to her. In many ways, it is. He's just a boy and there are lots out there–in Windsor and online.

"I wouldn't mind playing softball with you guys once in a while, though. Would keep me in practice for next year."

Jason waves a hand over his head as he walks out the door into the blazing afternoon sunshine.

Later that night, after her family has gone to bed, Kara scoots out of her room and heads for the den where the family's computer is. She sits down, turns on the equipment, dials up. Kara is not really supposed to be online this late–midnight–but she has no choice because her parents had her cleaning the garage when she got home from work and then she, her parents, Gary, and Kara's soon-to-be sister-in-law, Meg, all went for pizza and bowling. So this is the only chance she's had all night to reply to Hammerhead829's message. She has thought of him throughout the day, wondering what he looks like, other than having the normal parts of the body. And she has thought about the intriguing question he asked her.

From: "Kara McKay" <daffodil@screech.com> Save Address - Block Sender

Subject: RE: good to talk to you the other night

Reply	Reply All	Forward	Delete Previous Next	Close

HI HAMMERHEAD...KILOHANA. I WRITE MY EMAILS IN ALL CAPS BECAUSE IT'S EASIER THAT WAY. NOT A GOOD TYPER. WAS GOOD TO HEAR FROM YOU. HAD A GOOD DAY AT WORK. BROKE UP WITH MY BOY FRIEND. THINGS JUST WEREN'T GOING ANYWHERE, YA KNOW? HE'S TOO NICE IF THAT MAKES SENSE. OK. I'M WEIRD. I WAS BORED. DO YOU HAVE A NICKNAME?

—>AS FAR AS THAT QUESTION GOES, THIS IS MY ANSWER: MY PARENTS WOULD SAY THE THREE THINGS THAT HAVE MADE ME THE PERSON I AM TODAY ARE...1)RESPECT FOR MYSELF AND OTHER PEOPLE...2)I'M A VICTIM OF FASHION...3)LOVE OF THE SUN :)

I HOPE THAT TELLS YOU SOMETHING ABOUT ME. YES, I LOVE CLOTHES. BUT I'M ALSO KINDA ATHLETIC. PLAY SOFTBALL FOR MY SCHOOL. RIGHT FIELD.

—> HERE'S A QUESTION FOR YOU: WHY DID YOU PM ME?

OK, LET'S MAKE A CHAT DATE FOR FRIDAY NIGHT. TEN O'CLOCK SOUND OK? IF I DON'T HEAR FROM YOU UNTIL THEN THEN I'LL JUST BE ONLINE AND YOU CAN GET AHOLD OF ME.

TALK TO YOU SOON

~~KARA~~

Kara sends the mail, checks her other mail. She has twenty-four new messages in her inbox and the same amount of junk. Because her junk box is too full, the overflow goes to her inbox so she deletes all messages that are related to getting out of debt, enlarging of body parts, XXX pictures, losing weight fast. Once she spends a few minutes deleting messages, she opens a few mails from boys she's chatted with. These messages are a bunch of monotonous junk, too. It's the same stuff all the time. Just, how are ya and hope we can meet messages...boring. Forwards. Junk. Kilohana is different and Kara knows this. She finds herself wanting to check to see if he is online. "Wonder if he'll send a message before then," she says to herself.

Kara opens an email from Jason that tells her he's sad about what happened and he's not going to email her for a while until the sadness fades. Her eyes tear-up at his emotional email. Why am I so mean to him? I just told Kilohana that I respect other people. Why did Kilohana ask me that question of all questions? These questions skip through Kara's mind. I wasn't mean to Jason, she thinks, just honest. It is one hour later and she is yawning. So she closes everything down, exfoliates her face, brushes her teeth, goes to bed.

Friday night comes and Kara's parents are out of town visiting one of her dad's old college pals. And her brother is at a stag and doe party. Kara has the house to herself. No interruptions during her online date with the boy from Salem, Oregon. While she was at work earlier, Kara tried thinking of good subjects to discuss on the date and what kinds of questions she wanted him to answer. She was prepared to describe herself, in full, if asked. If Kilohana is like other guys, then he'll surely ask what her body looks like–especially how big her boobs are.

Golden_goddess is invited by Hammerhead829 into a private room. She goes immediately.

Hammerhead829: hi again---

Golden_goddess: hi back. How's it going

Hammerhead829: cant really complain bout things. U?

Golden_goddess: I'm alone so that's always a plus.

Hammerhead829: who do u live with?

Golden_goddess: my parents and my brother gary.

Hammerhead829: I live with my parents too and my 3 sisters.

Hammerhead829: good day at work? U never said what kind of work.

Golden_goddess: yeah and ice-cream parlor...scooping ice-cream for hungry people.

Hammerhead829: some ice-cream would be good right now–-just had dinner.

Golden_goddess: just had dinner...what time is it there

Hammerhead829: bout 7—yer 3 hours ahead of me.

Golden_goddess: lol at myself...never thought about a time difference. Hope I'm not taking you away from anything.

Hammerhead829: nope

Hammerhead829: just so u know—i didnt email u back because i just got it today.

Hammerhead829: yer message. TY by the way. wuz nice.

Golden_goddess: no problem. So...y'd you pm me

Hammerhead829: guess because u were just haning out in the room talking bout this and that and u seemed like someone Id like to talk to---u were trying to help that guy with his problem

Hammerhead829: are u glad i did?

Golden_goddess: uh....yesssss

Hammerhead829: blushes at yer emphatic yesssssss

Golden_goddess: a blusher, huh...cute.

Hammerhead829: guess yer parents know u pretty good

Golden_goddess: pretty good, yeah...we get along. Not all the time though but most of the time.

Hammerhead829: thats cool---wish i could say the same

Golden_goddess: i was wondering y u ask so much about my parents...now i know.

Hammerhead829: well, its not like its a bad relationship

Hammerhead829: just not much of one to begin with

Hammerhead829: maybe things will change with me being home schooled in the fall. My mom and i will be together more.

Hammerhead829: She got hurt on her job so she wont be working. Not working now but shes in physical therapy a lot.

Kara is staring at her screen, reading as fast as she can. Kilohana is really letting loose a lot of personal information. She wonders why and wonders if she should ask him. The cigarette she's holding is almost out. It is hard to smoke and type at the same time. Smoke keeps getting in her eyes and she has to squint.

Golden_goddess: sorry to hear all that kilohana...must be tuff.

Hammerhead829: kind of is. Im expected to take care of my sisters all the time and not pay much attention to myself. Do what i gotta do i ugess.

Golden_goddess: how old are your sisters

Hammerhead829: 4, 7, 10

Golden_goddess: my brother's 23

Hammerhead829: u get along with him?

Golden_goddess: for the most part...he's a lot older than i am.

Hammerhead829: yeah, i guess 17 and 23 is a good diff.

Hammerhead829: yer parents took a break huh?

Golden_goddess: lol...more like...oops dear, guess what....surprise!

Hammerhead829: thats kinda like me. My real dad was some guy my mom met, slept with, then left. Dont even know hisname. The guy i call DAD is a pretty good guy when hes around.

Hammerhead829: on the road a lot. Tuff, as u say.

Kara thinks, What do I say to him? She was not expecting to get into such a dark conversation with Kilohana. This is something she wasn't prepared for. Nothing about a girlfriend which would be easy. His parents and home-life is a whole different story. Kara feels sorry for Hammerhead829 but is afraid to say that to him because she's not sure how he'll react. Would he be offended? Or grateful that she cares? She has already told him that she's sorry about other stuff.

Hammerhead829: u there?

Golden_goddess: yeah...just wondering what to say to u.

Hammerhead829: are u uncomfortable?

Golden_goddess: not really...just diff conversation than I'm used to that's all

Golden_goddess: but I'm learning a lot about u.

Hammerhead829: thats what dates are for, right?

Golden_goddess: yup.

Hammerhead829: u dont have to say anything if u dont wanna
Hammerhead829: just listening is ok with me. Sorry to lay all that on u. U just seem like i can talk to u. weird.

Golden_goddess: ty. i know what u mean. it's ok though...i don't mind.

Golden_goddess: i want to know what u look like...for real.

Hammerhead829: lol...ok.

Hammerhead829: brown hair with bleached tips, like i said before. bout 6 feet tall. Good build. I lift weights a few times a week, mostly so i can lift my mom and stuff like that. Shes a bit on the overweight side. My skin is dark because im mostly Filipino with Hawaiian in me too. Weird that my hair is as light as it is. Same with my eyes. Light brown. Guess that comes from my real dad. As much as u like the sun were probably the same color

Hammerhead829: ummm---what else?

Golden_goddess: that's good for now, Hammerhead. Sounds great!

Hammerhead829: ty.ty.ty

Golden_goddess: don't u want to know about me

Hammerhead829: doesnt matter.

Hammerhead829: If u wanna then go ahead.

Golden_goddess: nooo...keep u guessing. here's a question...if we were out on a real date, what would we be doing

Hammerhead829: hmmmmmmm

Hammerhead829: hmmmmm

Golden_goddess: lol

Hammerhead829: something really cool----like id take u to this cool bar type place near my house where all kinds of people hang out----but not the stuck-up kind from school—these are more interesting people. And we could sit and eat something and watch everythings that giong on.

Golden_goddess: sounds ok so far....

Hammerhead829: then---hmmmm

Hammerhead829: maybe drive out to the coast. Lots of state parks . We could build a fire and hang out. Roast marshmallows if u like em

Golden_goddess: yum

Golden_goddess: doesn't seem like you into the whole dinner and a movie thing.

Hammerhead829: not at all.

Hammerhead829: nothing original bout that. Dont see many movies anyway---too expensive.

Golden_goddess: what do u drive

Hammerhead829: honestly?

Golden_goddess: of course

Hammerhead829: a navy blue chevette i bought off my uncle for 200 bucks. It runs good so thats all that matters. To me anyway.

Golden_goddess: better than what i have....

Hammerhead829: what do u have?

Golden_goddess: not a damn thing!

Hammerhead829: lmao...ha,ha,ha. TY Yer cool. Lots of girls wouldnt gimme the time of day if they knew what i drive. Yer a fashion freak but not soooo superficial.

For another hour, these two chat about this and that–finding out more and more about each other. Kilohana likes to race remote control cars with friends; Kara knits every now and again and really likes to watch old movies for research purposes. Kara lights cigarette after cigarette, so now, she is sitting in the middle of a smoke cloud. She tells him a lot about Windsor and he tells her what he found out about Windsor when he looked it up after their first meeting. Kara thinks that's cute and that shows Kilohana is really interested in her–not what she looks like or how big her boobs are. This is pretty much a whole new experience to her...chatting with him. She likes the mystery. To her, he seems dark and unpredictable. Which is nice because she has only really ever known the boys she grew up around and they are far from unpredictable.

Just after midnight, Windsor time, Hammerhead829 tells Golden_goddess that he's got to get off the computer to help his mother with some of her therapy. Kara tells him that she thinks it's really nice that he is there to help with his mother and his sisters. Tells him she's never known anyone like him. He says that he's blushing and thanks for the compliment, but it's a hassle, too. He will email her in a couple of days if that's okay. Golden_goddess writes-- you better! When that conversation is finished, Kara gets up and goes into the bathroom to dump her smoking evidence. Then she opens the den window wider to air out the room. Gary comes home and stumbles into the living room with his fiancé under his arm for support. He is trying to shed his clothes as the two slowly make their way down the long hallway to his bedroom. Kara is watching this as she sips on a ginger ale–she is laughing at how silly her brother is, and wondering how he'll be at his own stag and doe party in three months.

Two days later, Kara checks her email and there is a message from her friend many miles away. She gets excited as she points the arrow on Hammer Head and clicks the mouse.

Hey Kara,

Just wanted to drop a line or two to say how much I enjoyed our date the other night. I hope we continue to be friends. You listen and that's cool because a lot of girls, like you think a lot of guys, just don't want to talk about anything but sex and that mess. Open-mindedness is always a plus in a relationship–no matter what kind it is. See ya. Oh, here's another question: if your house was on fire and you could only take out three things (not pets or people) what would they be? I'll tell you mine right now. I'd take my baseball card collection, my leather jacket, and this lap top I'm using right now.

You had asked before if I have a nickname. Not really, but sometimes my friends call me Willie because my last name is Williams.

Waiting for a response :)

Kilohana

WOW...KILOHANA....GREAT MESSAGE. YOU REALLY KNOW HOW TO MAKE A GIRL FEEL GOOD ABOUT HERSELF. I LIKE TO THINK I'M NOT A SELFISH PERSON. BUT MY EX WOULD PROBABLY TELL YOU SOMETHING DIFFERENT. DON'T KNOW ABOUT HIM...HE JUST WASN'T WHAT I WANT OR NEED, I GUESS. YOU, ON THE OTHER HAND, ARE WONDERFUL. DO I SOUND CORNEY???? OH WELL. THE THREE THINGS I'D TAKE ARE: 1)THE BOX I HAVE IN MY CLOSET THAT HAS LIKE TONS OF PICTURES IN IT FROM GRADE FIVE TILL NOW. 2)MY ROBE BECAUSE I DON'T THINK I'D EVER FIND ONE THAT COMFY AGAIN (IT'S TERRYCLOTH FROM VICTORIA'S SECRET...MAGENTA WHICH IS LIKE MY FAVOURITE COLOUR) 3) I GUESS I'D TAKE MY COLLECTION OF JUDY BLUME BOOKS BECAUSE MY GRANDMOM KEPT BUYING THEM FOR ME YEARS AGO AND I LOVED THEM AND NOW SHE'S GONE. EVER READ ANY JUDY BLUME? THEY'RE GREAT–ESPECIALLY FOR GIRLS WHO ARE GOING THROUGH THOSE CHANGES ALL GIRLS GO THROUGH. EXCEPT, THE BOOKS ARE DATED AS FAR AS TAMPONS AND THAT STUFF GOES. DON'T WANT TO GROSS YOU OUT OR ANYTHING. I THINK YOU MIGHT BE LAUGHIGN RIGHT NOW. HOPE SO. GOTTA GET TO WORK. LOTS OF SCOOPS TO GIVE OUT TO HUNGRY CUSTOMERS. GOTTA MAKE THE WORLD HAPPY WITH ICE- CREAM. DO YOU WORK AT A JOB OTHER THAN AT HOME?

~~KARA~~

A message is waiting for Kara when she gets home from work. Today she is wearing the lime green shirt and there is a chocolate stain on the front by her left boob. She has thought a lot about Kilohana today while scooping ice-cream. Her two best friends came in for a banana split around lunch and invited her to the movies tonight.

Hello Golden_goddess:

Yes, strangely enough, I have read some Judy Blume books. An old girlfriend of mine had some and we'd read to each other once in a while. Was cool. I remember Are You There God It's Me, Margaret–or something like that. Good answers, by the way.

Life here is getting really hectic. I'd love to have you here in person to talk to. I know that's not realistic though. Just a thought. My dad's back right now and keeps harping on me to clean up the yard and stuff. Jackass. He can be a real pain. I'll bet your dad is a lot nicer than mine. Sounds like your home life is a lot less hectic than mine. Lucky for you. This guy makes me want to just get out of here and never come back. He's much better with my sisters than with me because they're his own kids. That's what I think anyway. Treats them like their breath never stinks in the morning.

I work for my uncle in his motorcycle shop a few hours every day. The pay isn't all that great but it's something to do to get me out of the house for a while. My Uncle Ray is my mom's only sibling. He's a recovering alcoholic. He's doing a good job and I'm proud of him. Don't do anymore drugs. Ok.

Hope you had a good day.

Kilohana.

HI THERE!

YOU AND I REALLY LEAD DIFFERENT LIVES HUH? I'M GLAD THAT YOU THINK OF ME AS SOMEONE YOU CAN TALK TO. GOING TO THE MOVIES IN A LITTLE WHILE SO I GOTTA JUMP IN THE SHOWER AND EAT SOMETHING THAT ISN'T DAIRY! :) I WON'T DO ANY DRUGS.

~~KARA~~

Kara,

You ever think about suicide?

Hammerhead---

Kara sits down at the computer Thursday night after working all day. She is pooped from working at The Scoop. She has plans to go to Point Pelee with some friends Saturday morning for the day. It will be nice weather and she will be able to add to her dark tan.

A weird feeling runs through Kara when she reads Kilohana's one sentence. It's only a few words but those words are powerful. She thinks it's just another one of his questions that will help him get to know her a little better. But she's not sure how to answer. What if he's really serious and has seriously considered killing himself? Or someone else? Kara knows that not all people online are trustworthy or sane. This question bothers her and she starts thinking about the kind of guy Kilohana really is. She puts together pieces of messages she's gotten from him and different things he's said when chatting. His life is harder than hers. He doesn't like his dad and he feels a resentment toward having to help his mother all the time while her husband is off doing whatever. Traveling on the road. And he doesn't want to be responsible for raising three sisters when he wants to lead a life of his own.

