A & L Do Summer (6 page)

Fear and loathing overcome my stupefaction. “Can't you just mail it?”

“No, I cannot ‘just mail it,'” Mom says as she sprays and scrubs a microscopic speck on the wall. “I overlooked Miriam when I wrote the guest list, and sending an invitation at this late date would be inexcusably tacky.”

“It's Manny's party. Why can't he take the invitation?”

Mom stops scrubbing to glare at me. “Manny is working at the golf course. And, even if he weren't, you'll be walking right past Miriam's house. I can't believe you're complaining about handing an invitation to a lonely old woman.”

“I have to
hand
it to her?” I cover my eyes as Mom aims the spray bottle at me. “If it was anybody else, I wouldn't mind, but Miss Simmons hates me. Last week when I tried to carry her groceries, she attacked me with her walker.”

Mom laughs. “Miriam Simmons wouldn't attack anyone. She's as meek as a kitten.”

“More like a saber-toothed tiger,” I mutter.

“I'm sure you'll be safe with Carmine to protect you.” She cocks an ear toward the thumping back door. “If he isn't worn out from destroying our house.”

Which returns us to the beginning of the discussion. “Fine. Whatever you say.”

“I'm glad to hear that because, after you deliver the invitation, you have to clean your room. It looks—and smells—worse than a pigsty.”

Upstairs, I have to concede that Mom is right. My room smells like a hog lot on a hot day. I stick my head into the hall, gulp air, and dash over to crank my windows open. When there's enough fresh air to let me breathe without gagging, I gather up last night's clothes, rip the sheets off my bed, and dump everything down the laundry chute in the hall.

Carmine does his crazy dog dance when he sees me at the gate. Several carefully placed hip and knee blocks get me into the yard. Now that I'm within smelling range, I know an imaginary bath isn't going to be enough. He has the same hog-lot smell as my bedroom, and the brownish crust on his back and paws isn't milk chocolate.

Giving Carmine a bath is never a problem. I drag the tub from the garage, and he jumps into it before I run the water. He likes the water, the shampoo, and even the conditioner. But his favorite part is after I've toweled him off. Then he runs in circles, shakes, and rolls on every inch of the yard—his version of the canine triathlon. I'm almost as wet as he is when he's finished, but I'm awake.

After I catch Carmine and put on his collar again, I assess my chances of swiping his leash from the hook inside the front door without being caught. When we get back from our walk I'll say I forgot about delivering the invitation. Mom won't believe me, but she might be so disgusted that she'll do it herself.

Carmine follows me around the house to the front door. I could probably walk him without a leash unless he saw a squirrel or a cat or another dog or…Yeah, I definitely need the leash.

I push his rump onto the front step. “Carmine, stay here. I'll be right back. Stay.”

Opening the door the smallest amount possible, I slide my hand through the crack and reach for the leash. Bare wall.

Okay, I'm not far enough. I slide my arm in up to the shoulder and feel around the wall. Ah, there it is.

Carefully, I lift it off the hook. Crap! It's caught on something. I jiggle it, but it's still stuck. What can it be caught on?

Forget it! I shove the door wide open and step inside.

“Are you looking for this?” Mom holds up her wrist with the handle of the leash wrapped around it. She puts it and an envelope into my hand. “Be sure to tell Miriam I said hello.”

How can a woman who looks so normal be pure evil?

Carmine pulls me down the sidewalk in his sled dog imitation. Every few feet he drags me onto the grass so he can sniff and pee. Some woman on TV referred to it as “reading the pee mail.” What's he checking on—dog food brands, filtered or unfiltered water, neutered or sexually active? Since Carmine stacks up in the neutered column, that would be depressing.

As we reach Miss Simmons's front porch, a dark cloud passes over the sun, and the birds stop singing. Carmine's ears droop. He plops his rump on the sidewalk, stares at the House of Doom, and whines.

“I hear you, buddy. I'll make this as quick as possible.”

Miss Simmons's house is an old white two-story with a creaky front porch flanked on both sides by overgrown evergreen bushes. Cottonwoods and green ash trees shade the house and yard, and pink honeysuckle borders the cracked asphalt driveway. When I try to drag Carmine up the steps with me, he digs his toes into the sidewalk. I give up and hang his leash over the porch rail.

