Dreamsleeves (13 page)

D
o you smoke?” I ask Mike when he calls. I'm thinking ahead to high school, how he and I could meet every day in that smoking area between classes and maybe hold hands and then go to the cafeteria for lunch together….

“No way!” Mike says. “I'm an athlete. Smoke kills your lungs, A, makes you not able to run as fast. Nothing's going to slow me down. I'm going out for football. Coaches don't let you smoke anyway. Besides, I think it's disgusting. I'd never kiss a girl who smoked; it'd be like kissing an ashtray, I bet.”

Did he just say
kissing
?

“Why'd you ask me?” Mike says. “You don't smoke, do you?”

“Me?” I sound shocked. “No way.”

“Good,” he says.

“Why good?” I say, hoping he'll say what I want to hear.

There's silence. “Because … if I get the chance … I'm going to kiss you at Sue-Ellen's party. That's if you want me to.”

Flutters flicker through me like I swallowed a seagull. “Sure,” I say. “I do.”

“Right on,” he says and we hang up.

Later, locked in the bathroom, I try out various ways to wear my hair for the pool party. First, the pink hair band that Mom bought me at Two Guys. No. I part my hair down the middle and make two even ponytails. No. I part my hair on the side and comb my hair into one ponytail in the back. No. I try braids, no. A bun, no. A gold barrette clipped on each side by my temples, no. A head band with sparkly rhinestones. No, too fancy for a pool party.

In the end I decide to brush it down long and straight like Joan Baez or Julie on
The Mod Squad
. I did get some blond streaks up on the roof, even without the lemons.

Now, what about makeup? Can't wear mascara or eye shadow in the pool, no. Even I know that. But maybe lipstick would be fine. Especially if Mike is going to kiss me! I get a shiver just thinking about that. What will it be like to kiss a boy?

I apply some of Mom's pink lipstick, and then blot my lips with a tissue like I've watched her do. I guess that's so the lipstick doesn't smudge off on your teeth. Wouldn't that be embarrassing?

Good, my lips look good. I practice leaning forward toward the mirror, lowering my eyelids like they do on the soap operas on TV, but then I can't see if I look goofy or not, so I have to open them. I pretend my hand is Mike's face and I kiss it to see what that feels like. When I pull my hand away, there's a perfect pink tattoo kiss.

I smile at myself in the mirror.
You're going to do just fine, Aislinn O'Neill.

I wash away the tattoo so my father won't see. I cannot wait until that party!

But what about the drinking beer dare? No way.

At night with a flashlight I write in my diary how excited I am about everything. How I can't wait to wear my new bathing suit and show off my tropical tan. How I can't wait to spend three whole hours with MM, dare I say “my boyfriend.”

There's a noise outside my room. I stop writing, ears perked on alert. I flick off my flashlight and listen, heart pounding. At any moment, my father could push the door open and catch me red-handed. If he ever read about MM, he would kill me.

There's a shadow underneath the door, like someone is standing there. I quick stash my diary under my pillow and make like I'm sound asleep.

I lie there for several minutes. When I'm certain the coast is clear, I turn my flashlight back on, pull my diary back out, and finish writing. When I'm done I lock it back up and hide it good, lifting my mattress and pushing the flower-covered book way in underneath. Then I stick the gold key down deep in Jeffrey's pocket.

I draw the little elf close to my cheek. “This is my best summer ever,” I whisper.

Mine, too
,
A
, he answers.

T
he next day at three
P.M
., I'm perched butt on the phone-bench arm, feet on the seat, eyes peeled to the driveway in case my dad pulls in, when Mike calls me right on time.

“What kind of jewelry do you like better?” he says. “Silver or gold?”

Boom, boom, banga boom
, my heart is drumming crazy as Ringo Starr.
He's going to buy me a ring? Isn't that a little fast? We haven't even kissed yet. What if I'm a really bad kisser?

“I like them both, I guess,” I say, “but I don't have much jewelry so either kind is fine.” Beck and Callie are giggling loud in the living room. It sounds like
Lucy
is on TV. Gotta love that Lucy. Eddie's asleep. Dooley? Racing cars around the braided rug “raceway” in his room, no doubt.

“But if you had to pick one, silver or gold, which would you pick?” Mike says.

“Silver,” I guess. “Why?”

“Just wondering,” Mike says.

There has to be a reason. Maybe a locket or an ID bracelet with our initials on it? Ooh, how exciting!