Kara sits in the office chair and looks out the window. Her parents have just gotten home from their jobs. Suddenly, she appreciates them more. Their making her clean the garage once in a while and empty the dishwasher every night doesn't seem so harsh now. She starts to really feel sorry for Kilohana. What can I say? she wonders. He makes me think of stuff that I've never really thought about.

KILOHANA,

JUST GOT IN FROM WORK. LOTS OF SCOOPING TODAY. I'M REALLY TIRED. PLUS, I DIDN'T GET A LOT OF SLEEP LAST NIGHT. AND NOW YOU ASK IF I HAVE EVER THOUGHT ABOUT SUICIDE...WHO HASN'T? I'VE THOUGHT ABOUT IT BUT NOT SERIOUSLY. WHEN MY LIFE HAS BEEN TUFF, IN THE PAST, I'VE WONDERED ABOUT TAKING A BUNCH OF PILLS TO BE DONE WITH EVERYTHING. THAT'S AS FAR AS IT'S GONE. I LIKE MY LIFE, NO MATTER WHAT CRAP GOES ALONG WITH IT. I HAVE A "MAKING MOVIES" LIFE WAITING. SO, THAT'S MY ANSWER. I HOPE YOUR ANSWER WOULD BE ABOUT THE SAME AS MINE.

TAKE CARE. I'LL BE OFFLINE THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS.

~~KARA~~

Kara has just returned from sunning herself with her friends. Her face is shiny with a red tint. She checks her email, but, of the fifteen messages, none are from Kilohana. So Kara decides to go into a chatroom for a little while. Since she's been corresponding with Hammerhead829, she hasn't done any other chatting and she has been deleting more messages than she reads.

When she sees that Hammerhead829 is online, she sends him a private message.

Golden_goddess: hey! What's going on

Golden_goddess: u there

Golden_goddess: waiting for u to answer...

Hammerhead829: im here

Hammerhead829: wuz just talking with my mom

Golden_goddess: how is she

Hammerhead829: bitchy right now

Hammerhead829: but her therapy is going ok

Hammerhead829: shes in soem pain

Golden_goddess: is that normal

Hammerhead829: yeah

Hammerhead829: didnt make u uncomfortable with that bit about suicide, did i?

Golden_goddess: a little. Hard to talk about

Hammerhead829: Ive thought a lot about it—even tried once. Obviously didnt work.

Kara isn't sure how to respond. She wants to ask how he tried, but doesn't want to pry. But...he has offered a lot of information on his own and does not appear to be shy about talking about suicide.

Golden_goddess: what did u do

Hammerhead829: took a bunch of pills----like u said.

Golden_goddess: scary...what happened

Hammerhead829: overdosed----thats it. Dad found me in my room---called 911----went to hospital.

Golden_goddess: glad he found u

Hammerhead829: lol. TY.

Golden_goddess: I'm serious, Kilohana. You're a good guy with a lot of diff interests and stuff. Seem fun and smart and nice.

Golden_goddess: you're scaring me kinda...stop

Hammerhead829: dont mean to. Its life. Mine.

Hammerhead829: y shouldnt i just off myself with a gun?

Golden_goddess: hey...I'm not some therapist u know. Freaking me out!!!

Hammerhead829: the way i feel right now.

Golden_goddess: u should talk to a trained person...not me.

Hammerhead829: but i am talking to u.

Hammerhead829: i like talking to u.

Golden_goddess: i usually give guys advice on girlfriends...not staying alive. Not fair to put me in this position.

Hammerhead829: sorry.

Hammerhead829: i need u right now—to help me.

Golden_goddess: y me

Hammerhead829: u care. I know it. U know it. Theres just something between us that makes u care. Yd we meet?

Golden_goddess: shrugs.

Hammerhead829: u believe in chains of events? Fate?

Golden_goddess: shrugs again

Hammerhead829: i pmed u cuz u were there—thats y. I could be dead right now if u hadnt been there. U know that? I got to liking u.

Hammerhead829: and u got to liking me. Im diff remember? Than the others. U like that. Meeting me showed u that theres other kinds of people than what yer used to. U see?

Golden_goddess: i guess...yeah...smiles.

Golden_goddess: so...u want me to talk u out of killing yourself?

Hammerhead829: shrugs—dont know if itll work

Golden_goddess: maybe u got stuck caring for your mom cuz your dad can't do a good job...or maybe cuz u care more

Golden_goddess: ???

Golden_goddess: if u off yourself, then who'd care for your sisters and mom when your dad's gone. Kilohana...sounds like u r needed too much. Forget about your dad...your sisters and mom need u!

Hammerhead829: makes sense i guess. I already thought abotu that

Golden_goddess: then i don't know what to say to u

Hammerhead829: y

Golden_goddess: y??????????

Hammerhead829: yeah---y dont u know what to say?

Golden_goddess: maybe cuz I'm only 17 and haven't been in this situation!!!

Hammerhead829: good answer

Golden_goddess: u r starting to piss me off kilohana. is this a quiz

Hammerhead829: uh-uh—y havent u already signed off—u could just leave the room

Golden_goddess: don't know!

Golden_goddess: screams inside at u...ok look...

Golden_goddess: if killing yourself is the only thing u think u have left...option...then that's what u think and nothing i say, like u said, will change your mind.

Kara's fingers are just typing away and she cannot believe that she's telling him all of this. She is wondering where this little lecture is coming from. She keeps telling herself to get out of the room, to leave him alone with his problems, but she can't actually do it. There's something that keeps her there. Curiosity? Heart?

Hammerhead829: U R RIGHT

Hammerhead829: brb...phone

Golden_goddess: my mom's calling for dinner...gotta go.

Golden_goddess: meet me online in an hour so we can talk some more

She closes the chat windows and goes into the kitchen. Her mother has cooked steaks for everyone with green beans and mashed potatoes. Kara is very hungry and nervous. Thinking about what she just told Kilohana scares her. She feels like she's trying to coax a jumper down off of a building's ledge. On top of her nervousness, a feeling of anger sneaks in. Why does he think he can just talk to anyone about that? But she told him before that she likes to think that she's not a selfish person. In the midst of her devouring the steak and other food, Kara wishes, in a way, that she never met Kilohana. What will I say when we meet online after dinner?

Gary and Kara clear off the dinner dishes, scrap the remnants into the trash, then load the dishwasher. She wipes her hands and heads for the den. She wants a cigarette. Dials up. Waits. Waits. Punches in user name and password. No Hammerhead829. Waits. Waits. Chats aimlessly with some people in the room. Stupid stuff. Nothing exciting. Not like with Kilohana. Twenty minutes later he's still not there. Another twenty minutes goes by and he's not there. She checks her email thinking that maybe he couldn't make it back so he left her a message. No messages from Hammer Head. Kara goes back to the room. Searches for Hammerhead829 but has no luck. He is not online.

Returning home at eleven o'clock from hanging out at her friend's house, Kara goes into the den and dials up. First she checks her mail. The message she wants is not there. So she goes into a chatroom. Hammerhead829 is not online. This worries Kara. Maybe he had other stuff to do? Kara chats with another guy named Groovemebaby1212. It's the same stuff as usual–body statistics and sex stuff. But she goes along with it and has some fun. At least this has taken her mind off of Kilohana. Groovemebaby1212 wants to email Kara but she declines. Tells him that she doesn't do that.

Three days go by. Still there is no message from Kilohana even after Kara has sent him two messages–short but sincere–the past two days. In one of the messages she told him how tall she really is and how much she really weighs. She's now thinking that maybe he's mad that she lied to him. And she is really worried he hasn't responded and she's not sure exactly why because it's not like they ever saw each other in person. He's not one of her best friends. But she does care! She really likes him–not in a very romantic way–but she likes him all the same. And now Kara has no idea what to think. She decides to wait one more day before she sends him another message telling him that maybe they shouldn't continue chatting or contacting each other. What if he shot himself? she wonders. What if he was only kidding about everything? What if he is dead right now and I'm the last person he had contact with? A terrible pang is in Kara's stomach. She runs to the bathroom and vomits in the toilet. Her mother comes in to find Kara hunched over the toilet and crying. Her words are not very audible and her mother is fighting with her to calm down. Now Mr. McKay is in the bathroom trying to calm his wife.

Kara is on the sofa wrapped in a blanket. She is holding a small glass of ginger ale and her parents are sitting around her. Kara tells them about this online relationship she's had the past couple weeks with Kilohana in Oregon. She tells them about how nice and smart he is and about the emails he sent her. Then she breaks down again and sobs as she speaks, revealing everything about their last conversation. "I'm scared that he killed himself and he was trying to reach out to me for help!" Her parents try to comfort her in any way they can think of. They call her best friend who might be able to help. Kara is shaking, red in the face, breathing heavily. She can only wonder and hope that she gets some sort of message from Kilohana soon. Mr. and Mrs. McKay talk about monitoring their daughter's online activities. Her father makes a remark about crazies online, but Kara fights him on that saying that Kilohana wasn't like that.

This is day four. Kara is not at work today. Alone in the house, she wanders from room to room, thinking about her family and how hurt Kilohana must be. But can I really trust him? Maybe Dad is right. He could live in Texas and be a millionaire's kid for all I know. Although she tries to fight the urge to turn on the computer, she gives in. Dials up. Logs into her email account. And there's a message from Hammer Head. Her heart drops to the floor in relief.

Hey,

Don't have much time. Going away for awhile. Got your messages. Sorry you worried. You didn't ignore me. Taking your advice. Talked to my uncle and he'll take some time off work to stay with my mom while my dad's out of town the next couple days. I'm going to a place in Arizona for a few weeks. I came close to losing it the other night. Thank you, Kara. Maybe we'll meet online again someday. Good luck to you with film and other things.

Kilohana

Tears fall down her cheeks as she reads the message–over and over. Kara McKay is so relieved that Kilohana did not leave her in the dark. She whispers, "Good luck to you, Kilohana. You are supreme." Instead of chatting or opening other messages, Kara goes into her closet and pulls out the big box of photos.

SAXOPHONE

Parents, teachers, and friends of the music students at Glenmora's biggest high school almost filled the large auditorium. Ebony Monroe was one of those in attendance. She was excited to hear her friend Tara play the piano, and to see what a recital was like.

The November recital was the first in a series of three recitals for the students during the school year; inevitably, for all involved, it was the most exhausting to prepare for and listen to. The second show of skill and talent took place during the week-long Mardi Gras parades in February. The first week of June was when the final concert was held. It was during the November recital when Ebony decided she wanted to play the saxophone.

Ebony Monroe came to school for the second time that humid November evening to hear her friend Tara play the piano. Although she began to yawn two numbers before her friend's, Ebony paid close attention to the music Tara was making, pounding the keys of the school's brand new piano. When Tara was finished, Ebony clapped as loudly as she could. She even tried to let loose a piercing whistle which resulted in her spraying spittle on her legs.

As Tara disappeared behind the crimson curtain, a short, pudgy, bushy-black-haired boy stepped to the microphone, a shiny saxophone hanging from his neck by a thick leather strap. Ebony sat up straight. Until her grandfather died six years before, he would play his jazz and big band albums whenever Ebony visited him. And he would tap his feet, snap his fingers, and whistle along with the guys making all the noise that sounded so good. That is where Ebony got her first taste of the saxophone. But in the auditorium, sitting in the dark, watching the stage, was her first taste in person.

This boy, who introduced himself as a sophomore, had been playing the saxophone for three years. Immediately after he started blowing into the mouthpiece, Ebony could feel the energy of the notes course through her body and stimulate her eyes, ears, brain, lungs, lips, and fingers. She found herself holding her hands like the bushy-haired boy, as if there were a shiny instrument in her hands. The music that came from the boy's lungs and fingers piqued Ebony's interest so much that she decided right then, sitting in the auditorium of her high school, that she, Ebony Monroe, was going to be a black, female, professional saxophonist–and she was going to be so good that her grandfather, wherever he may have been, would be able to snap his fingers and tap his feet to the rhythm of her music.

"I wunna play the saxophone," Ebony excitedly told her mother when she got home from the recital. She stepped out of her sandals onto the cold, tiled floor.

"You want to what?" her mother asked.

"Play the saxophone. I heard this kid playin' at the recital–he was up right after Tara, and that's what I wunna do." Her dark eyes sparkled.

Mrs. Monroe was standing at the kitchen sink drying the suds from her hands with a ragged dish towel. She sighed, tossing the towel on the counter. Ebony's mother was a tall woman, who attracted attention when she walked into a room. Her walnut-colored skin shone at all times during the day, and when she walked, she looked as if she were floating, always dignified, always looking straight ahead. Ebony looked very much like her mother, although she would never be as tall. Mrs. Monroe spoke slowly and articulately, so she cringed at her daughter's slang and misuse of the language Ebony practiced well until she got to ninth grade and started hanging around girls whose misuse of the language was no big deal, or even a thought.

"Please, Ebony, slow down when you speak so that people can understand you," she told her daughter, who, by this time, had her head buried in the refrigerator. "While you're at it, clean up your way of speaking so employers will know that you are an intelligent young woman. You don't get that from me."

"Do you really think that some guy won't hire me cuz a the way I talk?" she asked, straightening the askew, small, beige bow barrette in her hair.

Mrs. Monroe nodded her head definitively, touched the string of pearls around her neck.

"Well, that's stupid."

"Yes, well, one cannot judge a book by its cover, Ebony. You look lovely on the outside, but once you open your mouth, that is a different story."

Ebony sat looking, as if in a trance, at her mother's mocha-painted lips moving. She certainly did not want her mother telling her how stupid she sounded. But the little lecture began to sink in, just a bit.

"That makes some sense, Mom," Ebony said, pulling a pickle from the jar. "I'll give ya that much. But if I'm gonna be a famous saxophone player, no one'll care what my speech is like."

"Please tell me more about this saxophone interest."

"Like I said before, I saw this kid at the recital. And you know how Poppy had all those old jazz records and had me listenin' to 'em since I could crawl?"

Her mother nodded.

"Well, that got to me. Cuz when that kid started playin', I tell ya, I felt chills all over–like this surge was surging through me."

"What kind of surge?"

"Energy, Mom," Ebony said, matter-of-factly, unbuttoning the wrist buttons of the red silk blouse she was wearing. "It was like God was tellin' me that's what I'm supposed to be doing. Playing the sax."

Ebony's face looked very pure and innocent. Her feelings were genuine, not like when she would try convincing her mother to let her stay out past her curfew, or trying to cover herself with lies when she was late. There were no lies to be told as she sat with her mother at the kitchen table. Mrs. Monroe listened attentively to what Ebony was saying. She sat tall and straight in the chair, resting her long hands and fingers on the table.

"And ya know what's really weird?"

Her mother shook her head, no.

"Tara had to drag me to that thing. Good thing I was there, huh?"

"Are you sure that's what you want to do, dear? Play an instrument?"

Ebony slapped the table with a strong, slender hand. "You can't do that."

"Excuse me?"

"What you jist said," Ebony told her mother, somewhat angrily. "You followed your dream to be a dancer. You did that till your knee got too hurt. That's what you wunted to do with your life. And didn't you and Dad meet at some protest thing somewhere in Washington?"

Mrs. Monroe looked narrow-eyed at her daughter.

"Now you're an accountant," Ebony continued. "You did what you felt was right. That's the same with me."

"Where will you get a saxophone, Ebony?" her mother asked. "Money is not exactly growing on a tree in the backyard. After we pay for the new roof next month, money will be extremely tight around here. We're living paycheck to paycheck."

"What about that deal that Charlie was workin' on that was supposed to be worth so much money?" Ebony pulled another pickle from the jar, crunched into it loudly, awaiting an answer from her mother. An answer she knew her mother could not give her. "He's another one, Mom. One scam after another with him. Mr. Wanna Make It Rich."

"Aren't you the mature one now." Mrs. Monroe stood up. She towered over her only child. "What Charlie does is his business and mine. I take care of you and your necessities. I've told you many times that he cared for us when–"

"–Dad died four years ago," Ebony said. She turned a thick silver ring round and round on her thumb. "Cared for you is more like it. He didn't even know me then. You're the one who fell in love, not me."

Mrs. Monroe's tone became more harsh as she continued. "He took us into this house when we had nothing, young lady. You're too hard on him. Believe me, it's no secret that you don't love him the way I do. He's a good man, Ebony, even though he's not a very business savvy man. We live well enough."