Miss Simmons's front door jerks open as I'm reaching for her doorbell. “What do you think you're doing?” she screeches. Her eyes blaze, her face is red, and she's hanging on to a walker tricked out with a Velcro cup holder, an umbrella holder, and a blue canvas magazine sleeve. Gutted tennis balls cushion the bottoms of the walker's two back legs. “Unhook that beast from my front porch before he rips out my railing!”

I look at my poor dog shivering on the sidewalk. To keep Miss Simmons from bonking me with her walker, I step down and move Carmine to a rusty fence post at the corner of what used to be a vegetable garden. I swear I can see gratitude in his eyes.

“Sorry,” I tell her. I walk back up to the house and hold out Manny's invitation. “I just came to give you this.”

Miss Simmons throws her hands in front of her face, and her walker swishes past my bare shins. “I'm not subscribing to any magazines or buying any cookies!”

Now she's pissing me off. I try to hand her an envelope, and she acts like I'm the Cottonwood Creek Strangler. “It's just an invitation to—”

My tongue goes numb when a skunk waddles out from under the evergreen bushes on my left. I back against the wall and hold out my arm to keep Miss Simmons from stepping onto the porch. “Look out! That's a skunk!”

Carmine jumps to his feet and lets out a string of high-pitched barks. His leash snaps tight. Ignoring him, the skunk waddles to the bottom of the steps.

I try to run for cover, but my flip-flops skid like Wile E. Coyote on a bad day. “Quick! Let me in and close the door!”

Miss Simmons uses her walker to hold me off. “Would you quit blocking the door? And stop yelling. You're scaring Sammy Stripers.”

I freeze as the skunk toddles up the steps and stops at my feet. Holding my breath—for more than one reason—I slide away from the door as it wanders into Miss Simmons's house.

“B-B-But, Miss Simmons. You just let a sk-skunk into your house.”

She levels a stern look at me. “Nonsense. That's nothing but my old tomcat, Sammy.”

The old bat's brain has flown out of its cave. “That was no tomcat; that was a skunk. You know, the wild animal that spreads rabies and distemper, not to mention the god-awful smell if it sprays you.”

Miss Simmons marches out of her house and into my face. “Listen to me, young lady. What you just saw was an old tomcat.” She sets a front wheel of her walker on my foot and puts enough pressure on it to get my attention. “And I'd better not hear that you've told anyone different. Do you understand me?”

Her face is deathly white, and her voice quivers underneath the tough talk. She's really worried someone will find out she's keeping a skunk for a pet. I used to wonder if Miss Simmons was crazy. Mystery solved.

“Seriously, I don't care how many skunks you have.” I push her walker off my foot. “But I wouldn't want them sneaking into our house through Carmine's dog door.”

“Don't get smart with me, miss, or I'll give you a thrashing.” Miss Simmons shakes her walker so hard she has to hold on to the doorframe for support.

I imagine her chasing me around the yard, pushing her walker, and I have to bite my lips to keep from laughing. “Sorry,” I finally manage. “Please just take this invitation to Manny's graduation party, and I'll go away.”

Miss Simmons eyes the envelope and finally takes it from my hand. “When and where is this party?”

“Our house next Saturday, from one to five.” Having done my duty—and nearly escaped with my life—I'm anxious to get away.

“Of course I'll have to check my calendar, but I can probably come over for a little while,” she says, as if she'd be doing us a favor.

“That's…good. Mom will be”—I wrack my brain for the right word—“thrilled.”

I scamper down the steps and free Carmine. “Well, I guess we'll see you Saturday,” I call over my shoulder.

“Wait,” she says. I stop, and Carmine nearly jerks my shoulder from the socket. “Tell Manfred not to expect a gift from me. I believe a graduation card will be sufficient.”

“Okay,” I choke out. “I'll be sure to tell him that.”

SENIORS HAVE THEIR LAST CLASSES ON THURSDAY, MAY 19.
On Friday, school dismisses early so families can prepare for the graduation ceremony at seven that night. Since the weather is clear, Cottonwood Creek holds graduation in the football stadium with seniors' families and friends sitting in the bleachers. Laurel and I sit in the row behind Mom and Dad and watch Manny and the other 105 members of his class get their diplomas. I get a little misty-eyed when it sinks in that Manny will be gone in three months, and I'll be able to store my extra stuff in his closet.

