Mister Death's Blue-Eyed Girls (5 page)

"But don't you wonder what he sees in Cheryl?" I ask, giving in to my jealousy at last. "He used to go steady with the most popular girl in school. Sally Smith was Junior Prom queen, a cheerleader, too. Why dump her for Cheryl?"

"Maybe Sally dumped him. Maybe he likes the way Cheryl dances." Ellie swings her purse by its long strap. "She was really getting on my nerves last night, acting so superior, like we were dumb kids faking being drunk."

"We were drunk," I say, "but not so drunk we went off in the woods with a boy."

Suddenly neither one of us likes Cheryl. We criticize her clothes, the tight shorts and low-necked blouse she wore last night, the way she danced with Ralph. We're sure she bleaches her hair even though she swears she doesn't. Nobody's a natural blond except Scandinavians.

Ellie says, "Cheryl had a big pimple on her chin this morning, did you notice?"

We laugh and sing the Clearasil song.

"What's so special about Cheryl anyway?" I ask. "Why do boys like her so much? She's not all that pretty. Her teeth are so big she looks like a chipmunk."

We laugh again.

Ellie reminds me of the time Cheryl sneaked out of a slumber party and stayed out all night with Buddy.

I was there. I definitely remember.

"That's why they like her," Ellie says. "She pets and stuff."

What exactly does petting mean, I wonder. Letting a boy touch your breasts or put his hand on your knee, maybe more. Stuff you'd have to confess, that's for sure. But Cheryl's not Catholic, she doesn't have to tell a priest what she does with boys.

"What do you think she was doing with Ralph down in the woods last night?" Ellie asks.

We look at each other, wondering...

By now, the trees have closed in around us, silent in the morning coolness, their trunks tall and straight. Slants of sunlight knife down through the leaves and dapple the path.

Ellie tells me about a story she read in
True Romance
magazine. "The girl was a tease. She got a bad reputation and..."

While Ellie talks, I glance over my shoulder, suddenly alert to a difference in the silence. A rustling in the leaves, a branch snapping, a sense of being watched, just like last night.

I glance at Ellie. She's fallen silent. Has she noticed something too?

A crow takes sudden flight from a branch. His alarmed cry sets off a chorus of caws from dozens of crows. They all fly up into the air and circle the treetops. A murder of crows, that's what my English teacher calls them—a flock of sparrows, a gaggle of geese, a murder of crows.

"I knew a boy once who had a pet crow," Ellie says. "He taught him to talk. And then some older boy shot him with a BB gun and killed him. It was so sad. Tommy really loved that crow."

"That's horrible." I swing my purse at a bee. "Get away!"

A few minutes later we come to the footbridge. Buddy's leaning against the rail, smoking a cigarette. It must have been his eyes watching us through the trees.

"Have you seen Cheryl?" he asks.

Ellie shakes her head. "She and Bobbi Jo left for school early." "We overslept," I added. "They didn't want to wait for us."

Neither one of us gives him Cheryl's message. I hate to say it, but he looks so miserable I almost feel sorry for him.

"I wanted give her a ride to school," he says. "I thought maybe if I told her I was sorry, maybe she'd, I mean..." He lets the words trail off into a shrug and takes a long drag on his cigarette.

I watch him exhale a thin stream of smoke. My face feels hot with embarrassment. He's pathetic, pitiful, not like he was in the picnic grove. I glance at Ellie. Neither of us says anything.

"You want a ride?" he asks. "You'll be late if you walk."

We look at each other. He's right. Even with a ride we might be late, but not
as
late.

Ellie nods and we follow the path out of the woods and through a field of tall weeds. Buddy's old black Ford is parked at the end of Chester Street. All three of us crowd together in the front seat. I'm in the middle, jammed so close to Buddy our shoulders and arms touch. This is where Cheryl used to sit, I think, with her hand on his knee. I look at his knee and wonder what it's like to put your hand on a boy's knee. And then break up with him.

At first no one says anything. What's there to say that isn't the wrong thing?

But of course, just as he parks the car in the student lot, Buddy says it anyway. Looking past me at Ellie, he asks, "Do I have any chance of getting her back?"

Now my face is surely on fire, and there's a lump in my throat.

I could tell him, but of course I don't. Can't. I hear the pain in his voice. Maybe it wasn't all his fault she dumped him. Maybe she wanted someone better, someone like Ralph, a popular guy, not a nobody like Buddy.