After a few seconds of silence Ebony said, "I'll earn the money. I can have a yard sale with all the crap in the garage that we moved here and don't need no more. There's lots of that kind a junk."

Mrs. Monroe showed her daughter a slight smile. Her way of telling Ebony that that was fine with her. A good idea.

"Do you have a plan, Ebony? Or do you think that once you have the saxophone in your hands that you'll automatically know how to play it?"

Ebony shook her head. "Yawp. That's right, Mom." She sat back in the chair, hard. Crossed her arms. "Forget it. I'll make you change your mind 'bout all this once I get goin' and get good. You'll see." She walked away, leaving the half-empty pickle jar to sweat on the table.	"Wait a second!" Mrs. Monroe walked over to Ebony. "I'm not trying to make you feel bad, Ebony. I just want you to really know what you're doing. And I would never try to stop you from pursuing a dream." She reached out and put her hands on her daughter's shoulders. "Make sure you talk to someone at school about this so you know what you have in store for yourself and what, exactly, you need to do."

Ebony smiled and hugged her mother, kissed her on the cheek.

"One more thing, Ebony," Mrs. Monroe said, stroking her daughter's shiny black hair. "If you don't have every grade eighty or above on your report card in three weeks, then you won't be pursuing this dream just yet. Is that understood?"

"Yeah," Ebony said, "I guess. Three weeks'll fly by in no time. In the meantime, I'll find out all that stuff you told me to find out."

"That's very sensible of you."

Ebony left her mother standing in the living room as she walked toward her bedroom, knowing that the test she had the next day just got more important.

/	/	/

Because she had no prior experience, Ebony could not get into the music class at school. So, just before Christmas, Ebony Monroe enrolled in an after-school music class given by the music teacher at her school. The lessons and use of instrument were free. This was fortunate because Ebony hadn't had that yard sale yet.

At first, she couldn't practice as much as she wanted to because she had to keep her grades above eighty. And that was difficult for Ebony. As a young girl, she had fallen off of a swing and suffered some minor head trauma. The trauma, however, was major enough to give her a learning disability. Grades five through eight were spent in special education, but when she got to high school, Ebony was mainstreamed into regular, standard level classes–all except for math. Even in eleventh grade, Ebony was still attending special math classes. But that didn't bother her at all because she knew that she could learn better, instead of failing in regular math classes.

The struggle was not only because of a learning disability, it was also partly Ebony's lack of interest in school; she was not the most conscientious student in Glenmora, nor did she want to push herself harder, harder, harder. Her mother had given up the fight with her, but enforced the eighty-percent rule. Basically, Ebony did enough work in school to keep her grades hovering around the middle C range, getting the occasional B or B-.

Ebony fell in love with the music she could make. When she first began the lessons, she was frustrated with reading the music. Once she knew the notes, her instrument, and could play scales, she had her firm foundation. Every free minute she had at home, Ebony was in the basement practicing. She would even go over to Tara's house and play with her. Three months later, her instructor was so impressed with Ebony's progress and performance, that he informed her of a one-time, underprivileged-area scholarship that would be her ticket to music camp that summer. The scholarship would be hers if she wanted it. Her instructor knew that by the time the camp began in July, Ebony would be good enough to attend on the intermediate level.

"That sounds wonderful, dear," Mrs. Monroe told her daughter. "I've heard you downstairs and I have to admit that you sound really good. I'm proud of you for sticking with this. If only you did that for your gr–"

"Not a lecture, please, Mom," Ebony groaned. "Can't you tell anything else that's happened with me?" Ebony smiled, exposing the yellowed canine tooth that contrasted with the whiteness of her other teeth.

Her mother shrugged, giving her daughter a furtive glance.

"My language has improved," Ebony said proudly. "Can't you tell?"

"Yes, I can...a little bit," her mother said, turning her string of pearls so the clasp rested on the back of her long neck. "Still a long way to go, but good work."

Ebony, her mother, and Charlie went through the garage, basement, and shed, to find anything that they could possibly sell at the yard sale. There was so much extra furniture cluttering up rooms, the garage, the shed, that Ebony had more than the $250 she needed to purchase the Elkhart Student Model Alto that she had her eye on. The other money earned went toward getting a new, used washing machine. Because Ebony's final report card for the year showed that her grades, although not fantastic, had stayed the same or increased slightly, her mother allowed her to attend Jurgen Engelhardt's music camp in Nashville that July.

The four-week camp was divided into two groups–intermediate and advanced. The intermediate group included students who had been playing their respective instruments for less than one year and had excelled in their lessons. The instructors were there to teach and guide the intermediate students, not to cause anxiety over becoming an advanced student by the end of the four-week period. There was, however, no room for inadequacy or laziness. On top of actual music-making, students were expected to learn from the textbook and notes given by each instructor. Ebony felt very comfortable in her classes and with her instructor, John Bol, who had five students to work with. And she was, in fact, the only black female taking saxophone instruction.

After ten days at camp, John Bol noticed Ebony's fast progress and gave her a harder piece to work on. She exhibited a musical gift and had an insatiable desire to improve.

The saxophone became Ebony's heart beat; she needed it to survive. It was part of her spirit–part of her being. There was a sense of great accomplishment inside of her when she learned a new piece or improved upon an older one. And although Ebony lay on her bed some nights, crying into her pillow with exhaustion or frustration, her dedication and hard work proved successful, for she was soon ranked as one of the top musicians of the thirty intermediates.

At the close of the four-week instruction session, Ebony's tremendous talent and drive surely paid off, as she was invited back to the camp for the following summer. The cost of the camp was $2,200, not including travel. Knowing how, as her mother had said, that money was not growing in the backyard, Ebony was worried that she would not be able to afford the cost of attending the camp again. This first trip to Nashville was free; she had gotten the only underprivileged-area scholarship and that scholarship would not be offered the next year.

As she was leaving the dorm to board the bus, Ebony saw a flyer on a bulletin board advertising the availability of ten scholarships, each covering the cost of the instruction; she would only have to pay the remaining $1,200, plus travel expenses. Not surprisingly, the competition for the scholarships was intense. Both outstanding academic and musical achievements were criteria for being considered for the award. And the competition spanned the whole state of Louisiana–affluent and underprivileged applicants alike.

/	/	/

"I've got a shot," Ebony said, "at going back again next year, Mom. On a scholarship. But that's gonna be real tough because of all the competition."

Charlie, Ebony, and her mother were sitting at the kitchen table eating pork chops, rice, and peas, talking about her experience just after she returned from Nashville.

"What was it like?" Mrs. Monroe asked.

"When I first got there–like I told you on the phone–I was like a scared little kid. But that went away after the first day and I knew what was gonna...going to happen." Ebony poked at the peas on her plate. "I don't really know how to explain the feeling I had, but it was like this energy flowing through me. I belonged there. And I was one of the best of the intermediates. That doesn't mean I didn't struggle at all, because I did. Even cried about it."

"That's wonderful, dear," her mother said. "I know that you did your best and learned a lot. From what you've already said, you improved tremendously." Mrs. Monroe was smiling at her daughter; she grabbed Ebony's hand and squeezed. "I'm very, very proud of you. I can tell that you are finally dedicated to something. If you maintain this passion," she said, squeezing Ebony's hand again, "this dream of yours will be a reality."

"I agree with that," Charlie said. "Go all out and you get in return."

Ebony started to cry, talking about being invited back again, the cost of the everything, the ten scholarships, and her concern about the competition.

"That was so good for me for lots of reasons. I've never been around kids like those–well, not so many at once. I picked up some good habits as far as speaking, studying, and playing go."

Mrs. Monroe grinned and nodded. "Even still, Ebony," she began, "twelve hundred dollars is a lot of money for four weeks. It's ridiculous if you think about it."

The look Ebony gave her mother was one that said, "I can't help that, Mom."

"But you know that my grades will never beat out those other kids'," she sobbed. "I'd bet that ninety percent of them kids that were there get all A's."

"Those kids," her mother corrected.

"Those kids," Ebony repeated, blotting her eyes with a white napkin.

"What about another, less expensive camp?" Charlie offered. "I'm sure there's lots of camps you can go to in the summer. Your mom's right, Eb–that's way too much money. I can check online for ya if ya want."

Ebony did not look at him, but merely shrugged. Mrs. Monroe smiled appreciatively at Charlie, her skin and eyes aglow.

"Then we'll just have to get you on that academic level!"

"Yeah, right, Mom," Ebony said. "Never."

"With that attitude, you'll be making C's again in the fall and for the rest of your high school career."

Ebony hung her head, still stabbing at her peas.

"But if you somehow dig down deep inside and pull out the same determination you have to be a black, female saxophonist..." Mrs. Monroe did not have to finish her sentence. Ebony looked up at her, tears falling from her brown eyes, knowing exactly what her mother meant.

/	/	/

Throughout her senior year of high school, Ebony worked extremely hard at her talent; she was a whole different person, always wanting to learn more and more–almost to the point of exhaustion. Her mother took her instrument away from her for one weekend a month so Ebony would go do something with her friends.

Ebony performed in recitals, just as her friend Tara had done the previous year. There was the first recital in November where Ebony impressed the audience, her classmates, and her teacher with her music and stage presence. With her coal-black hair pulled up behind her head in a bun, and her black heels, Ebony looked very professional. Even though the performance was not without its flaws, the ways in which Ebony Monroe moved her body and blew her heart and soul into that saxophone were energizing. Mrs. Monroe and Charlie were there and stood up with the rest of the audience when Ebony was finished her performance. The scattered sequins on her loose, black sun dress sparkled as much as her dark eyes. Pride beamed from Ebony's face as she made one small bow after another. And she shivered with excitement because she knew that, despite a learning disability, she would make her dream come true. At this point, however, her dream had evolved into an obtainable goal.

In February, Ebony shocked parade-goers during Mardi Gras. Those few performances got her some media attention and two write-ups in the local papers. She was even approached by a man who organized cash-prize competitions for the Upper-Louisiana Amateur Musical Talent Board. The first and only performance that Ebony gave for the Board won her third-place and fifty dollars that she immediately put into the savings account she opened, trying to save the money for Jurgen Englehardts's camp, in case the scholarship fell through. Charlie had found some much cheaper camps for Ebony to attend, but her heart was set on working with John Bol again. She had already gotten her letter of recommendation from her music instructor at school.

Although her grades had improved by the time applications for the twenty scholarships were due, Ebony learned, just before graduation, that she was not one of the students chosen for the award. And, unfortunately, her invitation was revoked because of her low academic grades, a new stipulation of which she was previously unaware.

That disappointment did not last long, though. Two weeks after graduation, Ebony performed in a competition in Baton Rouge. Her performance was quite impressive. Brand Freeman, a local jazz legend, joined Ebony on stage, later telling her that he couldn't help but play beside her. The older man and Ebony took turns playing different snippets of songs. When Ebony had run through her whole repertoire, which consisted of seven shorter pieces, she started from the beginning again. Her lungs giving out, Ebony had to surrender to the saxophone legend. Brand Freeman gave her a sweaty hug that a reporter captured through the lens of his camera. The crowd yelled and cheered for them.

After the excitement died down at the event, Ebony was given the first-place award of $200. While she talked with some of her fellow competitors, including the short, pudgy, bushy-
haired boy from her school, Ebony was approached by a woman who had helped arrange the event.

"Excuse me, Miss Monroe," she said. "May I have a few moments of your time?" This woman was just a bit taller than Ebony and wore a black and white spandex dress with a pair of black flip-flops. Her toes were dusty.

Ebony walked with her to the side of the concessions bar.

"First of all," the woman began, "congratulations on your performance. I've never seen Brand Freeman act like that toward an amateur."

The woman looked down at her over her small, black-framed glasses. Ebony thanked her very much.

"And secondly, Miss Monroe," she continued, with a smile that kept growing, "my colleagues and I were wondering if you would be at all interested in attending the new music school in New Orleans."

Ebony was speechless. After having cooled off from her performance, she began to sweat again. The humid night air aided in her perspiring. Ebony shifted her weight from foot to foot, held her mouth open as if she wanted to speak. Only nothing came out.

"I can see from the expression on your face that you would be interested."

Ebony nodded her head slowly, still taking in the shock of the woman's proposal.

"It's not been advertised for this event," the promoter said, "but there is a free semester at the school waiting for the first-place winner. And, well, that'd be you."

"Yes," Ebony finally said. "Of course I'm interested." This was just the thing Ebony was hoping would happen for her. "Do you look at my high school grades?"

"Not at all," the woman said, shaking her head. "We are interested in your talent. But, if after the first semester your grades are not what they should be, then you will not be asked to continue your studies in that program." The woman looked Ebony right in her eye. "We take the complete education very seriously. You just won't be learning any history, geography, math...that sort of thing. All music-based. Right now we're trying to do some recruiting. "

Again, Ebony could not find the words to express her thoughts. So she just stood and stared at the woman.

"What do you think, then? You up for the challenge?" the woman asked.

"Definitely."

Ebony filled out a form with her address and phone number so the woman could send her the necessary information and tuition waver for her first semester. When she got home that night, she was bursting with excitement.

"Things are falling in place for me, Mom. I was looking forward to playing at that camp again, but that fell through and now this drops in my lap."

"I don't know what to say, Ebony," her mother said. "That's the best news I've heard in a long time." She stood to refill her coffee mug. "What about after the first semester? What will you do then?"

"Be invited back," Ebony said without hesitation. "I want to study music and that's what I'm gonna...going to...do. I'll make it happen. This is what's inside me."

"Well, if you think you're being realistic..."

"Don't you see?" Ebony pleaded. "It's what I'm supposed to do. This is my gift, Mom. You had a gift for dancing, and now for numbers. Someone in New Orleans thinks enough of my gift...my talent...to give me this chance. I have to take it and see what happens."

"That's the answer I was looking for," Mrs. Monroe said, walking back to the table from the coffee maker. "I hope that you excel at your studies and your skills and become famous!"

During that summer, Ebony enforced upon herself a very regimented practice routine in preparation for music school. To stay in her competitor's mode, Ebony entered a few contests, did not win any prizes, but took away from each event more experience, and confidence that she was a definite contender. Before leaving for school, she learned two new songs, and just about perfected the other seven she had already been practicing. Ebony was working so hard that her mother was worried.

"Ebony, dear," Mrs. Monroe said one day in July, "take a break and go to a movie with Tara and your other friends. I know they've called you. Why haven't you called back?"

"This is what's important now, Mom." Ebony pointed at the saxophone dangling from her neck. "Plus, I have called Tara a few times and she's come over half a dozen times while you and Charlie were at work." She put her lips over her mouthpiece then turned back toward her mother. "Don't worry, Mom. We're going to the fair tonight for a few hours. I won't become one of the those people that never go outside...a, uh...whatchamacallit?"

"Recluse?"

"Yeah! A recluse. Thanks for the concern, though."

"You're welcome," Mrs. Monroe said, walking toward the basement's staircase. "I'm very proud of you, Ebony. For working so hard."

Ebony smiled at the back of her mother's body, tall and thin, climbing the stairs with ease, her long hands and fingers at her sides. When the basement door was closed, Ebony started to play again.

Hot & Cold

A teenage girl is lying on her bed. Her thick black hair is separated into two braids that come together in a clip just below her tanned neck. A massive thunder storm that hit her town knocked out power for over an hour, but now, the clock radio on a small table next to her bed blinks twelve o'clock. She flips the pages of her US History book, carelessly jotting down notes on a sheet of loose-leaf paper clamped in her purple, three-ring binder. The dark green phone at her hand rings.

Three blocks away, a teenage boy is sitting in a heather gray bean-bag chair in his bedroom. His electricity has also just come back on. This boy's hair is so light that it almost glows in the semi-darkness of his large room. His COMPAQ Armada ® is on his lap and he is chatting with a friend in a basketball chatroom as he waits for the teenage girl lying on her bed doing US history homework to answer his call. The computer's monitor gives off the only light in the room.

"Hello," she says, finishing a sentence about Ronald Reagan.

"What's up?" the male voice says. He leaves the chatroom.

"Nothing," she tells him.

"What're ya doin'?"

"Homework."

"Yeah, I just got finished," he says. "You working on Miller's stuff?"

"Trying to," she says sarcastically.

The girl sits up on the bed and stretches out her legs. She can see her reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall in front of her. She sticks her finger in her mouth, making a gag gesture. And then she rolls her dark brown eyes and shakes her head.

"Did the power go out over your way?" he asks. This boy stands up and places his lap-
top on the desk in front of him. He is more than six feet tall and less than two hundred pounds. His skin, like his hair, is very fair–pale.

"Yeah, for about an hour, I guess."

"It was out about that long over here, too."

