Going Places Page 6

  It only took me three days of

  self-criticism . . .

  . . . to return to the scene of the crime. My crime. I timed it so Fritzy should be home from school, and then some. I had hoped she’d be out in front of her house shooting hoops. I’d be performing a well-check on my client, Mr. Pirkle, and . . . “Oh, by the way, sorry about the other day. I was rushed with that date thing and all. A little overwhelmed by all the work I had to do. You know how it gets when you’re pushing too hard.”

  But when I got there, no Fritzy. Not out front, anyway. I hadn’t really intended to check on Pirkle. That wasn’t part of our business agreement, and I didn’t want him to start thinking it was. I turned my bike towards the direction of home, and got as far as a few blocks away where I’d normally pick up the canal trail. And then I stopped. Another three days of beating myself up? Another three weeks? It was a long ride, and I couldn’t exactly afford to swing by here every day on the off chance Fritzy would be outside. And who knows when Pirkle would call me over again? Pirkle? I was beginning to sound like Fritzy.

  I hesitated. Should I buy some time by knocking on Pirkle’s door? Saying I was in the neighborhood? Then maybe when I finished talking to him, she’d be outside. But my bike had a mind of its own and rode into her driveway. Then my legs took over and walked me to her front door.

  I could hear the muffled sound of piano music coming from inside the house. Music. A pause. Music. Another pause. Then different music. Real, not amateurish. I wondered if Fritzy was having a lesson. I stood by the door, trying to work up the nerve to ring the bell when it suddenly swung open.

  “Hi, Wheeler. What are you doing?” The music continued in the background, louder now that the door was open. I was down one step from Fritzy which made her seem even taller.

  “Oh . . .” I was completely unprepared.

  “Wondering how I knew you were there? My brother just installed a camera.” She pointed up to the tiny white device I hadn’t noticed before. “And there’s a cool chime that goes off inside our house as soon as someone walks past that bush right there.”

  I smiled at the traitorous bush as though I was enjoying this new system every bit as much as she was.

  “Wow, very cool,” my bobble-head bounced with ridiculous approval.

  “So why are you here?” she asked again, now that the means of my detection had been explained.

  I dumped the straightforward explanation I’d planned. It would have worked in the original scenario where I came across her unexpectedly in the course of my business. But now that I had been foolishly discovered loitering at her front door, I grasped at the first thing that came to mind.

  “I was just wondering if you might have seen something last week. Anything unusual around Pirkle—uh, Mr. Pirkle’s house. Any strangers hanging around or anything like that?”

  “Why? What happened?” her eyes lit up with interest.

  “It’s nothing. Just wondering. That’s . . . all.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. He’s fine.” I hadn’t actually seen or talked to him, but I assumed he was fine.

  “Nah. Haven’t seen anything.”

  “Okay, well, thanks then.”

  “I’ll let you know if I do see something.”

  “That’d be great. Great, then.”

  “Do you have a business card so I know how to get in touch with you?”

  “Oh! Oh, sure.” I actually did have a business card, and I fumbled through my wallet to find it. Fritzy took it from me and stared at it for a moment. The music had switched again from amateur to professional. “Someone plays piano.” Nothing like stating the obvious.

  “My brother. Come on in.” She opened the door wider, and I followed her inside.

  We walked through the living room where a giant blond child, who was presumably Fritzy’s brother, shared the piano bench with a slight, dark-haired man, presumably the piano teacher. I felt a little like Jack (of the beanstalk fame) when he finds himself trapped in the giant’s castle. We exited into the kitchen where Fritzy motioned me to a round glass table surrounded by four chairs.

  “Want something to drink?” she asked.

  “Whatever you’re having,” I said casually, thinking all the while how to pivot to an apology, or some semblance of one.

  She poured two giant glasses filled with eggnog, which I didn’t even know could be consumed any sooner than Thanksgiving. I hated the idea of eggnog but tried a sip while Fritzy guzzled down the entire contents of her glass.