To avoid looking at him, I stare at the blue tassel from his cap, which he's hung on the rearview mirror. No more classes for Buddy, no more books. Lucky him. He's a graduate now, an alumnus. He won't be back in the fall. He won't have to see Cheryl again.

Ellie shakes her head. "She really likes Ralph." There's no sympathy in her voice or the flip of her ponytail. She doesn't like Buddy. Never has. Tough break.

Buddy mutters a word I've seen written on walls but never heard anyone say out loud. Without looking at either of us, he reaches across us and opens our door. "What're you waiting for?" he asks. "The bell's ringing."

Ellie and I get out, me clumsily, my skirt catching on the stick shift. I jerk it free and shut the door. Buddy drives away, screeching the tires the way he did last night.

We agree to meet at the school's main door as soon as we get out of class and head off to our homerooms.

Miss Atkins collects library fines and textbooks. She hands out report cards. I have four Cs—PE, American history, chemistry, and Latin II, which I thought would be easy for me because of being Catholic but boy, was I wrong. I hoped I might get an A in English, but Mr. Smith has given me a B. My only consolation is my usual A in art. No celebration at my house. My mother will ask why I don't try harder, why I'm such an underachiever, why I don't care about my grades. I'm smart, she says, but I don't make an effort. Where will I go in life?

I want to tell her I'm not smart. I want to tell her school is boring. It's meaningless. It doesn't matter. High school is a waste of time. And anyway, what's wrong with a C average? Aren't most people average? Isn't that what average means?

Besides, I want to be an artist. I'm sure artists don't care about grades. Like me, they know high school is just this thing you have to get through. Once you're out, you're free to think and do what you like.

But standing at the double green doors, waiting for Ellie, I feel my insides churn again. I might tune my mother out, but I won't forget what she says. Or maybe it's more like I'll forget the words but not the meaning. I'm lazy, I'm a disappointment, I'll never amount to anything.

Then Ellie's there. Charlie and Paul are with her. So is Ralph. And Don.

I can't say a word, my heart is bumping and thumping and my knees feel funny. Don. Why is Don here?

"I thought Cheryl and Bobbi Jo would be with you," Ellie says to me.

I blush. It sounds like an accusation. What have I done? Why aren't they with me?

"I haven't seen them," I say.

"Cheryl promised to meet me," Ralph says. "Don and I were going to take her and Bobbi Jo to Top's for milk shakes."

So it's true, I think, I was right. He's fixing Bobbi Jo up with Don. I want to say, "Ellie and I can go instead." I try to smile at Don, but the lump in my throat is back and now it's me, not Buddy, I feel sorry for.

"They came by the house this morning," Ellie says, "but we weren't ready and they left without us."

"Where do you think they are?" I ask her, suddenly worried. "They should be here."

"Maybe they decided to skip and go to Horn and Horn for coffee," Ellie says with a shrug. "Cheryl does that sometimes."

Somehow I don't think Ellie's right, not when Cheryl was planning to meet Ralph. She wouldn't stand him up. A whisper of worry runs through my head, but I tell myself nothing could be wrong. What could happen to her and Bobbi Jo between home and school? A twenty-minute walk. Maybe less. And Ellie and me only ten minutes behind them. There must be an explanation.

But worry tugs at me. What if? What if? What if what?

R
ALPH
and Don head off to the school parking lot, and we take Chester Road toward the park and the path to Ellie's house. Charlie and Paul walk ahead, comparing their report cards. Ellie and I trail behind. She got straight As, which makes her happy. "If I do well on the college boards next fall," she says, "I'll be sure to get a scholarship to Saint Olaf's."

I nod, still puzzled by her choice of colleges. Saint Olaf's is in Minnesota, where the winters are freezing cold. I'd rather stay here and go to Maryland Institute in Baltimore. My art teacher took us there on a field trip and I loved everything about it, how it smelled and how the students looked with paint on their clothes and how the light slanted in through skylights. And the easels—so many tall easels. It was like being in the woods. I hated to leave.