"I'd guess so, Alex, you only live like three blocks away," she tells him, holding a finger- gun to her head and dropping to the mattress. A large stuffed panda bear falls to its side and topples off the bed.

"You don't have to be all like that, you know," he says, putting his hand over his heart. "I'm just trying to talk to you." His voice is calm. He drops into the bean-bag chair and touches the glass cage where a tarantula crawls.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you trying to talk to me?" she asks more maliciously. But there is no response from the other end. "Why do you call me? Don't you ever get the feeling that I don't want to talk to you?" A smile streaks across her face.

"You always do, though, so I thought that–"

"Whatever it is you thought, Alex, unthink it. I only try to be nice, but this is really getting annoying, you know. You call me at least...what?...once a week? Do you go back and tell all your dweeb friends that you actually got a popular girl to talk to you?" She doesn't let him answer any of the questions, but keeps talking. "I'm afraid that you have fantasies about me at night and think that you have a chance in hell to get with me, but you don't. The fact is that you're an ugly dweeb with ugly dweeb friends who wants to be part of the cool crowd so bad that you'll do almost anything."

She stops talking and hops off the bed and slides her feet into fuzzy black slippers. The phone is at her ear and she has her other hand on her hip. And the look on her flushed face is one of frustration and anger. Thin eyebrows are arched high above her dark, deep-set eyes.

Alex is leaning back on his gray bean chair with his head on the floor. His mouth is hanging open and his eyes are closed.

"Are you listening to me, Alex?"

"Yeah, I hear you."

"Do you get the picture? Or do I have to get one of my football friends to give you a special tutoring session?"

Alex rolls off the bean chair and gets to his feet. He stands up straight, pushing the sand-colored bangs from his light blue eyes.

"That supposed to scare me or something, Jen?" This time there is silence on her end. She sits on the bed and crosses her legs so that her right foot is dangling above the thin forest green carpet under her. One black fuzzy slipper is hanging from her toes.

"Do you hear me?" Alex questions, pointing toward the blank wall. His tone has changed; his voice is deeper.

"Of course I hear you, dweeb. I'm not deaf!"

"Why are all you bitches the same?" He grabs his crotch. As he talks, Alex walks all around his poorly-lighted room. A glow-in-the-dark poster of the planets glows faintly from his ceiling. "Need someone else to take care of your own personal business." He answers his own question. "Does it get you off?" He grabs himself again. "Does it raise your security level?"

"What did you say to me?" Jen asks, her right hand above her head.

"Oh, like you're all high and mighty," he says. "You know what, babe? You're no different than I am. Want to be accepted. But you know what is different? I stay real to myself," Alex says, poking himself in the chest hard enough to leave an indent in his white T-shirt. "I don't cash in to all that crap, Jen. You don't have to either."

Alex stops talking and walking. He pushes his hand through his light hair.

"Is it so bad that I wanted to talk to you? You started out being someone I thought was different from the rest when you were out of school. Away from the crowd and the crap. I was way wrong, Jen."

Jen's mouth is open, her pink tongue resting on her bottom teeth, and her eyes are squinted as she listens to Alex spout off at the mouth.

"And that's fine with me because now I don't have to waste my time on you. Me, I'm gonna make it big out of high school and have friends that really care about me. You...you'll probably have some stupid job that makes minimum wage, thinking you deserve better, marry some guy who'll cheat on you all the time while you're hanging out with people that don't give a rat's ass about you. And you'll long for the days when you were in high school, when you were a somebody."

Alex laughs and Jen's face crinkles up. He flicks the light switch by his door and a black halogen lamp beams brightly from its top. Jen is slouching; Alex is now lying on his bed, his feet covered by white runners' socks and his ankles crossed. "Wake up, Jen. Those people you hang out with don't give a crap about you now and they won't later. My friends are good friends because we're not about outdoing each other with our jeans or cars. We're not about scoring with chicks like you just because we can and then spreading the news all over school." He lowered his voice. "We don't use each other like paper towels."

Jen reaches over to turn off the light next to her alarm clock that is still flashing big, red numbers. She slips off her slippers and gets under her covers.

"Finished?" she asks with a lot of attitude.

Alex shakes his head and gestures like he is slapping Jen upside the head. "There's still time to change, though. You're heading down the road to unhappiness."

"Oh, please...you can't be happy."

"What makes you think I'm not?" He sits up on the bed, slips off his white socks with his long toes.

"Because you're you and your friends are just like you," she tells him in a matter-of-fact tone. "You wear crappy clothes. Drive a mo-ped to school. Play chess at lunch. Answer all the teachers' questions. Get pushed around by the guys I hang around."

"Why is that?" Alex asks, pulling his legs into a butterfly position. There is a slight smile on his face.

"What?"

"Why do those idiots think they can just push people around? What's so great about them? Talk about insecurity." Alex laughs into the phone.

Jen starts to say something then stops. She slouches on the edge of the bed then lies back, staring at the calendar on her wall.

"Do you even know why?" he continues. "You don't, do you? Can't come up with anything besides what you just said, right? That's just stupid!"

Alex gets off the bed and walks to his dresser. He looks at himself in the mirror above the dresser as he talks to Jen, pushes the white sleeve of his T-shirt up to expose his baseball- sized bicep. He flexes.

"Maybe because you go out of your way to be different."

"Oh, so now we get down it." He begins to speak faster and in a deeper tone. "That's still a stupid answer. I need more than that, Jen. Why do they push around guys like me?" Alex quietly sucks in some air.

"You're starting to piss me off, Alex," Jen says, taking the navy blue clip from her thick black hair. "Why ask me if you're so interested? Why not ask one of the guys who talks crap to you? You might get a way different answer."

"No, there is no answer. It's just pure insecurity. Trying to make yourself feel better by trying to make someone else's life crappier than your own. Spread the dismal mood around the school. I know I'm a better person than those idiots who can barely write a complete sentence and disrespect whoever they can. Think everything's a joke because they're too unmotivated to study and actually do some work. Think it's not cool enough. That's so dumb."

"If you've got it all figured out, dweeb, then why keep talking?"

"Because you don't have it all figured out. I'm just trying to make you see how pointless all the competition is. I probably shouldn't tell you this–should make you find out for yourself–but I'll be kind."

"What, Alex? Tell me. I'm so intrigued." Jen rolls her eyes again and sighs heavily.

"I was at Burger King last night with my friends–my real friends–and we were sitting a few tables away from a group of girls that are supposed to be your friends. You probably didn't even know they were there."

Jen's dark eyes open wide and her lips separate.

"They had nothing but crass stuff to say about your body and hair and how you think that they like you." Alex stops. There is no sound on the other end. He shrugs and continues. "They're using you for your car, Jen, and the free food you get them from your parents' deli. The one with the straight black hair, Janessa or Vanessa, whatever her name is, said that you're such a push-over that you'd drive them anywhere they want to go and pay for the gas, too. And then Bridget Barnes said that you thought all of them were voting for you for homecoming queen when they were telling people not to vote for you. All four of them were cracking up so hard I thought they'd get kicked out by the manager."

Alex walks back to the bed and lies down, crossing his ankles. He has callouses on the sides of his big toes.

"Yeah, those are great friends, Jen. Wonderful."

She stares at the blinking clock with tears in her eyes.

"You're lying," is all she can say.

"I'm not. Feel used and abused?" His tone is light, almost giddy.

"You're lying," she repeats. "You're just a jealous dweeb who can't get a date if your life depended on it and you're...you're...trying to make me feel bad for you or something so you want to make up lies."

"Really?" Alex asks, rolling off his bed. "Ask one of them in school tomorrow if what I said is true. See how she reacts. I guarantee that girl can't look you in the eye. I'll put money on it." He plops down in his gray bean-bag chair, picks a boogie from his nose and wipes it on his jeans.

"I'm gonna get someone to really kick your ass if you don't shut up."

"Oh, that's just great. Typical."

"What's that mean?" she asks.

"Typical response from a girl like you," he tells her. "Can dish it out all you want, but you can't take it. Why is that?" Alex asks, unbuttoning his jeans and letting them fall to the floor, exposing his white boxers. As he continues talking, he steps out of his jeans. "Oh, yeah, it's that whole insecurity thing again. Do you really like playing the game all the time? I know you're not really one of them. You started out giving me the time of day, then when one of your very good friends answered the phone when I called, you got embarrassed. Why is that? What are you afraid of?" Again, he sits in his heather gray bean-bag chair.

Jen tries a couple of times to talk, but she just can't get any sound to leave her mouth. The best thing she can mumble is an insult.

"Get out of the kitchen if you can't take the heat, baby." Alex stretches out his long legs. "Am I telling you what you're afraid to hear? Take your time and think about it. I'm actually surprised that you haven't hung up the phone yet. Maybe you really want to talk to me like a total human being–a fellow classmate–a, do I dare say, friend of sorts?"

"No, it's just that you just keep blabbing away. I'm humored, really," she tells him, rolling her eyes, yet biting her bottom lip.

"Remember what I said a minute ago about guys spreading news? Well, I'm sure you'll be intrigued now. Remember how you begged Tim Lewton not to tell anyone that you two did the nasty a few weeks ago while your parents were away?" He waits for a response then continues. "Guess what he's been talking about the past week in the locker room? Your little whimpers and moans while he gave it you and told you how special you are." He smacks his leg three times. "Well, deary, he's laughing and joking about it now. Has he even called you?" After Alex says this, the smile leaves his face.

Jen curls into a ball under her covers. She is unable to speak. Her eyes are closed; her lashes wet with tears.

"Sorry for being so straight-up, Jen, but that's the only way I can say it." Again, he waits to hear her voice, but hears nothing. "Okay, then, it's been nice chatting. Gotta be going now. I have some studying to do before I head up to my roof to watch for UFOs and think about how I can purposely go out of my way to be different. What is different, anyway?"

Jen holds the phone to her ear, listening to nothing. Tears flow from the corners of her dark eyes, dampening the hair by her ears. She hits the TALK button on the phone then hits it again. She dials a number then quickly hangs up. This gesture is repeated three times. The tears keep coming and Jen's chest begins to heave. She throws the phone down on the bed and it slides onto the floor with a thud; then Jen twists her body around so she can cry and scream into the big, round, navy blue pillows on her bed.

Girl Talk

"It was embarrassing. And weird," Cassie told her sister as they brushed their hair before the huge mirror attached to the antique bureau in their small farmhouse bedroom. "Not to mention wonderful and embarrassing."

"You already said it was embarrassing," said Amy.

"Because it was." Cassie put her brush on the bureau and stood in front of the window with her thin, pale arms folded across her 32B chest. Her long white nightgown rippled in the breeze. The full, Ohio moon lit up the field of Mr. Meyer's corn twenty yards from the window, while the smell of dirt wafted through the window's screen and into the noses of the Meyer sisters. Cassie's allergies were acting up and she periodically sneezed into a pink hanky.

Still standing in front of the mirror, Amy watched herself brushing her long, thick, red hair–hair so different from her younger sister's wavy, shoulder-length, auburn hair.

"Why was it so embarrassing, little sister?" she asked. "Kissing shouldn't be embarrassing at all. It should be natural."

"Right. Far from natural." Cassie sat down on her bed, looked at her long, neatly-filed fingernails. The multicolor glitter of the clear-coated polish sparkled under the overhead light of the room. "We were just nervous, I guess. But then..." Her voice trailed off. She was reluctant to tell her sister everything for fear that Amy would laugh at her and say she was silly, or something like that.

"Don't stop there, Cass. Go on." Amy said this to her sister's reflection.

Cassie sneezed twice and looked at Amy. "You'll laugh."

"Not-uh. Bless you. I swear it." Turning to face Cassie, Amy crossed her heart with her pinky and kissed it. She wore a tight grin on her face.

"It's these damn glasses I have to wear." Cassie took off her oval-shaped, silver-framed glasses and dropped them next to the most-recent issue of Seventeen lying on her patch-work quilt. "His nose hit them...they got all askew on my face...he tried to fix them and poked me in the eye."

Amy was still standing by the bureau, hairbrush in hand, forcing her lips together. The scarlet in her face gave away the fact that she was laughing as hard as possible inside, desperately trying to keep her promise–trying not to make a sound. Quickly, she ran to her bed, picked up her pillow, and ran from the small room. Once she stepped on the sparkling clean floor of the kitchen, Amy let the pillow absorb her laughter.

"I'm not gullible, you know!" Cassie yelled. "And you're going to hell for breaking a promise."

Amy returned to the room, gasping for air. Her green eyes were shimmering from the remnants of tears.

"Shh, Cass. Don't wanna wake up Dad. He's had a hard week already with those guys from the bank lurkin' around every corner." Before closing their door, Amy checked their father's bedroom door to make sure it wasn't opening. Mr. Meyer was a corn farmer and he worked dawn to dusk on most days of the week, just trying to keep his farm running smoothly. Most nights, he was in bed before nine.

"Cassandra Lilith Meyer...heh-hm...that's just about the funniest thing I ever heard." She flopped down on her yellow and white quilt, keeping the pillow on her lap. "What next?"

"Why do you call me by all three of my names? Mom used to do that."

Amy's smile left her face. "I don't know, really. I just started doing it." Amy tossed the pillow to the head of the bed. "Does it bug you? 'Cause if it does, I'll stop."

"No," said Cassie. "I kind of like it. Makes me feel like Mom is talking."

Amy smiled without showing her large white teeth.

"But if you try making me do the chores you're supposed to do, there's gonna be trouble, if you know what I mean." Cassie sat up straight, raised her left fist and shook it. Her sister nodded and asked her to keep telling her what happened with Andy. The younger sister sneezed again, twice, into her pink hanky. After rubbing her eyes, she put her glasses back on.

"Well, he kept saying, 'Cassie, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't believe I tried to blind you' and things like that. Said he's always been a klutz." Cassie laughed nervously into her hands. "It was a good tension-reliever. Then I said something about it being my fault for wearing glasses instead of contacts and he said, 'Okay, then, it's all your fault.' Then I pushed him a bit and we laughed. He's so cute." Cassie got up from the bed and walked to the single window. Her nightgown billowed just like the thin, light-blue curtains dangling from the wooden rod. "I think September is the best month of the year," she said softly. "It's such a nice night out tonight. Almost like the other night with Andy. The leaves in the trees were clamoring and chatting away. Tons of fireflies danced above the azalea bushes in Mrs. Buckhorn's garden. The moon was a big luminous ball, just suspended in the sky, watching us."

"Cass, spare me the poetry, please, and get on with the good stuff."

"That's part of the good stuff. This was how our first kiss happened. All of the things I just said were part of it."

"Tell me from the beginning what happened," Amy said, excitement in her voice. She was sixteen and had had more than a few first kisses; this was her sister's first first kiss.

"This isn't easy for me because you don't care about everything I care about. I like romance and you don't seem to."

"True," Amy said. "I can do without fireflies and breezes. But you like it so go ahead. My ears are wide open."

Cassie smiled. "After we finished dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Buckhorn told us to go outside and walk around before dessert. While they cleared the table."

"You didn't help clear the table?" Amy was shocked. The Meyer sisters, having been raised in a house where manners really mattered, always cleared the dinner table.

"She wouldn't let me," Cassie said quickly. "I picked up my plate and silverware and was reaching for Andy's when his mom asked what I was doing. I was like...uh...'Clearing the table?'...then she said, no, I wasn't. That's when we were told to go outside."

"They must've been talking about you two. That's a mom trick." Amy took a black hair band from the table between the girls' beds and put her red thick hair into a pony tail. Then she pushed herself back against a large poster of The Backstreet Boys taped to the wall. "What'd they say when you guys went back in?"

"Nothing, really. Just dished out the pie and ice-cream."

"Did Mrs. Buckhorn smile or anything?"

Cassie walked back to her bed and sat on its edge. "She smiled. So did Mr. Buckhorn. It was weird."

"It's weird, anyway, little sister. You two are fourteen and she's inviting you for dinner. You've gotta think that's weird."

"I think it's more weird that Dad let me go," Cassie said, pulling back her covers. "He must like Andy a lot. Or maybe he thought that Mom would've let me go, so he did."

"Mom would love to be sitting in here listening to all this."

"I wouldn't tell her everything, Amy. That'd be gross, don't you think?"

"What's more gross? Kissing or having kids?"

"Point taken." Cassie was silent for a few moments. "I really miss her, Amy. I thought that after two years...I'd have...I don't know." She slouched her shoulders, looked at her glittery fingernails.

"Just thought it'd be different, huh?"

"Something like that." Cassie yawned loudly.

The sisters' eyes roamed around their small farmhouse bedroom, stopping on various pieces of clothing hanging in the closet, or a certain piece of furniture. Cassie crawled under her covers and picked up the Seventeen. On the cover were two teenage girls in fancy dresses, advertising tips for homecoming festivities.