  “The other day,” I said once she set down the empty glass with a satisfied Aaah. She stretched out her long legs and leaned back in the chair.

  “When you lost the game of HORSE and ran away all mad like a wuss?”

  “Yeah, that day.” Did this girl not understand the subtleties of doublespeak?

  “Yeah, I remember. What about it?” she asked without the slightest change in the expression of those sincere and candid eyes.

  “Well, I’m just sorry about it, that’s all. It’s been bothering me.”

  “It’s been bothering you this whole time?” she seemed amazed. “You were embarrassed . . . no big deal. I’ve been there before.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Thanks for saying that. Even though I don’t believe you.”

  “Hey, I have. So has everyone. What else is new?”

  “Anyway, that’s the real reason I came over, if you really want to know. To apologize.”

  “I knew that.” She smiled, which I hadn’t ever seen her do before. Her teeth were perfect, white and even just like you’d expect them to be. “You wanna play HORSE?” she grinned.

  “Sure, I have time for a game, I guess.”

  “And nothing’s wrong with Pirkle?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Good deal.” She stood up and clapped me on the shoulder. I noticed a tiny dried fleck of egg nog in the corner of her shining, pink, pillowy lips.

  “You don’t want the rest of that?” She eyed my still full glass.

  “Not really. Don’t care much for eggnog.”

  She picked up my glass and took a few swallows before putting the half-filled glass in the refrigerator.

  “Can’t let it go to waste,” she said.

  >>>

  “Teach me, I’m all yours,” I said once we were standing under the hoop.

  “Why, Wheeler? Why now?”

  “Because I’m sick of being so . . . inadequate when it comes to sports.”

  “I’ll teach you,” she said slowly. Thoughtfully. “But you’re not going to run off again if I get a little rough, are you?”

  I couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not because she always looked so freaking sincere.

  “I’m not running off anywhere. Let’s play.”

  “All right, then. I guess learning how to shoot is a good place to start. You remember what I told you about keeping your body steady relative to the hoop, right?”

  How could I forget? That unsolicited piece of advice was the straw that broke the camel’s back. This time I welcomed it and tried to visualize what it really meant.

  “Okay, before you take your shot, plant your feet and keep your knees bent. I know this goes without saying, but I’ll say it like we’re starting from scratch. Hold the ball with your dominant hand, and support the ball with your other hand. When you get the ball up to face-level, release it from your shooting hand by kind of flicking your wrist forward. Imagine reaching into a cookie jar above your head. That’s the motion your wrist should be making. Your hand’s going to push up and through the ball. Let your fingers put some back-spin onto it. Is that clear?”

  She sounded like a gym teacher—a good one. A gym teacher I actually wanted to listen to, not one I did everything in my power to ignore, to put up with until the bell rang. I felt ashamed that
when I was young I had tuned out my dad during the precious times he’d tried to share his love of sports with me. But that was then, and this was now. I rehearsed everything she said in my mind, visualizing her words and putting them into action. When I released the ball, just like a homing pigeon, it flew to its nest, arching to just above the rim of the net before dropping down for a perfect swish. Beginner’s luck? I didn’t care. I was walking on air.

  “Way to go, Wheeler.” She high-fived me. “Now do it again.”

  I did it over and over. Making it sometimes. Missing it others. Fritzy never went crazy either way. She was solid and patient through the good and the bad. When we’d both had enough, she went over to the garden hose and turned it on. She drank thirstily and then passed it to me. It tasted deliciously like hot plastic and dirt. I drank like a camel then sprayed the sweat from my face. We sat on the lawn under the shade of her maple tree.

  “You know, Wheeler, you’re not bad. You’re coordinated, I can see by the way you get on and off your bike. You’ve got reasonably decent muscle tone which can be improved with a little effort. You don’t have to be tall to be athletic. There was a guy named Muggsy Bogues who played for the NBA. He was only five-foot-three.”