Mr. Taylor says it's one of the best art schools in the country. The trouble is, it's really, really expensive, and my mother won't let me go. First she says she can't afford it, but more important, I'll meet the wrong sort of people. They'll be a bad influence. I'll get in trouble. What kind of trouble, I asked her once, but she wouldn't say. Which means it has something to do with sex, something she never talks about, only hints at.
Don't let a boy put his hand on your knee.
I think of my bony knees and wonder why a boy would want to put his hand on them. There must be more to it than that.

It's a good thing she doesn't know how much I liked kissing Charlie. What if he puts his hand on my knee? Will I have to confess it? Will I have to confess kissing him last night? Is drinking beer a sin?

Mom says I can major in art at Towson State. No college boards to worry about. Anyone who graduates from a Maryland high school can go there. The tuition's cheap, too. Three hundred a year. I'll be living at home and taking the streetcar, at least an hour each way. Maybe I should have studied harder, taken those boring classes like plane geometry more seriously. Then maybe I could get a scholarship to Maryland Institute.

But truthfully I'm kind of afraid to leave home. What if no one likes me in art school? What if I'm not talented after all? What if the other students draw better than I do? What if I flunk out? What if I lose my virginity?

Towson State isn't nearly as scary, plus I'd still have my room, dinner every night with Mom and Dad and Billy, just like always. What a baby I am. Afraid to leave home.

Ellie pokes me in the side with her elbow. "You haven't heard a word I've said."

"Sorry, I was thinking."

"About what?"

"Oh, I don't know. Nothing interesting." No use talking to Ellie about my worries. She's so smart, ready to go to college and major in physics or something brilliant. Loneliness jabs me like a stitch in my side. Will there ever be a person I can talk to about how I really feel?

"Hey." Charlie turns and looks back. "You girls are really poking along. If you don't hurry up, you'll be late for the picnic."

Ellie laughs. "The picnic's not till noon. It's only ten o'clock."

Since he and Paul are obviously waiting, we hurry to catch up. It's much hotter now. We're at the end of Chester Street. The path dips down through a field and into the woods, still cool but more humid than earlier.

As the trees close in around me, I hear Buddy's car somewhere behind us, probably on Chester Street. I recognize the sound it makes. I picture him driving up one street and down another, smoking a cigarette and looking for Cheryl and Bobbi Jo. Where could they be?

Again, I push away the feeling something's wrong. This is the first day of summer vacation, we're having a picnic, then maybe we'll go to Five Pines swimming pool. Cheryl and Bobbi Jo will turn up with some crazy story. We'll all laugh.

I look at the back of Charlie's head, at his pink ears, at his crewcut, hair so short I can see his scalp. Did I really kiss him last night? Did I drink three beers or four? Did Ellie and Bobbi Jo and me sit in the creek and sing? Did Ralph and Cheryl go off into the woods and not come back? And the scene with Cheryl and Buddy and Ralph, the anger breathing fire in the air, did that really happen?

The whole night seems like a dream, a story somebody told me. I glance at Ellie. The heat has curled her ponytail. Wisps of hair escape and cluster in ringlets on her neck. She seems far away too. I almost expect her to turn to me and ask if I'd seen the fairies hiding in the trees, casting spells on us like Puck in
Midsummer Night's Dream.
All night we'd wandered through the woods, enchanted, she might say, lost in magic and dreams.

On the bridge, Paul takes out a pack of Luckies. "Anybody want a cig?"

I glance at Ellie and she shrugs why not. When she takes one, I take one.
I will if you will.
We need practice, we need to learn how to inhale.

The four of us sit in a row on the railing and smoke. The night's spell comes back, and I'm convinced the woods are full of magic. I feel eyes watching us, hidden in the deep green. A rustling here, a scurrying there. For some reason, I shiver and breathe in so much smoke that I cough and choke and almost fall into the creek.

Charlie laughs and slaps my back a few times. "Don't fall, Long Tall Sally," he says and puts an arm around my shoulders. "You kissed me last night," he whispers.

I blush. "It must have been the beer," I tell him.

"Maybe you and me should get together with a six-pack every night." He wiggles his eyebrows like Groucho Marx.

I laugh and shake my head, but even while I'm laughing him off, I'm thinking how much I liked kissing Charlie. Or maybe just how much I like kissing.

I finish my cigarette, toss it into the creek, and watch it drift away. Ellie tosses hers after mine and slides off the railing. "We should go," she says. "Cheryl and Bobbi Jo are probably waiting for us at my house."