"I'm gonna bust in this bed, Cassie, if you don't finish."

"Well, you keep interrupting my story. Just zip your lips, okay?"

With her right hand, Amy pretended to pull a zipper across her lips.

"Okay, then...where was I? Okay, yeah, well, we left the house and walked out back to his mom's garden. Even though you don't like bushes and flowers much, you'd love this garden, Amy. I'm telling you, it's fantastic. Anyways, Andy was holding my hand, which was no big deal, you know, because we've been holding hands for like three weeks now." Cassie turned toward her sister, who was lying on her side with her head propped on the palm of her right hand. "We were walking and he was talking about the lacrosse team and what a good shot they have to make the play-offs this year–that sort of stuff. I'm not much into sports, you know, but I listened anyway. Then we just stopped walking." Cassie timidly smiled. "He looked at me. I looked at him. And then mayhem came calling."

"I wouldn't call–"

"Stop right there, thank you very much."

Amy rolled her eyes and pulled that zipper across her lips again.

"That's what it seemed like. Mayhem. But after the sorries and all that stuff, he leaned in again and it worked. He pressed his tender lips to mine and I could feel my face about to explode...not...(achoo)...that I wasn't already...(achoo)...beet red from the whole eye-poking thing." Cassie's face was red as a beet once again and tears fell from her eyes from the powerful sneezes.

"Bless you, Sneezy Dwarf." Amy laughed really loud into her pillow, as Cassie snatched the glasses from her face and blew into her hanky. "Sorry, Cass. Really. But the thought of you two doing that is too funny. Too bad it wasn't caught on–"

"Video! Oh, my God, I'd die." Cassie said into her hands. When she recovered from her slight embarrassment, she continued her story. "Then we kissed again. It was pretty strange feeling his tongue on my lips trying to get them apart. Then I got the hint and opened my mouth a bit. He was as awkward as I was." Cassie lay back on her pillow and sighed. "Of course, who am I to judge?"

"So, Cassandra Lilith Meyer,"said Amy, "are you in love with this guy, or what?"

Cassie shot up to a sitting position. "How should I know?"

"Whadaya feel?"

"I...I'm not quite sure, actually. I guess kind of fluttery inside when I think of him. And then while we were kissing, I thought we'd just ooze out of each other's arms and trickle into the soil to become one with the bushes."

Again, Amy rolled her eyes. "Jeez, Cass. You guys were that scared?"

"Not scared. More like nervous as hell."

Amy looked at her sister without blinking. A look of confusion was on her freckled face. Her thin, sculpted eyebrows were arched more than normal.

"I don't know!" Cassie said. "We like each other." She shrugged. "So it was awkward." Throwing the covers from her body, she said, "Okay, then, Miss Experience, tell me how it works with you." Cassie crossed her arms over the chest she hoped would develop at a much faster rate.

"First," Amy said, "I wanna know what you like about Andy Buckhorn."

"That's easy," Cassie told her. "He's super nice, good-looking...but not too good-looking that other girls hang all over him." Cassie tucked her hair behind her ears. "I really like that he's Cherokee. He's got some culture–not like us. I think it's neat." She shrugged her bony shoulders.

"We've got culture, Cass."

"Like what?"

"Well, Grandpa Meyer came over from Germany, didn't he?"

"So?"

"There you...well, hmm." Amy bit her bottom lip. "Culture's the wrong word then. Does he dress up for the festival every year?"

"No," Cassie said angrily. "Don't be so stereotypical. He cares about his heritage, at least that's what he's told me, but he doesn't participate in the events."

"Okay," Amy said. "Sorry. I wasn't making any negative comments. I like to see the costumes and stuff. Don't get all flustered."

Cassie stayed quiet for a couple of minutes while Amy filed her fingernails and hummed to herself. She had to calm herself down after the almost-argument the two sisters were close to starting.

"Oh, and he's generous and shy and attentive," Cassie finally said. "He's got like the

highest grade in our algebra class."

Amy was nodding her head and smiling.

"And he doesn't mind that I try to interrupt my sneezing by talking."

"That's cute, Cass,"Amy said. "Want me to shut the window?"

Cassie shook her head. "I like the smell," she said. "Okay, now you talk, Miss Experience."

Amy sat up. "Well, it depends on the boy," she began. "Take Ricky Cleary, for example. Right after school started, I knew that he liked me. I started to flirt with him a couple weeks ago. Just to drag him along. Then after the first home football game, we sat in his car and kissed and stuff for like an hour."

"What stuff?"

"Oh, you know. Like touching and stuff."

"Elaborate, please. I'm inexperienced, remember?"

"I won't get too detailed," said Amy. "Let's just say that Ricky knows what this full chest of breasts feels like."

Cassie clapped her hands over her mouth. Her sister laughed and continued.

"And his hands felt so good all over my body. MmMm." Amy laughed again because Cassie was bright red. "That's just an example, of course."

"And you don't like him at all?"

"Yeah, I do. Just not like you like Andy. I want the excitement, not the romance."

"So you're saying that because I took it slow with Andy that–"

"I'm not saying anything, Cass. Do what you wanna do."

Cassie was silent for awhile. So was Amy. Both girls flipped through magazines. Amy was reading the latest Teen People. She was mostly looking at the ads for shoes, jeans, junk food, and make-up.

"Here's a quiz, Amy. Fashion."

"Shoot."

"With ten minutes to catch the school bus," Cassie read, "and not a clue about what to wear, you A...toss on the jeans you had on yesterday and the first clean shirt you can find...B...beg your dad to drive you because you couldn't possibly look your best in just a few minutes...or C...raid your mother's closet because you know she has some cool dresses from the eighties."

"Since Mom's not around anymore, I'd have to go with A because Dad would be out on the farm somewhere."

"Bad question. Sorry." Cassie skimmed the quiz for a better question. "Okay. You booted your last boyfriend because he A...kept insisting that you would look really cute if you jazzed up your wardrobe a little...B...made you feel inadequate by having even cooler clothes than you did...C...complained that guys checked you out too much in the clothes that he bought you for your birthday."

"Actually," said Amy, "I ditched my last boyfriend because he kept bugging me to have sex. But, for the sake of the quiz, I'll say...uh...what was B again?"

"Made you feel inadequate because–"

"Oh, yeah. I'll go with C 'cause any guy that buys me sexy clothes...then complains about the looks I get...is just way too insecure. Definitely C."

"I didn't know that's why you broke up with Cooper," said Cassie.

"Yeah. He was too pushy so I pushed him away."

Cassie was silent, staring at her sister.

"What?" Amy blurted.

"You're still a virgin?"

"Yipper."

"I thought–"

"'Cause I mess around that I screw every guy? No way, little sister." Amy pointed at the poster behind her. "I'm waiting for Howie, baby." She winked at Cassie.

"So you jumped on the Britney Spears wagon then?"

"Jeez, Cass," Amy said, taking the gold loop from her left ear. "Look at the guys that both Britney Spears and Jessica Simpson are dating," she said. "If they can hold off...I can. And they're older than I am." She paused. "Or has Britney gotten off that wagon now?" Amy shook her head as if the answer to that question didn't matter. "And, of course, Jessica and Nick are no longer–"

"Wanna come back to this conversation?"

"Right," said Amy.

"But what about all that about going for it? What did he say about you wanting to wait?"

Amy held her hand up to quiet her sister, the same way Cassie had done to her.

"To tell you the truth, I liked Cooper–a lot." Amy folded her legs under her body and sat on her ankles. She was wearing a gray tank top with a pair of black boxers. Her long pony tail hung over her right shoulder. "He's the one I thought that I might have some romantic feelings for. Like you have for Andy."

"I thought you just–"

"I know what I just said, but Cooper was different. Actually, sitting here listening to you talk about Andy like that makes me think of Cooper and how much I really did like him."

"What did you like?"

"Kind of the opposite of what you like about Andy." Amy picked at a mosquito bite on her knee. "I liked that he would mess around in class. When the teacher wasn't looking. He was really careful not to get in trouble. And I just liked the way he looked at me in the hallway or when we sat together at lunch."

She was quiet for a few seconds.

"He's got the most incredible blue eyes–and he always smells so good," Amy said, smiling, looking out the window, as if her sister weren't even in the room anymore. "This may sound weird," she said, "but I liked that he wasn't very attentive in school. To me. Like he kept me guessing if we would get together later that day at his house or something like that. He was mysterious. Cool. And the guy can kiss and touch and a whole lot more, Cass. Whoa." Amy fell to her left, making the bed springs jiggle.

"What happened?" Cassie asked, removing her glasses and gently placing them on the night stand. She rubbed her tired eyes then blew her red nose.

"Well, we went out a bunch of times and hung out with other couples or just singles. And we would mess around. I mean, a lot. It was like whenever we were together–outside of school–we had to be kissing or hugging. Or something. Then he started talking about going to the next level." Amy looked at the clock then at her sister. "Mind if I turn off the light?" Amy crawled over her bed to the switch on the wall that controlled the one overhead light. She quietly opened the bedroom door and checked her father's door again. "I don't need Dad hearing any of this."

When Amy was under her covers, she turned toward Cassie and started talking again, but in a loud whisper.

"We'd already seen each other naked," she began. "His parents work till like six, so most days we'd go to his house after school. We'd get naked in his bedroom, like we were in a soap opera or something. And a few times we almost did it, but I got too scared. I mean, I'm only sixteen. I don't care how many boys I've kissed and jerked off, sex is a whole other ball game. That's big time."

"What did Cooper say about you not wanting to?" Cassie impatiently asked again.

"Hold on a sec, Cass. This is really funny," Amy said. "Once, while we were in his room, we heard his dad come home from work early because he was going to Cooper's little brother's baseball game."

Cassie's mouth was open and her watery eyes were wide.

"So, Cooper jumps up...and...throws on some sweat pants." Amy could barely get her words out, remembering how funny the scene was. "Then there's this knock on the door, right," she said more calmly, sitting up. "Oh, man. All of a sudden, Cooper bunches up all the covers and everything on top of me so it just looked like his covers were all bunched up, ya know."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. I was as still as I could be. His dad just said, 'hey', and left."

"That's scary, Amy," Cassie said, with a smirk. "But pretty funny, too."

"Yeah, that was exciting," Amy sighed. "Anyway, getting back to what he told me. He told me I should think about it more and said to find out about the pill. So I did."

"How?"

"Do you ask this many questions in your classes?" Amy asked.

"If you don't want–"

"No, I do," she said, "it's fine. This is the kind of stuff mom would probably have talked to us about if she were here anyway." Amy wrapped her arms around her legs. Then she said, "I learned about contraception and that stuff in school, but they don't just hand out birth control pills."

"What'd you do?"

"Weird, I guess, but a woman from the clinic downtown came in to talk to my cooking class about testing for HIV and AIDS and other diseases. Then she said something about the pill and how to go about getting it. So I went down there one day with Lavender."

"What'd Lavender do? Did she get the pill, too?"

"She was more like my support system. And, like I said, they don't just hand you the pills and shoo you away." Amy got out of her bed and went to Cassie's. She sat down and pulled her legs up to her chest. "I had to get an examination."

Cassie slowly sat up, her eyes wide with wonder. Her sister was never so straightforward with her as she was being just then. The light-blue curtains continued to flutter in the cool breeze, the corn field's odor still lingering in the room.

"I'd heard all kinds of stories about girls getting examinations and how humiliating it was, that kind of thing. That went against stuff I've read in magazines about it."

"Explain."

"Well, I gave my name and filled out a form. Then Lavender and I just waited around, talking and flipping through magazines. I mean, she's my best friend, so I was glad she was there."

Cassie sneezed. Amy looked over her shoulder at the window. "The moon does light up the world, huh?" She got up to close the window then sat down again on her sister's bed. "Then...uh...the nurse called my name and I followed her to a scale. She weighed me. Took my blood pressure. Then she took me into an examination room. I asked if Lavender could come in and she said, yes, that she would send her in. I was glad when Lavender showed up. It calmed me down a bit. Talk about being nervous."

"I'm glad she was there for you. If you would've told me, I'd've gone with you."

"Thanks, Cass," Amy said, smiling. "The doctor came in...an older guy...and asked me a bunch of questions about my period and sexual activity. Told him I was a virgin and wanted to go on the pill because my boyfriend and I wanted to make love."

"You said that?" Cassie laughed.

"I was trying to be mature. So, the doctor just nodded and asked more questions. Told me what the pill does and how to take it. Some possible side effects. Then he handed me a pamphlet." Amy took the hair band from her hair and slid it on her freckled wrist. "Gave me this little paper thing to put over my body."

"Paper thing?"

"Yeah, it's like a paper dress with a top and bottom."

"You got naked? With the doctor there?"

"No, he left," Amy said. "Yes, I got naked. Behind the curtain. Then Lavender left because I told her I'd be okay because there'd be a nurse in with the doctor during the examination."

Cassie nodded and remained silent, gripping her pink hanky in both hands.

"The doctor came back and told me what was gonna happen. I was nervous until the nurse came in. I laid back and he inserted this metal thing that was cold. I jumped at first because it scared me."

"What's that do?"

"It didn't hurt," Amy said reassuringly and touched her sister's leg. "More like it was uncomfortable. It opens you up so the doctor can look in there, like it's some kind of tunnel or something, and take cultures."

Before Cassie could ask what cultures were, Amy quickly explained.

"That just means he sticks a long q-tip in the tunnel," she said, laughing at her own little joke, "which is really called the vaginal canal. Then the tip of the swab touches the cervix....which was like a prick...then he hands it to the nurse. Then he took another swab and got some cells from the tunnel's walls."

Still, Cassie sat looking at her sister, intrigued. She was taking in all of the information she could for when it was her turn to visit the doctor.

"Then that was it," said Amy. "Oh, wait. He examined my boobs, too, which I thought was the weirdest part. Usually it feels good when a guy touches them, but the doctor touching them was weird. Not like, freak-me-out weird. But weird. Different touching."

"What did you think about?"

"I guess I just kept saying in my head that it was something I had to do so I was doing it."

"What's he checking for? Cancer?"

"Kind of." Amy got silent for some time. Cassie didn't say anything either. Their mother died from breast cancer that was detected very late.

Cassie yawned. "Let's not talk about that anymore, Amy, okay. I don't want to be up all night crying. I've got a big algebra test tomorrow." She pointed at the algebra book on the night stand between the beds.

"No problem," Amy said, getting back under her own covers, but sitting up.

"Did you get the pills?"

"Uh-uh," Amy said, emphatically shaking her head. "I told Cooper a few days later that I didn't wanna get the pills. He kept pushing to have sex with condoms, but I didn't wanna have sex at all."

"What really changed your mind?" Cassie asked.

"The doctor's lecture. He said the pill's not a hundred percent effective...and it doesn't protect from diseases. Could you imagine," Amy said, hugging her knees, "if I got pregnant? I know that I don't have any diseases because I haven't heard anything from the clinic. The nurse told me that no news was good news. But what am I supposed to say to Howie when he comes looking to marry me? 'Oh, hey, do you have any diseases?'"

Cassie laughed. "First, stop dreaming. And second, yes, you are," she told her older sister. "I read about that a few months ago. You have a right to do that, but you can't be shy about it." Cassie turned on her side to look at Amy in the moonlight. "It's your life, right? You've got to be safe."

"Makes sense, Cass. I guess if a guy wants to have sex with me, the least he can do is tell me about his past." Amy stretched out her legs. "Of course, that goes for me, too," she said. "I mean, that's really scary. 'Cause you can't just trust someone to tell you the truth."

"That makes sense, too," Cassie said. "And that article said that if a guy doesn't want to wear a condom, then tell him to forget it...no matter how good-looking he is!" She pointed at Amy.

"Yipper."

"I'm proud of you. I really am. This may sound crazy, or cheesey, or something, but you're a good role model for me right now. You know, with mom being gone and all."

"Thanks, Cass," Amy said, smiling at her sister. "That's nice to hear. But that doesn't mean you can go getting naked with Andy anytime soon."

Cassie choked on a cough. "Naked!" she managed to say. "My God, we can barely kiss without dying from nervousness or embarrassment. Getting naked would definitely kill us. Then we'd get caught because someone would find us lying somewhere. Naked. Our souls would turn bright red."

"I'm gonna wait a little longer," said Amy. "But, wow, some of the guys I've been with can really make me think about changing my mind. Cooper made me...well, forget it."

"Made you what?" Cassie asked quickly.

"Nope. That's all. I'm finished revealing stuff for the night."

"I think I can figure it out anyway."

"Good," said Amy. "You do that then. But I'm done."

Amy reached over to the antique lamp on the table and pulled the string.