There's a loud screech of brakes and horns honking on the road below. Something must have happened up by the bridge. I can't see from where I'm sitting. Cars are slowing and stopping. Mike and I talk on and on. He says he had tuna fish for lunch. I tell him I made grilled cheese with sliced olives. He said that sounds weird but he'd like to try it sometime. Mike says his family is going on vacation to Lake George in August, before football camp starts. I say how we always go to my uncle Tommy and aunt Flo's camp but how I can't stand my boy cousins, the devils. He talks about a movie coming out and maybe we can go together. I tell him how Beck did Dreamsleeves for a baseball game and it worked and how Dooley is still trying for that Matchbox car.

“I'll buy him one,” Mike says. “Red, you said?”

“Oh, no,” I say, “you don't have to do that.”

“I want to,” Mike says. “You could put it under his pillow and he'll think it's from Santa Claus or the tooth fairy.”

“Dooley's still getting teeth, not losing them yet.”

“Whatever,” he says, and we laugh.

The traffic below has come to a complete standstill now. Horns are honking. I spot my father's red car coming down the narrow hill from Stowe Avenue.

“I've got to go now,” I tell Mike quickly.

“Okay,” he says. “Same time, same place tomorrow?”

“Yes!” I say, with a giggle. Hanging up the receiver I nearly pinch myself. Is this real? I have such a great boyfriend. How nice is it that he's going to buy a car for Dooley?

I stay perched in my phone-nest watching my father. He gets out of the car, walks to the street, and looks down the highway in the direction of the bridge.

The phone rings. It's Mike again. “I just wanted to know … are we going out?”

My heart beats faster. “I guess so.”

“Good,” he says. “Oh, and … do you like surprises?”

“Sure. I love surprises.” We hang up.

Going out?
We're going out! Wait till I tell Maizey!!

Down below, I see my father's hands fly up in the air and smack down on his head. Then he's off running toward the bridge.

“Stay here!” I tell Beck and Callie. I'm anxious to see what's happening. I pop my head in the boys' room to tell Dooley to stay put, but he's not playing on the rug.

“Dooley?” I check the bathroom, my parents' room, my room. “Dooley!” He's not in the kitchen, the pantry, or on the back porch. I'm getting angry now. “Come on, Dooley, this isn't funny. Where are you?” I check the closets, under the beds.

Oh, no … tell me you didn't
…

I hear sirens outside. My body turns cold.
Oh, please, God, no
.

Please don't let Dooley be what's stopping traffic.

What if he got hit by a car?
Oh, please, God, no
.

I
run to the living room, kneel up on Dad's spot on the couch, and peer down. A police car with a swirling red light and bullhorn
beep-beep-beep
ing is maneuvering its way through the blocked traffic. Beck and Callie inch up next to me to look.

“What happened?” C says.

“I don't know.” I try to sound calm. “But stay here with Beck and watch Eddie. I'll be right back.”

“Where's Dooley?” Beck says.

My body's an ice cube of fear. “And say a prayer,” I yell as I go.

“Which one?” Callie shouts.

“Any one. All of them. Every one you know!”

I'm off across the porch, down the steps, past Nana's garden when I hear the sound of Dooley crying getting closer and closer. As I round the corner of the house I collide with my father, who is carrying my little brother in his arms.
Oh, thank God, he's alive!

“Where the hell were you?” my father shouts at me, his face beet red, forehead dripping with sweat, jaw clenched.

Dooley's eyes are open. He isn't bleeding. He doesn't appear to be hurt. “D!”

“A!” He holds out his arms to me, crying, a blue Matchbox car in his fist. “The dream wasn't working so I went to find it myself and …”

“Hi, A.”

I turn to look.

Mike Mancinello is coming up the walkway with a bouquet of flowers in his hands.
Surprise
. He is right here in my yard where he shouldn't be. Where he can never be till I'm seventeen.
Oh, no.
It's like the day turned to midnight. I feel faint.

“Who the hell are you?” my father shouts.

“I'm A's …”

“Classmate,” I finish. “We go to school together.”

My father's face is bloodred mad. “Well, she'll see you in September, then.”

I turn to face Mike, his beautiful brown eyes look so confused, so worried for me.

“In the house, Aislinn,” my father shouts.

“Are you all right?” Mike says quietly, sneaking a quick look toward my father.

“I'm fine,” I say, holding back the tears.

“
Now
, Aislinn, you heard me,” my father yells.

“Here.” Mike hands me the flowers, looking confused and concerned. “Call me, okay?”

“Go,” I say. “Just go, quickly.”

Mike stands there. He wants to help. My body is shaking. “Please, Mike,
go
.”

“All right, but call me,” he says, and takes off down the side of the house.

Dooley is crying hysterically now. I turn back toward them.

“Here, baby, come here.” I reach my arms out.

“I've got him,” my father says, elbowing me with such force that I topple into the concrete drainage gutter, smashing down on my elbow.

