Stones and Spark (3 page)

I run home, cradling the bag of cheeseburgers and fries. My legs feel heavy as lead, but worse is the rock hammer. It pokes my spine like an insistent finger, reminding me of something that happened this morning. Something that bothered me.

Drew and I were standing at our lockers.

“I’ve got a surprise for you tonight,” I said. “Prepare to be amazed.”

But she didn’t look prepared to be amazed. She looked a hundred miles away. “You know Newton’s third law of motion, don’t you?”

“Newton had three?”

“Raleigh, seriously.” She closed her locker, spinning the dial lock just so. “Newton’s third law of motion states that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

“Okay. So?”

“So. I have a surprise for you, too.”

Here’s the problem with having a highly competitive best friend. I could trespass in an abandoned train tunnel and come out with rock samples—and she would still have to top it.

Now, as I run down Monument Avenue past the statue of Robert E. Lee, the idea hits me: Drew is pouting.

She knew my surprise was better. So she just didn’t show up.

The fries are starting to smell cold. I slow to a walk and head down the alley behind our house.

Quietly I unlock the carriage house and slide back the panel doors. Once upon a time the carriage house kept literal carriages: horses and buggies. Now it’s our garage. My dad’s car is parked beside my mom’s. When I touch the hood, the metal feels hot. I wonder if she’s telling him now, showing him the “evidence” that I’m not their “real” daughter.

I sneak past the cars, including my sister’s old VW Bug that my dad wouldn’t let her take to college. Helen left for Yale in August—early admission, art scholarship, the whole big nine yards. My sister is a superstar, and when she left, my mom went into a tailspin. But I’m pretty happy with Helen gone. For one thing, she can’t keep me from riding her bike. Which she would if she was here. Helen’s like that.

I leave my backpack, toss the food bag in the front basket and wheel the bike into the alley. In six months, I’ll be sixteen. Nobody’s even mentioned driving lessons. And I don’t bring it up because my dad’s so stressed. My sister, however, whined for years, until he broke down and bought her exactly what she wanted: an old VW Bug. The hippie mobile. Right now it’s hidden under a tarp, and as I wheel the bike past it, I feel the temptation to spit on it.

I bike down Monument to The Boulevard then pick up Grove Avenue. Heading west into a sinking sun, I keep scanning the road for a skinny girl with wild brown hair riding a purple Schwinn. Drew’s so compulsive she never changes routes. So if she’s heading to Big Man’s Burgers, I will see her.

But I don’t.

Just past Libbie Avenue, I turn into St. Catherine’s School. Episcopalian, not Catholic. But nobody can tell by our uniforms. I circle the buildings then stop at the bike rack behind the gym, where Drew always parks her bike.

It’s not here.

Instead, a white panel truck is parked within inches of the bike rack. The truck’s bumper has a sticker that asks, “How’s my driving?”

Lousy.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” says a guy walking out of the gym. His blue coveralls swim around his body. “Don’t say it.”

“Say what?”

“I already got the lecture. Once was plenty.”

He throws open the back doors, just missing the bike rack.

“Was there a purple bike here?” I point to the rack he’s almost destroyed.

“Huh?” He glances over his shoulder. “No, no bike.”

“You’re sure?”

“Look, you girls want us out of here before the dance starts. So quit bugging me.”

He yanks some white PVC pipes from the truck, carries them to the gym, throwing open the door. The wail of an electric guitar flies out. The band, I figure. Rehearing for tonight’s dance. I bike away as fast as possible.

When I coast down Westhampton to Drew’s house, I see her mom’s Volvo in the driveway. It’s packed with those long rectangular boxes that hold foil and Saran Wrap. Drew’s mom is head of public relations for the cooking division of Reynolds Aluminum. Which is pretty ironic since Jayne Levinson doesn’t even know how to boil water. I know, because Drew and I used to meet here every Friday night for cheeseburgers—frozen White Castle burgers nuked in the microwave.

After eating at Titus’s place, there’s no going back to that.

I lean my bike against an oak in the back yard and kick through the fallen leaves. The back door is always open and leads into the sunroom, which gets no sun because the trees are so thick.

I stick my head inside. “Drew?” I whisper.

The only reply is a hiss.

Sir Isaac Newton. Their satanic Siamese cat.

But her mom also calls out, “Drewery?”

Drew’s full name, which means there was trouble.

“Drewery, is that you?”

“No, ma’am,” I call back. “It’s Raleigh.”

I’m trying to sound polite, but on the list of People I Never Want To Talk To, Especially On Friday night, number one is Jayne Levinson.

“Raleigh?”

“Just looking for Drew. Is she here?”

I turn, glancing around the yard. It’s smothered with leaves, enough that I can’t see the burn marks in the grass. Drew likes to experiment with explosive propulsion, something the neighbors don’t exactly appreciate. But the only thing out there is the wind, lifting the fallen leaves.

When I turn around again, Jayne Levinson is standing at the edge of the sunroom.

“How’s life, Raleigh?”

The light from the kitchen outlines her petite shape, her expensive clothing. The glass of red wine in her hand.

“I’m fine, thank you. So Drew isn’t here?”

“No.”

“She wasn’t at the restaurant either.”

"What restaurant?”

“Big Man’s Burgers.” The name doesn’t register. So I try another. “Titus’s place?”

She laughs. She throws her head back and laughs like that's the funniest joke on the planet. I glance at the cat. Curled on the rattan couch, he kneads his claws into the cushions with lethargic cruelty.

“That’s not a restaurant, Raleigh. It’s a hole-in-the-wall.”

Whatever.

“She’s never late.”

“It must be the slum factor—are your lives just too privileged?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m trying to figure out why you girls insist on going to that dump."