"There's a quiz in this old Seventeen about first kisses. I'll find it and ask you the questions."

Cassie pushed herself up and leaned against the pine backboard, her eyes still adjusting to the bright light. She listened closely as her sister read the questions from the magazine quiz. A peaceful look was on Cassie's face and a wide smile stretched across it.

No Time to Run

Neil Clark laced up his new running shoes. They were gray cross-trainers with a dark blue NB on both the inside and outside of the shoe. His father had brought them home the previous night; he told Neil that these new shoes would better absorb the shock on his knees from the school's paved track, as well as help his traction on the cross-country courses. Still tired from a late-night study session, Neil's clear blue eyes were fighting to stay closed, and he was trying to remember the dream he was having before his father woke him up. It was the same thing every day and Neil felt like his life was on cruise control.

After brushing his teeth, Neil sat in butterfly position on the hardwood floor between his bed and dresser. He began the painful process of the 6 AM stretch. Every morning he endured ten minutes of stretching before the three-mile run. Forcing his chest toward the floor, Neil could hear Ben, his ten-year-old brother, peacefully snoring, enjoying his dream. Many mornings Neil wished he had Ben's disability. If he had the same acute asthma from which his brother suffered, then Neil couldn't run around the track or along the damp road and trails before the rest of the neighborhood came to life.

As Neil scuttled down the stairs in his black sweat pants and team-issued red and gray wind-breaker, he caught a glimpse of his father sitting in the black leather recliner reading the paper. This sight bothered Neil, even though he saw his father in the same position every morning when he left for his run.

For two weeks, Neil had this deep-gut feeling that made him nauseous when he thought of his father. Or when he thought about running. Although he was only seventeen, Neil felt like he had reached his peak in running. He was All-State the past two years for the 800 meter and he had a lot to do with his team getting first place in cross-country all three years of his high school career. There was more to life than running, he had thought time and again over those two weeks, as well as during the summer break. Neil wanted to enjoy his senior year of high school. And he didn't care about an athletic scholarship because his grades were good enough to get him an academic scholarship from one of the state schools to which he applied.

The Clark house ran smoothly on routine, the same way Mr. Clark, a small claims judge, conducted business in his courtroom. He was a man who demanded respect, competence, and discipline. Every morning, Mr. Clark would wake up at 5:15, stretch, bike the three-miles to town, buy a paper from Rocky the newsstand man, and bike the three miles home, uphill. When he returned, he would wake Neil, who would stretch, run, and go home to do fifty push-ups with Dad before each went to shower. Mom would wake up and trudge downstairs to start the morning meal. Always plain oatmeal with cinnamon and a banana. Neil looked forward to Fridays because he could opt out of the oatmeal for either two eggs or three link sausages. He always alternated.

When Ben, hair damp and smelling of soap, was finally at the table, the family would sit and eat breakfast together. Neil dreaded this time of the day the most--even more than Geometry class.

"The first cross-country race of the season is next week, son?"

"Yeah, Dad," Neil replied without feeling.

"That's always the most exciting race," said Mr. Clark. "Don't you think, dear?"

"Mmhm," Mrs. Clark mumbled, not wanting to talk with her mouth full of oatmeal.

"Well, Neil, you'll be ready," said his father. "You always are. And the scouts will really be watching you this year." Mr. Clark looked at his eldest son with a grin that Neil missed because he was looking into his bowl of mush. He wanted his father to be quiet and to leave him alone.

"Are you listening to me, Neil?" Mr. Clark asked, pulling his cloth napkin from his lips. "This is a chance for you to get a scholarship. You can really shine here, son!"

"I know, Dad. You keep telling me."

"What's your problem?"

Mr. Clark pushed his chair back. The sound echoed throughout the stainless steel

kitchen. He sat for a few moments with his hands resting on his lap, looking at his son's face. Neil's ice-blue eyes stayed lowered, staring into the depths of his oatmeal, wanting to sink.

"Should we fight it out of you?"

"Honey, not this morning, please," Mrs. Clark implored.

"C'mon, Dad," Ben spoke up. "Leave Neil alone."

Mr. Clark stood up, grabbed Neil's arm, and yanked him out of his chair. He pushed him through the kitchen door and into the spacious living room. Nothing was out of place. Even the lines on the tan, recently-vacuumed carpet were crisp, clear. Neil moved as if he were a robot, without feeling, without thought. Then he felt the pain splash through his shoulder. His father's left fist was hard, but Neil's hands did not move. A strong punch to the other shoulder was followed by a light slap on his sunburned cheek.

Neil stood, looking through his father at a picture of himself as a boy on a jungle gym. What a great day that was, so many years ago. Neil was smiling, sitting atop the monkey bars, and the sun was shining on him. He was looking down into the camera's lens. That day he crossed the metal bars faster than any other boy on the playground. His floppy brown hair was shaped like the salad bowls his grandmother always used for Sunday brunch. Neil's teacher took the picture and gave it to his parents at the next teacher-parent conference. The proud mother got it blown up and framed.

When he was nine, Neil could play whatever; he could run wherever; he could jump however. Things were different now, as he stood in the living room with his father in front of him, jump-stepping from one foot to the other, popping his son in the arms. Mr. Clark was taller than Neil by one inch and heavier by twenty pounds, but he still looked scrawny and lanky. This sparring was his way of relieving aggression, of trying to solve problems, of showing he cared. What Mr. Clark did not know right then was that the angst inside of Neil was so awesome that he wanted to swipe his father's legs and kick him in the teeth. That way he couldn't talk for a couple of weeks and Neil wouldn't have to hear about wasting an opportunity he did not even want.

"You just going to stand there like a wuss, Neil?" he asked, smoothing his red, satin tie down his front, adjusting the tight knot at his neck.

"Yeah, Dad," Neil droned. "I don't wanna fight this morning. For some reason my arms hurt." Neil felt like spitting in his father's face, but he just turned and walked away. He left his father standing in front of the thirteen-inch televison. Neil climbed the stairs to his room and got his bookbag. Without his normal "good-bye" or "see you guys later," Neil left the house.

Three weeks passed. Mr. Clark stayed on his son's back, telling him every day how important good training is--both mental and physical. And almost every day Mr. Clark would tell Neil about the chances he had to become an Olympian if he would just put his whole heart and soul into his running. By this time, Neil had run four good races with his cross-country team. On the easiest course, a wide, winding trail through a tree and shrub farm, his individual time was 26:10; this was a new personal record for Neil on that particular course. His father was proud. Neil didn't care.

The southern Wisconsin autumn had begun; the leaves were changing along the dirt trail Neil frequently chose to run for his morning exercise. Once the air started nipping at his face, he ran that trail more often. The explosion of colors on the maples and oaks was not the only reason Neil liked this particular place to run. The dirt pathway, being away from the main road, was an escape from his father, who on occasion would ride his bike next to Neil as he ran, egging him on, pushing him to be better, to run faster.

Neil deemed this winding trail through the woods a sort of refuge. A place where he could just be a seventeen-year-old boy and think about Meadow Locke, the girl who was always sneaking sideways glances at him in the cafeteria and during Spanish class. The same girl who made him perspire when he thought of holding her hand and kissing her long neck. These trees were an undercover refuge where he could walk, touch nature, listen to his heart, curse his father, yell at his mother to live her own life. Think about a future that did not include running competitively.

Neil came to a standstill one morning, his warm breath visible against the cool air. He turned his reddened face toward the pale blue sky, freckled with small white clouds. And he screamed. As loud as he possibly could. The scream began deep within his stomach, slowly making its way, inch by inch, to his lungs. Once in his lungs, the scream developed its mighty strength. Having gained power, it started to ooze up Neil's trachea like lava, past his vocal cords where the sound was added. The high-pitched noise resounded off fallen trees, vibrant leaves, the trail itself. Neil stood, his mouth open, releasing from his stomach, lungs, and throat, many years of frustration. And fear. He didn't want to be scared to tell his father that he didn't want to run. That his senior year--his last year of high school--was no time to run.

As the scream stretched itself along the curvaceous trail, up through the trees and into the chilled Wisconsin air, Neil's fists were clenched. His throat hurt. His legs throbbed. He was unaware that he was capable of such a scream.

Neil Clark was screaming when the timid Meadow Locke sprinted up behind him. When she saw Neil, she stopped so abruptly that her no-traction walking shoes slid on the loose dirt. And she kept sliding, right into his rear end. The massive scream was interrupted.

"What the hell!" Neil yelled, startled that someone was there; even more startled that it was Meadow; and even more startled that her face had just rammed his back-side.

Meadow couldn't stand. She had slid herself into a split. Sweat trickled from her hairline over the premature crow's feet at the corners of her brown eyes--eyes so big and wide, they appeared to be bulging. Meadow Locke was wearing a zipped-up gray sweatshirt with a hood. Her pants were the same color as the sweatshirt.

"Um...uh...I," Meadow stuttered.

Neil bent down behind her and lifted her up by the armpits. Then he wiped the dirt from her knees.

"Meadow," he said, "good to see you."

"Yes, well, I, uh," she began, rubbing her hands together. "I guess I saw a little too much of you this morning, huh?"

Neil laughed aloud. He whooped and hollered.

"Sorry. But I'm just happy right now."

"Can I ask you a personal question, Neil?" Meadow asked, bending down to tie her shoe.

"Go for it."

"Are you okay? I mean, 'cause you were like screaming your head off," Meadow panted. "I thought...that you...were...I don't know...like getting killed or something." She stood up and stared at his eyes, so clear. Her breaths were heavy. "Of course, I didn't know it was you...until I got scared to death...and started running." Meadow bent over. She grabbed her stomach. Neil was watching her, the corners of his mouth raised a bit. "Damn. I haven't run like that since...uh...well, it don't matter since when, does it?"

Neil slowly shook his head; his eyes surveyed her flushed face, the small drop of snot just at the bottom of her left nostril. Her lips were chapped.

"Well?" she asked as if she'd been waiting minutes for him to answer the question. "What the hell's going on?" Meadow pulled her sleeve across her nose. Then she hocked a loogey and spat into the underbrush. "Excuse me, please, for my unladylike actions, Mr. Clark," she said with a fine British accent. "But the air here in the forest appears to be a bit nippy and has been nip-nip-nipping at my nose for some time. One must do what one must to maintain clear passages in the body." She laughed, but continued. "I assume it is safe to assume that you are right as rain on this fine morning and that you just stopped for a tiny break to let loose whatever needed freeing." Meadow reached out and touched Neil's arm, and said in her own voice, "Are you going to say anything?"

"That was great."

"What?"

"You're in drama, right?"

"So?"

"That's great, that's all." He looked at his feet, then back to her. "I don't have time to do anything but run. All the time running. It sucks."

Neil kicked a small stone out of the pathway. He smiled at Meadow, wondering why she was on the trail, thinking that he should kiss her right there in the woods among the squirrels, birds, spiders, and chipmunks. Neil felt close to Meadow, somehow, just at that moment. Staring into her bulging brown eyes had an effect on him. Remembering her shy looks and innocent brushing against him in the hallway. Neil thought of her often as he lay in bed at night. And here she was. Right in front of him. No need to ask her why because he already knew. He just figured it out. But why not ask her anyway?

"What are you doing out here at six-thirty in the morning?" He closed his mouth and folded his arms across his chest. Then quickly put his arms at his sides, not wanting to mimic his father's habit. "By yourself?"

"Running," she blurted. "Just like you."

"You always run in walking shoes?"

"Oh, like I could afford those high-tech boats on your feet, right?"

"Don't get offended, I just--"

"Save it, Clark. Really."

Well, that back-fired, he thought. Nice move, Neil, you idiot. Fix it, fix it. FIX IT!

"You can have 'em if you want 'em. Be my guest." Neil lowered his tall frame to the dirt and began unlacing his shoes.

"What? No...what are..."

Neil laughed. He stretched his legs out in front of him, leaned back on his hands. Motioned for Meadow to have a seat. So she did. They sat and looked at each other, the ground, the sky, each other, the trees, a bird here and there, each other, for quite some time.

"Why you want to get rid of your shoes, Neil?"

"Why haven't you talked to me before this?" he asked, ignoring her question and changing the subject. "Except for, hi, or something like that?"

Again, Meadow stuttered and stammered her way through many incomplete thoughts. She finally admitted that she was attracted to him and scared to death to do anything about it because he was Neil Clark.

"So what?" he said. "What's that mean?"

"You're all popular and stuff 'cause you're a runner and really really good at it and lots of girls talk to you and you talk to them all the time so I never thought that you'd even give me a second glance but there've been times when you have but I wasn't sure if you were being nice or if you were even looking at me in the first place so I knew that you ran through here sometimes and I thought that I'd kinda pick up the habit and get my blood pumping and maybe run into you running and just see what happened."

When Meadow finished this speech, Neil's mouth was hanging open and he was concentrating really hard. Her words pummeled his ears so quickly that he had trouble understanding everything she had said. But, he understood enough to know that she had just poured out a whole lot of emotion.

"How 'bout we go out this weekend?" he said, getting to his feet. Then he stuck his hand out to help Meadow stand.

"Great."

With her hand still in his, Neil moved toward Meadow. Her eyes darted away from his, then found his gaze again. Neil couldn't help but stare at her. Her lips were thin and chapped, parted enough so her teeth showed. Then he leaned down and kissed her. The kiss was sweaty and dirty. But it was theirs. Meadow pulled away, looked at Neil's face. He was smiling. He wrapped his arms around her and pressed her face to his chest. Neil gently tugged on Meadow's thin, brown pony tail. She looked so different with her hair pulled back away from her face. His heart was rattling his rib cage. Then he kissed her again. And again. Neil didn't want to let go.

"What do you like to do when you're not studying or running?" Meadow asked.

"I like to build model airplanes with my brother."

"You into video games at all?" she asked, pulling away from him.

"Nah. Can't stand them. I think they're a waste of time and money."

"So I guess going to the arcade Friday night isn't a good plan," she said.

"Well, they've got air-hockey at the arcade, right?"

"I think so."

"That's settled, then," Neil told her. "I'll swing by to pick you up around six. We'll head to the arcade before it gets too crowded, I can beat you at air-hockey and watch you play other stuff, then we can get some ice-cream or something."

Meadow hugged Neil tightly and agreed to the plan--all except the beating her at air- hockey part.

Another three weeks passed. Neil and his team had won the majority of their cross- country races and the season was closing in on its end. Just two more races before the county competition where the state entries would be chosen. Neil's time on the toughest course of the season, Redding High's course that had forty-five degree angle slopes, rocks, sand, and two swinging bridges, was a disappointing 29:54. When his father learned his time, he pulled his son into the living room again.

"Frederick, really," Mrs. Clark called to her husband as he pulled Neil behind him. "Dinner's almost ready and Ben needs--"

"You help Ben, Meredith," Mr. Clark said wildly. "You help your baby boy, Meredith. Big boy and I have some sparring to do."

Many weeks had gone by since father and son were face-to-face like they were. But, again, Neil stood still, except to block a right hook his father was throwing at him. The punches, a bit harder than the last bunch, landed all over Neil's upper body.

"Put your hands up, son," his father coached. "I can get a good shot at your nose if you keep your hands down."

Mr. Clark, noticing his son's lack of enthusiasm, stopped prancing around. His hands dropped to his sides, then immediately he folded his arms across his chest.

"Sit down, Neil."

Neil sat down on the black leather couch. In front of his shins was a glass top coffee table that had not one nick on it. Neil could see his father's reflection in the glass. He imagined slamming his father's head through the table's top, seeing the blood splatter all over the freshly painted walls and recently vacuumed carpet.

"I don't like what I'm seeing here, Neil," his father told him. "Now, tell me. What's going on with you?"

Neil shrugged. "Nothing, Dad."

"I got a call from your Spanish teacher yesterday afternoon. In my chambers."

Neil looked at his father without turning his head. Could feel the sweat beads forming on his back. He knew what his father was going to say. What happened in Spanish was part of the plan Neil Clark hoped would get him out of running.

/	/	/

"What's up?" Meadow asked Neil, her now kind of boyfriend, one week before the after- race sparring match in the Clark living room.

"I need to talk to you," he said. "Can you meet me in the woods right after school?"

"How?" she asked, squeezing her books in her arms. "You've got practice."

"I'm not going."

"Beg pardon?" Her eyes were wide and she was nibbling on a cracker.

Neil bent down so he could whisper. "I'm ditching. Meet me where we had that first kiss, okay?"