  “I’m five-foot-six,” I lied.

  “Well, yeah, and you’re not going to play for the NBA either. I was just saying.”

  “Thanks, Fritzy.” I stood up. “Next time I come by to see Pirkle, I’ll look to see if you’re home. Maybe you can show me some more stuff, if you’re not busy.”

  “Stop by any time. Doesn’t matter if you’re coming to see Pirkle. Just knock on my door, I won’t bite.”

  And she didn’t.

  Happy Birthday . . .

  . . . to me. Eighteen. Mom insisted on a party to which she invited my aunt, uncle, two young bratty cousins; Cameron and his ever-present girlfriend Eunice; and Griffin whom I hadn’t seen in a month. I surprised myself by inviting Gus Ligety and Penelope, who turned out to be two of my new best friends, at least in school. And Fritzy. I invited Alana first, but she and Bryce were going to a concert with long-ago purchased tickets.

  I wouldn’t have invited both Alana and Fritzy to my party. I don’t know why exactly. Neither was my girlfriend, and neither would be jealous of the other. I guess it was the off chance one of them might say the wrong thing to me about the other. It felt safer to keep them apart.

  Fritzy also had other plans, but she canceled them. In fairness, they didn’t involve long-ago purchased-tickets.

  “Couldn’t pass up your birthday party,” she said. “Other people can wait.”

  “Other people,” it turned out, was one of the two giant guys she was currently dating. She didn’t talk much about them like other girls did. Any information I had about her dating life, I had to drag out of her. I hadn’t actually seen them, but I imagined them as giants. Maybe they were. Maybe they weren’t.

  The party was what you’d imagine. An outdoor barbecue taking advantage of the still warm summer nights. A cake Mom labored over and served with ice cream. Fritzy showed up in her black Tacoma truck. The one that could have transported my bike home after that first fateful game of HORSE. Griffin, who had transferred to Fritzy’s school, was in awe. Fritzy was the star athlete at their school, he told me when we were alone in the kitchen. She had a lock on a full-ride scholarship, the colleges were already circling like vultures. The child’s voice that lived inside my head spoke to Alana when I heard that. I’ll match my Fritzy against your Bryce any day, it said. Everyone at the party was in awe of Fritzy, and she didn’t even have to open her mouth to make it happen. Although she did. Plenty. Mainly for eating, but talking also.

  For me, the highlight was the present from Mom. Her old car. She bought a new (used) one for herself. At last, I was officially mobile at the age of eighteen. I got other presents too—a basketball from Fritzy; my own yoga mat from Penelope and Gus so I wouldn’t have to sit on someone else’s “sweaty buttprint,” Penelope had explained (ha, ha, ha); a hundred bucks from my aunt and uncle; and some new graphic novels of the variety Cameron, Griffin, and I once enjoyed together. After a year or two they’d lost interest, but I was forever hooked on that medium which told a story with emotional punch and raw intensity like no other.

  Everyone stayed really late, chilling on the patio until after midnight. At some point my phone vibrated, and Pirkle’s number came up. I went inside to take the call, wondering why he was calling at such a late hour.

  “Mr. Pirkle?”

  Silence on the other end and then, “Who’s this?”

  “It’s me, Mr. Pirkle. Hudson Wheeler. Is everything okay?”

  Another long silence. “Who are you? Why are you calling?”

  “You called me, Mr. Pirkle. Did you mean to call me?”

  “I can see her from here,” he said. “Come over to see for yourself.”

  “See who, Mr. Pirkle?”

  Fritzy wandered into the house and stared at me.

  “Do you really have to ask? Don’t you know what’s going on?” Pirkle said.

  Then the same noises that come along with a butt dial. Clunking and whooshing. A voice (voices?) in the background. I hung up and dialed his home phone. It rang and rang. No answer.

  “Pirkle?” Fritzy asked. “Something wrong?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I think he might be drunk and maybe butt-dialed me. He’s done it before.”