I smile. Politely. Then hate myself. I’ve vowed never to smile like this—this phony, gross smile that people offer my mother all the time. Yet here it is, the awful pleasantness frozen on my face. And I'm pretty sure this fake smile is one of those things that, once you learn how to do it, you can never unlearn it. Like riding a bike.

"So you haven't seen her?" I ask.

Jayne sips her wine. “I suppose it's too much to hope you two are going to the dance?”

The fake smile comes back. See? Already a habit.

“That’s what I thought." She takes another sip. “On the other hand, it's probably safer this way."

A substantial part of me does not want to know what she means. But I have to ask, since it might help me figure out where Drew is.

“What's safer?”

“Your anti-social lives. This way, neither of you will get knocked up.”

This is Jayne Levinson on a Friday night: Any idea slipping into her mind will immediately launch out of her mouth. During the week, Jayne recites scripted words for Reynolds Aluminum. She’s even on TV from time to time, repeating scripted words about things like turkey-baking bags. But on Friday evenings she pops the cork and out comes Weekend Jayne. She’s a big part of why we moved Friday dinner to Titus's place.

"Her bike isn't at school either.”

"That so?" She takes another sip of wine. More like a gulp.

"Did she say anything about changing plans for tonight?”

“No. But you can park your butt on the sofa until she shows up. Until then, I’m sure you can read.”

She makes ‘read’ sound obscene.

As she walks back into the kitchen, her frothy silk skirt rippling behind her, I wonder which is worse: my mom, trapped in her dark remote world, or Jayne, who speaks public fakery all week, then comes home and can’t keep one thought to herself, no matter how hurtful.

Right now it seems like a tie.

I cautiously lower myself on one side of the wicker love seat. Isaac Newton sits at the other end, his blue eyes glowing like marbles hoping to find a slingshot. I keep two cushions between us and reach for the books. They rise like stalagmites from the floor. Jayne refuses to put bookcases in here, saying they would look “tacky.” Which makes no sense because it’s not like three-foot towers of books looks any less “tacky.”

To be honest, Drew likes to read stuff that makes my eyes glaze over. Baseball, for instance. And, as if baseball wasn't boring enough, she combs through books about potential energies and String Theory and stuff that’s just totally abstract science. One reason I prefer geology is that you can smell, touch, and even taste minerals. It’s real.

I open the book. But there’s a distinctive
glunk-glunk
coming from the kitchen. I look up. Bottle #1 must be almost gone. Drew had to explain it to me, back when we ate dinner here. The ice dilutes the alcohol, so Jayne can drink longer before passing out.

I stare at the page in my lap. Drew’s highlighted a quote from Richard P. Feynman. He’s her absolute hero, a famous physicist who worked on the Atomic Bomb, among other things. The line reads:

"Science is the belief in the ignorance of experts."

When a high whistle sails out of the kitchen, Jayne curses.

I glance at my watch. 6:18 p.m.

Drew knows how much Jayne hates the cuckoo clock, so she programs it for surprise attacks. I hear the bird's little door slam, followed by another curse.

Keeping one eye on Isaac Newton, I pick up the phone on the side table and dial the number I’ve seen a hundred times on that big white sign. The numbers spell BigMans.

When Titus answers, I say, “It’s Raleigh.”

“Oh.”

He sounds surprised. And why not? I’ve never called before.

“Is she there?”

“No.”

“She never showed up?”

“You said she wouldn’t.”

I did. But everything’s out of whack. I’m second-guessing myself that Drew might be pouting because I made it into the tunnel. And it’s possible—even likely—that she and Jayne are fighting. But not being on time would really,
really
bug her. I can’t see Drew holding out this long.

“I’m at her house. She’s not here.”

There's a long pause. I don’t know what I expect Titus to say. But Isaac Newton snags the pillow with lethargic cruelty and there’s more
glug-glugging
from the kitchen as Jayne pours another glass. And still Titus says nothing.

“Okay.” I wait. Still nothing. “Thanks.”

I hang up. Outside the sky is sapphire blue swimming toward amethyst purple.

My curfew is 7 p.m. Ridiculous for somebody six months from her sixteenth birthday. But I don’t argue. Partly because of my crazy-paranoid mother. But also partly because I feel bad. My dad doesn’t know that we switched from Drew’s house to Titus’s place. I hate lying to him.

Ice splashes into Jayne’s glass. Isaac Newton gives me a big yawn, like he's oxygenating for a good kill. I stand up and replace Richard P. Feynman on the stalagmite of books.

Like all good Southern girls, I know it’s rude to leave someone’s house without first saying goodbye. And rude is bad. On this side of the Mason-Dixon line, being rude is equivalent to breaking one of the Ten Commandments.

But it’s Friday night. And ice is clinking.

So I slip out the door, and ride away.

When I get home, night has fallen and the autumn air is so crisp it feels brittle. Like the darkness is actually paper-thin glass that could shatter at any second.

I pry open the carriage house doors, hang my bike on its hook, and pick up my backpack, still sitting on the floor where I left it. In the alley, I lift the lid on our trashcan and toss in the bag of food. The white paper is covered with translucent grease spots. They look old, as if Titus bagged our dinner days ago instead of just a couple hours ago. As some final precaution, I stuff the bag deep into the can, just in case my mom finds it and starts asking questions. Or my dad, who even doesn't know Drew and I eat dinner at Titus's place now.

The fact that I have no good answers for either of them makes me pray I won't have to see them. But when I walk into the kitchen, it's empty, and suddenly I feel lonely. Like, I literally have no one to talk to.

"Hello?" I call out.

Nothing.

Something's baking in the oven. I open the over door and see a casserole that looks suspiciously green, like too much spinach. But I’m more troubled by what I see on the stovetop.