Right after school, as planned, Neil laced up his running shoes and jogged to the dirt trail near his house. The run was approximately two miles. When he arrived, Meadow was already there because she always rode her bike to school--rain, snow, sun, whatever--Meadow was on her bike, a very old and rusty ten-speed that she salvaged from a dumpster at the hardware store where she worked. Neil immediately pulled her to him and kissed her, very passionately, very sweatily, and for a very long time. There was something burning inside of him. He could feel the lava churning in his stomach and making its way up. Neil hugged Meadow tightly. Kissed her neck. Panted in her ear. Traced her healthy figure with his quivering hands.

Meadow pulled his face toward hers. More kissing and groping. Her hands pulled at his button fly, each button easily disengaging. Meadow reached around Neil and she stuck her hand down the back of his pants. She felt his butt tighten, moved her hand along the waistband of his boxers. But Neil pulled away from her before anything really happened.

He whispered in her ear, "Another time."

Some minutes later, the two of them sat on a rotting log. Staring at each other's feet. Playing with their fingers. Through his head bounced thoughts of what Meadow had wanted to do. And Neil's confused mind wanted to tell her everything he was thinking; he had to tell someone about his plans. Plus, Meadow really knew nothing about the Clark family.

"I don't wanna run anymore."

Neil was holding Meadow's hand. She turned to look at the side of his face.

"What? You're not serious, Neil. Are you serious, serious?"

Neil simply nodded at all of her questions.

"You're like the powerhouse runner of the whole damn school, Neil. And...you want to quit? I don't believe it."

"You sound like my father a little."

There was an extended silence. Meadow wasn't sure what to say and Neil wanted to say too much. He wanted to spill out to her, as she'd done to him weeks earlier, though for much different reasons, the anger and resentment he held toward his father. But he felt restrained. It wouldn't be fair to lay all of that on her right there in the woods.

"It's my father," he finally said. "He's all the time on my back. I've done nothing but run for three years. Working on my fourth." Neil flashed four fingers in Meadow's face and squeezed her hand. "So, I have a plan. Aw, don't look at me like that. You don't know what it's like to listen to Frederick Clark bust your chops, wake you up every damn day to go do something that you lost interest in last summer."

"Can't you talk to 'im?"

"And get my head knocked off? No thanks. So I'm gonna fail some tests, not do some homework, to lower my average."

"Won't work, Neil," Meadow challenged. "Your grades are too high. A few assignments and tests won't lower your average enough to make you ineligible. Should of thought about that months ago." She performed an exaggerated shrug. "Plus, Neily-boy, you need the first semester's grades for any scholarships. Where's your brain?"

Neil looked forlorn. The muscles in his face tensed as he ground his molars. He knew she was right. But he could fail some anyway to see what was more important to his father-- running or grades.

"Here's an idea, Neil," Meadow said. "Just don't run as hard as usual."

He shook his head. "That'd hurt the whole team, not just me. Good thought, though."

Neil touched the light whiskers on his chin, rubbed an eyelash out of his eye, smooshed some ants scurrying about.

"Kick my knee really hard!" he blurted. "Kick the crap out it."

"No, I will not," Meadow said with resolve. "That don't make sense, Neil."

"Why do you say 'don't' like that when you know it's not correct?"

"Jist cuz I wunta. Kay wif you, mack?" the drama student said as if she were drunk.

Neil clapped his hands together. "What else can I think of, then?"

"Oh, my God, Neil," Meadow began, sounding like a valley girl. "Like, here's the like best idea of all, okay." She was excited. "Okay, okay, like talk to him." These last three words were in her regular voice and very serious. "Maybe he'll like listen, ya know?"

"I wanna join yearbook and work in the school's greenhouse," he said, "but I can't because of running. Maybe do some volunteer work. He wants me to get to the Olympics, Meadow. It's all for him--not me. There's no time to run this year and do everything else."

Tears fell from his ice-blue eyes to the dirt. Meadow rubbed his back.

"I just want to enjoy my last year of high school." He stood up and walked in a big circle with his hands dug deep into his jeans pockets. "I wanna hang out with you after school--not a bunch of sweaty guys competing for first place."

/	/	/

"What did la maestra say?" Neil asked, looking at his father. For the first time, he noticed the small patches of silver just above his father's ears.

"That you failed a major test she knows you were prepared for. What say you about that, Mr. Neil Nicolas Clark?" His father, the judge, glared at him.

"I know?"

"I know, you know, Neil. I want to know why you failed a test your teacher says you were completely prepared to take. Better yet, why did you fail at all?" Mr. Clark sat on the edge of his recliner. "Clarks don't fail. You know that."

"I failed. So what? I'm still almost top in the class."

"So what?" his father repeated, squeezing his knees with his hands. "Did you just say, 'So what?' to me? Are you on drugs, son? You don't make sense."

Lava. Lungs. Sound!

"I don't wanna run anymore," Neil said, staring at his father's reflection in the glass by his shins. "That's why I failed." His voice was getting louder. Then even louder he said, "I'm not running track in the spring, Dad. After this season, I'm finished. Done. No more run--"

"Stop!" Mr. Clark yelled. He stood up. "I think you've lost your doggone mind, Neil. Did I just hear you correctly! Are you telling me...your father...that you are not running in the spring? Is that it?"

As his father spoke, Neil's heart gained momentum till he was sure it would explode. His back began sweating, his hands shaking. But the lava was there. Red and black. Boiling.

"That's what I said." Neil stood up. Stood tall. "Like this picture here, of me on the monkey bars. Look at how happy I was. I could just play and explore. That's what I want now!" Neil's hands were ready to block. He backed away from the leather couch and glass table, never taking his eyes from his father's--reflections of his own. "I'm sick of running and wanna do something else for a change! Lead my own life and not the one you want me to have."

Although his legs were weakening, Neil kept his footing. Mr. Clark walked toward him, slowly. Neil remained still. Wondering what would happen next. Sweep his legs and smash his face into the table, he maliciously thought. Let him know I mean what I'm saying.

"Tell me again what you're going to do," Mr. Clark spat, "and you better say that you were out of your mind just then and that of course you'll be running track in the spring and for whatever school wants you in the fall."

Without hesitating, Neil spoke up. "I-am-not-run-ning-in-the-spring. In fact, I'm hanging up my shoes after this season...for good, Dad. I'll stay active with school activities, but no more running."

Neil felt relieved to have finally stood up for himself. Even though he was scared of what would come next, at least his father now knew his feelings. He had finally looked his father in the eye and told him what he was thinking. A new feeling of confidence spread through Neil's body and he unclenched his fists. Relaxation. An unconscious smile appeared on Neil's face. Seconds later, he was lying on the floor, face down, with his warm blood leaking from his upper lip and nose. Blackness.

Four days passed. Neil was alone in the kitchen, working on geometry, when his father came home. He'd left just after punching his son in the face. The swelling in Neil's nose had subsided, but his lip still had two stitches inside of it, which made eating and talking difficult. Mr. Clark went immediately upstairs to his bedroom. The doorbell rang soon afterwards.

"Hey," Neil said as he opened the door.

"Ohmygosh, Neil," Meadow groaned. "You're really hurt."

"Did you think I was lying?" he said with minimal lip movement. "Where were you today, anyway?"

"I went into the city with my mom to look at schools."

Meadow looked at her boyfriend with her eyes bulging more than usual. She stood looking at his face, battered and sore, shaking her head with her left hand covering her mouth. Then she moved to him and kissed his cheek.

"Don't make me smile, please. It hurts."

Both Meadow and Neil's attention was turned to the staircase. Mr. Clark was halfway down the flight of hardwood stairs.

"Young lady," he said, almost cordially. "I'd like to speak with Neil alone."

Meadow nodded her understanding; Neil's brows furrowed with disappointment and a bit of anger. He was just about to tell his father that he wanted Meadow to stay when his father surprised him by what he said next.

"But if you'll come back in an hour, I'd like to invite you to dinner."

Meadow looked at Neil, who looked at his father. Then Neil winked at Meadow. She said that she'd be back in an hour for dinner and that she appreciated the invitation.

Mr. Clark gestured toward the living room. There was something different about the way he was carrying himself; he was more fluid-like than his normal rigid self. Observing this, Neil drew in a deep breath and exhaled, thinking that everything would be fine. He sat on the black leather couch and his father took his usual seat on the matching recliner. Father and son sat quietly for more than two minutes. Neil felt somehow bigger, as if he had won the gold medal his father wanted him to win. The tension was no longer existent. Dormancy.

"These past four days have been hell on me, Neil, as I'm sure they've been on you. And now I've got to tell you how sorry I am for hurting you." Mr. Clark continuously laced and unlaced his fingers. "I realized two early mornings ago," he said, "the kind of man I've become, son. You have made me so proud since junior high with your accolades and perseverence. But now I realize that that dedication was not your own. I mean, for you specifically." Mr. Clark's voice was low, just above a whisper. And instead of sitting up straight and rigid, he was slouched back on the cushiony chair.

"Dad, it wasn't till the summer," Neil said carefully, trying not to move his lips too much, "that I decided I didn't wanna run anymore. You kept pushing." Tears came to Neil's eyes. "I've run for three years for this school, two years for the junior high, and have enjoyed nothing else. No time to just hang out, or get a job, or try something different. I'd like to work on the yearbook." Neil touched the tip of his tongue to the stitches in his upper lip. "This is my last year, Dad. I've had enough of running in competitions." Neil folded his hands together.

His father's mouth crinkled into a slight smile. He got up and walked to the couch, sat beside his son.

"There is no excuse for what I did." Mr. Clark, unlike his son, was fighting the tears trying to fall from his clear eyes. His clean-shaven chin quivered. "For the past four days, I've thought of nothing but what you've been feeling and how scared you were to tell me because of exactly what happened. We aren't as different as you may think. Your grandad was a professional boxer for twelve years. Imagine what I went through." Mr. Clark paused momentarily. "But, you aren't me. And you have your own life to live. So...I'm truly sorry, Neil, and I'll beg for your forgiveness if I have to."

The thought of seeing his father beg was enticing, but Neil had already forgiven him. He put his hand on his father's knee, no longer wanting to smash his face into the glass table. The anger he felt just days earlier subsided with the pain in his swollen nose. And now Neil knew, because of what his father told him, and because of the punch, that his relationship with his father would never be like it was before. With the new understanding between them, it would it be better.

"In the spring," Neil said with a twinge of excitement, "we can build that shed you've been wanting to build. We can work on it after dinner. And Ben can help, too." Neil slapped his dad's knee. "Don't worry, though. I'll have enough money from academic scholarships to pay for my first two years of school--at least."

"I'm not worried," he said. "I'm proud."

This time, Neil cared that his father was proud of him. Then Mr. Clark did something he hadn't done for many months. He reached out and hugged his son, tightly. Gave him little pats on his back.

When Frederick Clark pulled away from his son, he said, "Now, tell me about the young lady I invited to dinner."

Ain't Gonna Cry

Graduating from high school can be a right tough thing for friends that's been friends for years and years. So, every year, seven days before graduation, the Senior Co-ed Volleyball Tournament is held in the sand pits of Glass High School, which is in a right small town in North Carolina. (I'm head janitor at the school and I prepare those pits myself so it's done proper.) This here's a tradition for the school that has been for the past twelve years, except the year a tornado was responsible for the cancellation of the event, and that other year Herman Millstone let loose all his cattle on the school's property to graze and all those animals got poops all over and made the place smell something awful. Course, each team of six must be made up of three stags and three does, or, if you prefer, roosters and hens, or even bulls and heifers, if that tickles your big toe...it don't matter. The co-ed tournament, part of Senior Week festivities, is always the last event, taking place on Saturday, usually earning the school a load of cash on hot dogs, slaw, hush puppies, and deer steak stew.

So, this story picks up not too long ago in the school cafeteria after the tournament that went off without a hitch. Lots of ladies was there wearing big bonnets to keep the sun off their milky white skin. Course, they was also wearing dresses without sleeves, so that don't make no sense. Any hoot, Becka, Bliss, Troy, and Nathan made up four of the six on their volleyball team. The other two was Jill and Ross, but they always high-tailed their tails into a cozy corner during lunchtime so they could talk sweet nonsense and such as that.

"That was some tourn'ment, won't it?" said Troy to the rest of the group, plopping the rest of his burger into his big fat mouth. A nice glob of mustard stuck to his bottom lip. There was already some ketchup sprinkles on his gray Duckhead polo.

"Wipe your mouth," screeched Becka, almost choking on the swig of orange juice she'd just swigged. "Where's your manners?" She furrowed her thick brown eyebrows at him like she was a disappointed mama. "Always the same thing. You eat a burger, get ketchup or mustard all over, then you don't have a clue it's on your face." All the while she was talking, she used her hands to get her point across. Pointing at her lips and cheeks, that sort of thing.

"That's his way of flirting, Becka," said Nathan. "Isn't that right, Troy?"

"For crying out loud, leave him alone, ya'll," Bliss told them, slapping Nathan's arm and sitting back in her chair.

"Why do you always come to his defense?" asked Becka.

"I don't," Bliss replied, paying lots of attention to the light little hairs on her wrist.

"Yeah. Right," laughed Nathan. He put the rest of his ham and cheese sub in his mouth, then wiped his lips with a napkin he crumpled up and threw on the table.

"Really?" Bliss said, crossing her arms in front of her, looking at Becka like she just stole the last of the peach cobbler. In all actuality, Bliss was only trying to help Troy and Becka along. Plus, Troy and Bliss was second cousins on their mamas' sides. The only physical similarities between them two was their wide mouths and dark-blondish kind of hair color.

Troy looked at his friends and kept shoveling bloody-looking tater strips into his mouth. Troy was a big boy. Full of muscles. Extra-wide shouldered. And I thought he done pretty good in that tournament. He racked up five aces, twelve hits, and eight blocks. Course, Troy couldn't dig the ball to save his life or anyone else's. Just not that quick.

Nathan, on the other hand, was quite the opposite of Troy. Tall like Troy, but nowhere near as hefty. As a matter of fact, folks called Nathan a bean pole, though, none of them knew what in tarnation a bean pole was. Probably still don't. Might never know.

"Sorry, Troy," said Becka. "Didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"Ain't nothin' to cry about," said Troy. "Save that for graduation."

"I ain't gonna cry at graduation, boy, what're you smokin'?" Becka blurted, twisting one of the three shiny diamond studs in her right ear. "I cain't wait to get out of this place! So long Glass, and good riddance, too." She kissed her hand and threw that kiss into the air.

"Come on, Becka," said Bliss, lifting her thick darkish-blondish hair from the back of her neck, "you can't tell me that you won't miss this place. "Even the tiniest littlest bitsiest bit?" Bliss showing Becka a very tiny amount with two of her fingers. "Even laughing at Mr. Cole's old-timey polyester suits?"

Becka shrugged her shoulders, pinkish from the tournament, and tucked long strands of her bleached blonde hair behind her ears. Then she went to biting her fingernails. That was something she done most of the time, but especially when she was nervous or mad.

"I'm with Bliss," Nathan said, pointing at his used-to-be girlfriend. "Why're you so ornery today, anyway? That time of the month?"

Troy spat out a chuckle and little pieces of red and white mush fell to the lunch table. His friends told him, in many different ways, how gross that was. All Troy could do was chuckle some more and the same thing happened again. Becka jabbed him with her elbow and he quit laughing real quick.

"Ya'll," Bliss said, "I'm gonna miss it here. We've been sittin' at this table the past four years, shootin' the hooey, laughin', sharin'...the whole nine yards."

"Why only nine?"

"I don't know, Troy...that's just the saying. You know that already. You're just trying to get a rise out of me."

"The same way you got a rise out of Nate for so long, huh?" Troy said, not smiling, but glaring at Bliss. He got another jab from Becka.

"Wonderful!" yelled Becka. "I am not in the mood to hear about Nate's hard-ons, thank you very much."

Poor Nathan's face turned the color of a nice plump strawberry. Looked like he would topple off his chair. He and Bliss had been best friends since just about the time they was knee high to grasshoppers. All them hormones started jumping round and those two got to liking each other in different ways so they dated for two years during their time in high school. And it is true that she made his thingamabob rise a'plenty. Any hoot, Bliss and Nathan got to know each other's body parts very well–knew their hides in a tanyard, if you catch my meaning. And, well, seeing as though Bliss and Becka are best girlfriends, Becka knows a bit about Nathan's body, too. She's just never had the visual.

"We're all just a bit on edge," said Nathan, as calmly as possible. He leaned back in his chair and smoothed down the front of his maroon T-shirt bearing a white outline of the school's mascot–a big old screech owl. "Graduation's a helluva big deal. It's understandable that we'd be feeling the way we are. I mean, we just got done Senior Festivities Week." Nathan pushed his hands over his sun-lightened brown hair. "It's almost over, ya'll. Over!"

"Don't get all mushy, Nate. The way you're talkin', you'll be bawlin' like a baby at graduation."