  “I was just leaving. When I get home I’ll look and see if there’s anything unusual. I’ll let you know.”

  The text that came about fifteen minutes later was mostly reassuring.

  “Don’t see anything strange,” Fritzy texted. “Saw a flashlight beam bopping around upstairs for a minute, but now everything’s dark.”

  The party continued on . . .

  . . . into the following week. “You have to let me make it up to you,” Alana said. “Your eighteenth birthday! I was so bummed to miss it.”

  We made plans to meet after school. I’d pick her up in my new (old) car. My time management was way better by then, so the dogs were walked, dishes done, homework almost finished (nothing that couldn’t be put off until later), and laundry folded (my careless decision to fold in front of TV that one day went over so well with Mom, she added it to my permanent list of chores).

  Then I took another shot at the graphic novel. It was like a dark cloud always hovering over me, raining down dismal thoughts whenever I thought about it. Alana’s so-called belief in my superior talent only served to make me doubt every creative thought that popped into my head.

  Say something important, the dark cloud dared me. And then it laughed because it knew I had nothing important to say. A walking, talking tub of popcorn threatened by the Diet Coke’s attentions to the far more interesting box of Milk Duds? Please. What was next? A jumbo slushy to teach the popcorn how to be a man? The drawings were good, and I stared at them for a long time wondering how a substitute storyline might at least save these characters. But the longer I looked at them, the more I detested them. One by one, I dropped the five pages into the paper shredder. Better that no one else sees this mess. Maybe I’d resurrect the idea of the abominable snowman, howling wolves, and a crazed individual living on the frozen edge of civilization. There must be something important to say in all of that.

  Then it was time to pick up Alana, and I found myself in a huge line of cars waiting with all the parents of kids too young to drive. Never having been in that position before, I underestimated the slow progress of the line. By the time I got to the front of the school, Alana was sitting on the grass, slouched against a tree looking hot and neglected. She smiled when I pulled up and leaned over to open the passenger door.

  “Hop in!” My cheery disposition was down a few notches by then. I had new compassion for parents who did this every day.

  “Hudson! Cool car.” Alana buckled h
er seatbelt, and we took off. The air conditioner didn’t work, so all four windows were down to combat the heat of the afternoon. I turned to look at her, head thrown back, eyes closed, wind whipping her hair into an even greater tangle than usual. I could get used to this picture.

  And when I looked back at the road, Alana blindsided me by leaning over and kissing me on the cheek.

  “Happy birthday, Hudson,” she said, and I melted from something other than the heat in the car.

  “How was the rest of your day?” I asked casually, as though it was perfectly normal for me to pick up Alana after school and have her lean over and kiss me on the cheek.

  “Okay,” she answered unconvincingly. “Kind of sucky, actually.”

  “Sucky” was not what I wanted to hear on the day I was celebrating my birthday with Alana Love.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I didn’t have a lot of experience with girls, but it seemed to me that “I don’t want to talk about it” was an entirely unfair tactic used by the female sex. I’d even heard my mother say it on rare occasion. To me, it always felt personal and exclusionary. It also felt like the person who said it really did want to talk about it, but they wanted you to drag it out of them. When you ask a guy what’s wrong, he’ll usually answer and then move on, but at least you’re not left guessing. I decided not to let it ruin my day.

  “So, you said you had plans for us. Tell me where to go.”

  “First stop, the mini-mart,” she brightened. “Turn in here.”

  She led me through the front door which had height measurement markers in case the clerk needed to identify a fleeing robber.

  “Selfie!” She had us pause at the door marker where I straightened my spine and lifted up a little on my toes to take me to all of five-foot-six. We smiled into her phone camera and she clicked it for posterity. Eighteen.

  “Okay, follow me.” She walked to the counter and asked for a pack of cigarettes. “It’s for him,” she said to the clerk, pointing to me. Then she randomly grabbed three or four adult magazines and shoved them into my hands.