My father hurries up the stairs with Dooley, pausing on the top step to look down.

Mike is walking back up toward me. “No!” I say, “please …
go
.”

“Get up in the house and in your room,” my father shouts to me. “
Now!
”

Elbow throbbing, legs soft as Play-Doh, I walk up to jail with my flowers.

This is going to be awful. The electric chair or worse
.

Beck and Callie are standing in the kitchen clutching hands trying to be brave, holding back their tears. I see one of them gave Eddie a bottle. That was good.

I go to my room, stick the sock between the door and frame and close myself in. I look at Jeffrey, Clarissa, and Flop lined neatly in a row on my nicely made bed. I look at Frisky. He's gone! Oh, no. I look on the floor, under my dresser, underneath my bed. I catch sight of my face in the mirror. “It will be okay, it will be okay,” I say over and over again.

It's only a matter of time until he comes.

When my father finishes spanking Dooley for leaving the house to find his little red car, I hear his shoes thundering across the hardwood floorboards of the dining room to my room. With no warning knock, the door swings open, slamming against my forehead. I fall back against my desk.

He lunges toward me.

“I'm sorry, Dad … I don't know how …”

The slap comes, open palmed and hard against my mouth.

My face stings like iodine poured on an open cut. I taste blood on my lip.

“Leave her alone!” Beck is screaming, standing in my doorway with his fists up like he's going to punch my father.

“Don't hurt A, Daddy,” Callie says, sobbing. “I'll tell Mommy!”

“Go watch TV,” my father shouts at them. “Now!”

He reaches for a clump of my hair and pulls me toward him, so close I can see the red lines on the whites of his blue, blue eyes, so close I can smell the liquor on his breath, from the bar he must have stopped at before he came home. “You're grounded for good, do you hear me? And stay the hell away from guineas.”

He leaves. I push the door closed.

“I hate you!” I scream into my pillow, collapsing on my bed, sobbing. “Grounded for good?” I laugh like I'm insane. I'm already in prison, what could be worse?
I hate you! You're no father, you're a demon. You're not going to purgatory; you're going to hell!

I'll run away, that's what I'll do. Hide out at Maizey's until the party's over and then hitch a ride to another city. No, you deserve worse than that. Maybe I'll sneak out of bed tonight and get that big sharp knife from the kitchen and plunge it in down deep till you're dead. I hate you for hitting me, for calling Mike a “guinea.” You think you're so important being Irish, calling good people you don't even know awful names.

You're the one who's greasy and stupid and sneaky and evil. I'm going to tell everybody you're a drunk. I'm going to get you arrested. You're the one who belongs in jail. You. Not me. I didn't do anything wrong … and then I remember.
Frisky.

Frisky, oh, no. I search every inch of my room.
No.
And I can't go look for him or my father might hit me again.

This is the worst day of my life.

 

It's dark and quiet. My mother is sitting next to me on my bed.

The fog of sleep lifts and it all rushes back over me, the traffic stopping, Dooley, Mike, my father hitting me, Frisky gone …

Mom turns on my desk lamp and moves the cone toward me so she can have a good look at my face. She goes and gets a towel, soaks it in warm water, and dabs it gently against my lip. She cleans off the gash on my elbow. She goes and comes back with Bactine and a bandage. All the while tears are rolling down her cheeks and she's whispering, “I'm sorry, Aislinn. I'm so very, very sorry.”

We hear the kitchen door open and slam. I jump.

“Don't worry,” she says. “He's going out, not in.”

Mom gets us a box of Kleenex. She brings me a ham and cheese sandwich and a glass of chocolate milk. She insists I eat something.

“Now tell me what happened,” she says. “All of it. Every bit.”

And so I tell her … about Sue-Ellen's pool party and Mike and how I thought I had gotten all of the little ones safely settled in before he called today, but somehow I didn't notice D sneaking out to go searching for his little red car….

“This isn't right,” my mother says, shaking her head. “There's no reason why you shouldn't be able to go to a pool party or talk to a boy on the phone. I told your father it was way too much to expect you to watch three children and a baby all day long. A baby would be hard enough. Watching one busy toddler would be …”

“You need to make him stop drinking!”
I scream.

I take a deep breath. “Please, Mom,
please
. You've got to do something.”

My mother's head drops till her chin touches her chest. Her shoulders heave up and she starts to sob, her whole body shaking with the force of a storm.

“I know, honey. I know. I just don't know what.”

She says she'll get the little ones to search all over for Frisky. “Don't worry,” she says. “We'll find him.”

When Mom leaves, I lie awake picturing that sharp silver knife in the kitchen drawer.