Mom has Dad and me up until almost midnight Friday putting the “finishing touches” on the house for the party on Saturday. Naturally, Manny is absent. Mr. Mattheson, the golf/track/softball coach and history/driver's ed teacher, is holding an after-graduation open house for all his players/students. When Manny told Mom Friday morning that he felt obligated to go, I choked on the little marshmallow hearts in my cereal. I don't know one person at Cottonwood Creek High who feels obligated to do anything Mr. Matt says. He's such a personality powerhouse that his coaching stories put student drivers to sleep behind the wheel. But Manny laid the “senior year” card on the table, and Mom believed him for the thousand-and-first time.

Wait until next year, when I pull out the list I'm keeping of all the crap Manny's getting away with because he's a senior. If Mom needs help putting my senior party together, she'd better adopt Martha Stewart. I'll be unavailable from April through June.

At three a.m. I wake to the peaceful rhythm of Manny puking his guts out in the bathroom across the hall. Before I pull the pillow over my ears, I set my alarm for nine o'clock. I've decided to prepare something extra special for his breakfast.

When Manny still hasn't shown his face by nine thirty Saturday morning, I unlatch his door and send Carmine in to make a wake-up call. Soon I hear the thump of Carmine's sixty pounds landing in the middle of Manny's stomach.

This is followed by a series of gagging sounds and curses. “Carmine, you hairy turd! Get off me!” Although I hate to break up the happy reunion between a boy and his dog, I call Carmine off before Manny wakes up enough to do him any damage.

When I peek inside his room, Manny is sitting up in bed with the sheets tangled around his waist. His face is the color of wet cement, and his eyes are puffy. “What the hell are you doing, trying to kill me?”

The thought has crossed my mind.

“No, I'm trying to keep you from hurting Mom's feelings. Even though she's been up since dawn getting ready for your party—the one you haven't helped with one bit,” I say, slapping down the whole deck of guilt cards, “she's in the kitchen putting together a cheese omelet especially for you. So get your butt downstairs before it gets cold, or she'll see what a selfish, ungrateful brat you really are.”

While Manny's—hopefully—writhing with guilt, I dash to the kitchen, switch on a burner, and dump in the eggs I've scrambled to a perfect froth. The preparation of this omelet must be carefully timed. As long as Manny does his usual ten-minute bathroom search for new whiskers and Mom stays outdoors ordering Dad around, I'm golden.

Speaking of golden, the smell of frying eggs is making my stomach growl. Too bad there were only three eggs left after Mom and I made a mountain of deviled eggs for the party.

I carefully lift the edges of the omelet with a spatula and let the raw egg run underneath. When it's thick and puffy, I expertly flip it over to let the other side brown. Now comes the tricky part. From a bowl I've set aside, I pour in my secret ingredients: a quarter cup of crushed Tums lovingly blended into a half cup of a Pepto Bismol/ Tabasco sauce mixture. If this doesn't cure Manny's hangover, nothing will.

As I'm folding the omelet and pressing the edges together, the toilet flushes overhead. What timing! I lay three slices of cheddar cheese across the top and stand back to admire my masterpiece. Then I pull out my cell phone and snap a picture. I leave the phone in easy reach for more pictures to come.

I've just removed the pan from the burner when Manny walks in. His hair and face are wet, but he still looks like the mummy unwrapped. By the way his mouth is puckered, I can see he's one gag reflex away from puking.

“God, Manny! What outhouse did you fall into last night? You look like a pile of crap!”

Manny pulls out a chair and falls into it. “Not so loud,” he groans. “My head hurts from the waist up.” He leans over the table and massages his eyes with the heels of his hands.

I set a glass of grapefruit juice in front of him. “Wait till I tell Mom and Dad that Mr. Mattheson throws drinking parties for the senior class. Mom's head will do a complete three-sixty.”

“Don't even joke about it. I spent ten minutes at Mr. Matt's house last night, and it felt like a decade.” Manny takes a sip of juice and cringes. “I need to eat something solid before my stomach comes out through my nose.”