"Ow!" Bliss screamed.

"What the hell?" Troy asked.

"Ow. I've got a spasm in my back! Ow. Ow."

"Turn around," Nathan said. "Where?"

Bliss pointed to the aching spot and he rubbed as hard as he could till she quit saying "Ow, ow, ow."

When that tragedy was over, Nathan continued what he was saying just like nothing even happened. "I've liked the past four years. And I'm heading off to Reardon in August."

"Yeah, leaving all of us here," mumbled Becka.

"Aw, come on!" Nathan yelled. "I worked hard and got the grades to get out of here. Bliss is going away, too."

"Just down the highway a stretch," said Troy, tugging on his right ear, as was, for some reason, a habit of his. "You're more than a stretch away. The beach ain't a stone's throw, ya know."

"Yes, Troy, well put," Nathan said kind of catty-like, squinting from the sun's glare on the table. He pointed at Troy. "You wanna work on your daddy's farm." He pointed at Becka. "And you, miss Becka princess, are gonna work in your daddy's grocery." Nathan shrugged a few times. "We're all friends, but we got way different ambitions and aspirations. That's just how life is, ya'll."

Bliss chimed in, putting down her can of diet soda. "Look at Ross,"she said, pushing the thin, multi-colored bangle bracelets up her left arm. "He's going into the Marines for four years. And I couldn't be happier for him. Poor Jill's gonna be lost, but that's her own fault for making him her end-all, ya know? But, seriously, Ross is gonna get to travel all over the world. Where've we been?"

For just about the first time in the four years sitting at the lunch table, there was silence. Seemed like they was all thinking over what Bliss just told them. She made a whole lot of sense, which ain't nothing too surprising 'cause she's one of them kids that's got her dimmer switch wide open. All four of them just sat and looked at this and that. Picked things on their faces. The girls played with their hair.

"Don't say nothing about this to her," Becka began, "but Jill dating Ross all this time... four years, ya'll...is a waste...and she ain't but seventeen. That's my own opinion, now, but it makes sense, right?" Becka was talking like she had to convince somebody of something, but by the way the rest of the group was nodding their heads and mmhmming, no one needed any convincing. "I mean, my God, ya'll, she's done nothing else for four years but cater to Ross, watch him at every basketball game, home or away, go to all of his R-O-T-C things...just like they was already married."

"He doesn't want to marry her," said Bliss. "Right, Nathan?"

"You weren't supposed to say anything 'bout that."

"Oops."

"I'll bet they don't get married," said Troy, "no matter what Jill says. He'll get out of the Marines a changed guy and you damn well know that the way she's always up his butt that she's just that type of girl."

"And what type is that?" asked Becka, cocking her head at him and sucking on her slightly bucked-out teeth.

"Homebody," said Nathan, answering for Troy. "Needs a man for everything. Can't think on her own. Always wants–"

"For crying out loud, we get it, already, Nate."

"Like Troy was sayin'," Nathan said, "she'll find someone else right away as long as he's got a good family and don't get annoyed with her being around all the time."

"And someone she can boss around!" Bliss said, pinching Nathan's thigh. He smacked her back. "He does everything she says, not the other way around, ya'll. Ever hear her talkin' to him like he don't have a brain? She's both of them–needs a guy...but she also needs to be able to boss that guy around."

There was more silence and looking around. These four all agreed that Jill was exactly the way they just said she was, and that what they said would happen, probably would. Couldn't tell that to Jill, though, 'cause she'd cuss you up and down the street.

"Getting back to Troy's original statement," Nathan said, scratching his left elbow, "that was some tournament. Even though we got fifth out of eight. Best one I ever saw."

Troy got up to buy another burger and tater strips. He gave Becka a quick look and caught her doing the same thing. Her ears turned pink, just like her shoulders.

"Maybe 'cause this is the first time you've actually played?" said Becka, real snooty-like.

Nathan hunched his shoulders so much it looked like his head was gonna get swallowed. Bliss raised her pencil-thin, brown eyebrows. Becka crossed her arms and kinda stuck out her little bottom lip like she was pouting.

"It was fun," said Nathan. "I got a bunch of aces and hits. And you girls did good, too, except Jill 'cause she was all the time worried if she was gonna get dirty. I liked our practices the best, though."

Bliss kinda giggled to herself. "I know what you mean," she said, looking at Nathan with wide blue eyes.

"Oh, stop!" blurted Becka, looking around for Troy. "Get off it, already."

"He's had a crush on you for years, Becka," groaned Bliss, flopping her spider-leg thin arms on the table. Her bracelets made a loud clanking sound.

"Either go for it, or stop being nice to him."

"Have I been nice today?" Becka snapped. "At all?"

Nathan shook his head. "That's not what we mean."

"You got mighty close to 'im during our practices, Becka. What gives?"

Becka, feeling defensive, turned her face away quick as a jackrabbit hops, so Bliss and Nathan wouldn't see how red it was getting. Just then, Troy walked up and asked her why she was so red in the face. She couldn't answer so she just got up and left the table.

"What's with her?" Troy asked, watching Becka walk through the doors that opened to the courtyard. "She's been so weird this past week."

"We told her to stop being nice to you or go for it," said Nathan.

"Basically," added Bliss, stealing one of his greasy tater strips.

"Ho-lee! Got her goat, eh?"

"Basically," said Bliss, smiling.

"Ya'll 'member that time," Troy began, leaning his big body toward them over the lunch table, "when me and her was fishin' down by the pond last summer when I thought that I had a chance with her? 'Cause she was acting all weird? Kinda like now?"

Both Bliss and Nathan nodded their heads.

"She kissed me!"

"Troy Hampton, you lie like a rug!" Bliss yelled, reaching across the table and smacking his hand.

"I ain't. I swear on my mama's grave."

"You're mama ain't even dead."

"That don't matter. I'm telling you the honest to God truth." Troy looked so sincere sitting there holding his fingers in a peace sign like he was taking an oath or something.

"But ya'll can't tell her, or she'll have a conniption fit. She told me not to say nothin'. But the way she's been acting lately, she's got me all confused and stuff. She likes me, then she don't. She likes me, then she don't." Troy poked his chin in Bliss' direction. "Why're ya'll like that?"

"Ya'll who?"

"Ya'll women, is who's ya'll."

"Don't go comparin' all women to one that's got a tick up her tail."

"She's your best friend," Nathan said in defense of his buddy. "Hasn't she said anything to you?"

"Uh-uh. But you know her," she said, moving her hand like she was swatting a gnat away, "she just don't offer information. You gotta dig to find out what you need to find out. Usually, she just listens to me talk about guys."

"Well, if she really likes Troy, she's got a weird way of showing it. Too weird."

Bliss sighed like she was exhausted. "Just ask her, for crying out loud! Have you ever asked her out? Complimented her? Anything other than just hanging around?

Troy bit into his second burger, the glob of mustard taking its regular place on his lips. He didn't say nothing for a few minutes while Bliss and Nathan chatted between the two of them.

Finally, Troy said, "Never did," and he wiped his mouth. "I have never actually asked her on a date. I just figured that when she kissed me that was 'cause I helped her with her fishin' line and all." He picked up his burger, tore off a piece. "It won't nothing like a real kiss, but it was a kiss all the same. Right on the lips." Troy smiled.

"Here she comes," Bliss said into her hands. "Hush."

The next afternoon, which would make it Thursday, was graduation practice and graduation was Saturday morning at ten. So, the story picks up after Bliss and Becka arrived at the school Saturday morning.

"This is really real, ain't it, Bliss?"

"Umhmm."

"Mama and Daddy were almost cryin' when you picked me up. I told them that I ain't gonna cry, so they shouldn't either." Becka laughed nervously.

"Have you talked with Troy at all?"

Becka got defensive. "What's that s'posed to mean? What's he sayin'?"

Bliss stuck her palms out like she was trying to block a punch. "Whoa, angel! I don't mean anything. Just wondering."

These two young ladies started walking toward the school's gymnasium where the graduates from Glass High School were to flock together to line up.

"Do you think he's nice?"

"Who?"

"Don't give me that mess, Becka, you know who."

"Yeah. I guess," she said. "I've only known him like forever and a day, Bliss."

"Good looking?"

"I guess," said Becka. "He's got nice hair and a nice face."

"What about him bein' so big?"

"I don't know."

"You're short, ya know."

"Nooo, really?"

"Well, it could be a concern of yours."

"For what?"

"Dating." Bliss tried to fight a smile, but it fought harder...and won.

"I don't know why you feel the need to waste your breath right now, but I wish you'd stop." Her bleached hair looked white under the bright light of the sun. She raised her thumb to her mouth to bite at the nail that was already mostly stubby.

Bliss stopped Becka in mid-stride. Looked right straight into her droopy, dark blue eyes.

"This is me, Becka. Bliss. You're best friend. If you wanna date him, then do it. We're graduatin' in an hour, for crying out loud. Grow up." She stopped a second then started talking again. "What is it you're afraid of?"

Bliss held a small bag of peanut butter cookies out toward Becka. When Becka shook her head, Bliss took out two cookies and began chomping.

"I don't know. Other people laughin' and stuff maybe?"

"What do you care what–"

"–what other people think. Because I do, that's why. Cain't help it."

"We're outta here, Becka. Does it still matter?"

She didn't answer Bliss.

"Come on," Bliss almost yelled, tilting her head back so far she like to have lost her balance. "If you like him then go for it!" She pinched Becka on her upper arm. "I'm leaving, so it'll be good for you two to hang out."

The two of them continued their walk into the school and found Jill and Ross who were smooshed together like potatoes on Christmas day–minus the gravy, of course. So they left them alone and walked around, talking with this person and that one.

Troy worked his way over to Becka and pulled her off to the side. His clean-shaven face was shiny under the gymnasium lights, and the razor burn was noticeable on his thick neck. Then Bliss and Nathan stood and observed from a distance. Nathan had got his hair cut real short for the occasion. A few minutes later, a woman with sweat falling down her face so fast she liked to drown, yelled through a mega-phone for everyone to hush up a minute and listen to instructions. Being obedient stags and does–or roosters and hens–or whatever tickles your big toe–they hushed up and listened. It won't but seven minutes later that all those kids, wearing maroon robes and funny hats with gold yarn thingies hanging down, was doubled up and ready to go.

Bliss and Becka stood side by side, so did Troy and Nathan right behind them. Then Jill and Ross, holding hands, was behind them a bit. Any hoot, the line started moving slow, winding round the seats set up in the gymnasium case it rained. That class of seniors looked like a big maroon snake taking a lazy-day stroll. Just as planned and practiced, all eighty-six of them climbed neatly into the bleachers, and faced the proud parents in the other bleachers.

Some man in a black robe stood at the microphone and talked his head off for about fifteen minutes. Then a nice young lady stood up at the microphone and gave a speech that won't quite as long, but almost as boring. Them seniors clapped and laughed in all the right spots, just like they'd practiced.

While all that was going on, Becka was fighting back her tears, her own words ringing in her ears–"I ain't gonna cry," she had said. A lot.

"You got any tissue, Bliss?" she whispered.

"Thought little miss tough lady won't gonna cry."

"Cain't help it," said Becka. "You wanna know the real reasons I've been acting so damned crazy the past week?"

"That'd be nice."

"I almost didn't get to be here, Bliss. If I hadn't passed Old Lady Sphinchter's English essay test with at least a seventy-eight, I wasn't gonna pass the year."

My, how the tears did gush from Becka's sapphires. Bliss held onto her hand and cried right along with her.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to jinx myself...then it got so late and all that...that I liked to've killed myself with worry. I'm just so damned proud of myself, Bliss."

They hushed up a minute to listen to some of the names of the scholarship winners.

"And then Troy," Becka said as low as possible because he was sitting three people away from her, "was bein' all nice and stuff. Makes me feel good and weird all at once."

"What'd he say to you in the gym?"

"He asked me out for dinner." Becka tried to hide her smile. "Wonder what put a bee in his pants?"

Bliss looked at Nathan, who was sitting in the middle of her and Troy, and cracked a devious smile. Nathan, being a smart guy and knowing that the two girls was just whispering, took the hint and winked back at her. Then he nudged Troy in the ribs and winked. But when Troy looked at his friend, tears was full up in his eyes.

"Never thought I'd cry at this thing, Nate. But I just got to thinking 'bout all that I've done here, wrestling and all, ya know. Pulling little pranks on certain teachers. Gonna miss Coach bad, man."

"Yeah," whispered Nathan. "I did a lot in a short period of time, but it only seems like a year ago we walked through those front doors, doesn't it?"

"Yeah. It's weird. I was fourteen and fat. No girls looked at me. Now, there's some girls that look at me, and I'm one of the strongest guys here."

"True. True. Yeah, when I got here, I was what–'bout five feet tall–and weighed 'bout as much as a tire iron. Was freshman class president. Dated my best friend. Broke up with my best friend. Still friends with my best friend. And now I'm over six-two and weigh 'bout as much as a tire." Nathan smiled into the crowd of happy mamas waving fans in front of their faces like that was gonna help relieve the heat from the sun beating down on their necks.

Right next to him, Bliss was whispering to Becka about some memories just like them boys was doing.

"I was so scared to come to this school," she said, "that I wanted Daddy to walk around with me to all of my classes. But after the first day, I loved it. Still do. My hair was so short then and I was just so dorky looking, ya know."

"We were all dorky looking, Bliss. That's what puberty does to a body. Makes it dorky so we don't have sex till it's not dorky."

"And 'member when Carla Miner wanted to kick my butt because she liked Nathan and he wouldn't look at her twice?"

Becka nodded her head, squinting, still dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

She said, "I think what I'll miss most is friends."

Bliss reached her arm round Becka and gave her a nice little squeeze.

"Let's hush up now and listen to the rest of what's goin' so we don't miss the whole graduation ceremony."

Bliss, Becka, Nathan, and Troy all walked up to the stage, just like they done in practice, got handed their rolled up blank piece of paper, shook hands with the principal, and walked off the stage again, to sit in the bleachers. After those maroon funny hats was tossed way up in the sky and come raining down like, well, like funny hats falling out the sky, everything was over.

There was more crying and such as that back in the gym where the graduates got their real diplomas. Troy and Becka looked at each other and smiled out in the open. Jill and Ross took off as soon as possible.

"What're you gonna miss most, Nathan?" asked Bliss when they were away from the hustle and bustle.

"Seeing you everyday," he said.

"Get outta here, Nathan, we did this before."

"I know. I know. It's just that, well, I've known you longer than anyone I know aside of my family. You're as much a part of me as the mole on my rear end." Nathan smiled a huge smile that liked to have cracked his face open.

"Thanks for the compliment, I guess," she laughed, then pulled his ear. "I feel the same as you do. This is tough, huh? Leaving?"

Nathan nodded then reached out and pulled Bliss into a big bear hug. They stood that way for a bit, wetting each other's robe with their tears.

"Whatcha'll doin'?" Troy asked, draping his monstrous arm over Nathan's scrawny shoulder.

"How hard leaving is," replied Bliss

"Ya'll remember that song that was out a while back that said something like every new beginning comes from another beginning's end?" asked Nathan.

The three of them nodded in agreement.

"Just 'cause I'm excited about leaving Glass County and starting somewhere else, doesn't mean that I'm looking forward to anything ending between us."

"It's the memories we keep," Bliss said, to finish off what Nathan was saying. "And we all have different ones with each other. And we'll have others. And will make new ones with other people. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Sho'nuff," Troy said.

And, sho'nuff, graduation time is tough for friends that's been friends for so long. But, hey, they can't stay in high school forever. Them four kids left the school and went to join other kids at various parties and such as that. They planned to enjoy the summer together before they started their new lives, doing different things. Course, long as I been observing the kids at Glass High School, hearing them and hearing about them, the same stuff happens each year. And I'll guarantee, long as I'm here, and evermore, there'll be bunches more seniors that play volleyball together and have near-bout the same conversations as the ones that went before them.

VITA AUCTORIS

Heather Seanor was born in Hammonton, New Jersey in 1972. She graduated from Edgewood Senior High School in 1990. In 1995, she obtained her Bachelor of Science degree in English Education from East Carolina University in Greenville, North Carolina. From there, she started teaching high school English in a very rural school district in northeastern North Carolina, where she gathered four years of writing material from students. She is currently a candidate for the Master of Arts degree at the University of Windsor in Windsor, Ontario, Canada, and plans to graduate in Winter 2002. Heather Seanor is also living in Pasadena, California, and has resumed her high school teaching career at Baldwin Park High School. Her first publication, an article titled "Students Reading for Entertainment: An Interesting Phenomenon," appears in the 2001 holiday issue of Teachers of Vision.