The Accidental Siren (2 page)

“Okie-dokie.” Whit wrote it down.

“And maybe the monsters will use fireworks as
weapons! I wanna have the camera right above The Girl in the tree.
We’ll shoot a roman candle beneath her–”

In the viewfinder, something moved. I
froze.

“...right beneath her?”

“Shh!” I hissed and tightened my hold on the
camera. “I think I see something.”

“What? Who? Maybe we should–”

“Would ya zip it?” I snapped. I gripped the
zoom lever and cautiously carried my eye toward the rustling
bush.

“Is it–”

“I don’t know.” I turned the focus wheel...
and the bullies emerged from the bushes.

A.J. twirled a grocery bag of aluminum
cans.

Danny shouldered a BB gun. “Naughty naughty!”
he said. “Fireworks are too dangerous for Fatty and the Gimp!”

“Oh hell,” Whit said and instinctively
grabbed his wheels.

I lowered my camera and unzipped the bag,
slowly, gently, so I wouldn’t excite the approaching wolves. “Hey,
Danny,” I said. “Hey, Age.”

“What’er you clowns doin’ on our huntin’
ground?”

I wanted to yell, to scream
,
to defend
my kingdom and shout “It’s not yours!” But all I could muster
through the walnut in my throat was, “Sorry, guys. We were just
leaving.”

Danny scratched the back of his head and I
was suddenly thankful that I couldn’t see his nails (yellow, I
imagined) scraping the pink and curled flesh of that supposed shark
bite. “Leaving?” he said. “But we came here to hunt!”

I wondered what animal two sixth-grade boys
planned on killing with a pellet gun, but I wasn’t stupid enough
to–

“What are you gonna kill with a silly pellet
gun?” Whit asked.

Danny smirked at the provocation. “Hey Age,
put a can on the cripples head.”

“Are you fa real?” A.J. asked.

Danny sneered and nodded to Whit. “Hey crip,
hold still a sec. A.J.’s got a hat for ya.”

“He’s already got a hat,” I said.

“Well, Fatty, maybe the gimp wants a
new
hat. Didja ever think of that?
Fatty.
” Danny
gripped the barrel in one hand and the plunger in the other. He
wiped his brow with his camouflage sleeve and cocked the gun over
and over like a giant pair of scissors.

A.J. tiptoed to Whit with exaggerated steps
and flicked off his cap.

Whit didn’t budge, but closed his eyes so
tight that his temples pursed.

“Stop it, Age,” I said, “or I’ll tell your
mom.” It was the only threat I had. It didn’t work.

A.J. removed an empty Heineken can from his
plastic bag and set it gently on Whit’s head. “Don’t worry,” he
said, “Danny’s a good shot!”

I abandoned my camcorder, took three angry
steps, and smacked the can from my friend’s head. “Leave him
alone!”, I said, “We’re leaving.”

A.J. planted his hands in the square of my
back and shoved. My ankle caught Whit’s footrest and jolted my knee
against his shin. My stomach rammed into some crooked wheelchair
pipe and I keeled, twisted, and landed cheek-first in the thorny
stems of the raspberry bush.

Danny cackled and pressed the full force of
his biceps into the last squeeze of the plunger. “Age!” he shouted
and lifted the sight to his eye.

A.J. snatched the beer can from the dirt,
placed it back on Whit’s head, and scrambled out of Danny’s
line-of-sight.

(Although Whit denied it later, I swear I saw
a tear pinched in the crease of his eye.) “No!” I yelled.

THOOMP!
went the gun.

TINK!

The BB smacked the can and Whit’s shoulders
leapt to his cheeks.

“Hot damn! Would ya look at that shot?”

A.J. collected the can and raised a high-five
to Danny.

The Bully King ignored the gesture, leaned
his weapon against a tree, and skipped to the wheelchair. (From my
nest in the raspberry bush, I finally saw those tufts of brown hair
broken by what appeared to be the rippled pink innards of a
dissected worm. I gagged.) Danny bent down, picked up the cap,
dusted it off and–

Whit flinched.

“Whatcha worried for, Gimp?” Danny said and
pulled the hat backwards on Whit’s head. He turned around and
offered me a hand. “Hey, Jamesy the Hutt, no hard feelings,
okay?”

I touched the thin beads of blood on my left
cheek, bit back a bubbling tirade of sixth-grade cuss words, took
Danny’s hand, and stood.

“Won’t believe what I got,” said the bully,
reaching into the front pocket of his army jacket.

“You’re gonna show ‘em?” exclaimed A.J.

“Dunno yet. Dunno if I trust ‘em.” He removed
a Polaroid photograph and shook it as if it was still developing.
“Have you retards ever seen a naked girl?”

I bypassed Danny and reached for my camera
bag, but A.J. cut me off. “Where you goin’, Fatty?”

“Come on, Age. Let me by.”

My spine tightened as Danny’s hand curled
around my neck. He held the back of the photo to my face. “I asked
you a question, Fatty. Do. You. Wanna. See. The picture?” His
breath was like a stream of vapor, warm on my neck and climbing my
cheeks until I could taste the sour. “Her name’s Roslyn,” he
whispered. “Super hot bod. My uncle’s been bangin’ her for a
month.” (Danny was always talking about “bangin’.” I didn’t know
what it meant, and I was pretty sure he didn’t either.)

“I don’t want it,” I said.

“Of course you don’t. Why would I show you
anyways? You get to see big ol’ titties every time you look in the
mirror!” He snapped the picture out of my face and spun around.

I made another lunge for my bag, but A.J.
blocked my reach.

“How ‘bout you, crip?” Danny said. “Wanna
take a peek at your very first cooch?”

Silence.

When Whit didn’t reply, I turned around.

He was scraping crusted mud from his treads.
He was considering Danny’s offer.

I shook my head. “Whit–”

“Sure,” he said. “Lemme see how she
looks.”

I sighed.

“What you got to trade?” Danny asked. “How
‘bout one of those candy bars you’re always sellin’ at recess.”

“Deal.” Whit nodded, reached beneath his
seat, and pulled out a Nestle Crunch bar.

Danny snatched it from his hand, tore it
open, and bit off a corner.

Whit licked his lips and rubbed his palms.
“Now let me get a gander at Roslyn!”

Danny flipped over the photo, plunged it in
Whit’s face, then snapped it back. “Wha’d I tell ya? Huh? Big ol’
titties!”

“No fair! Too fast! I didn’t even see–”

“Whit,” I said. “Knock it off.”

“But he–”

“Was there really a girl in the picture?” I
asked.

“Yeah, but I didn’t get to–”

“Okay.” I looked to Danny and the
chocolate-stained corners of his lips. “Where’d you get the
picture?”

“Snuck it from my uncle’s drawer. Roslyn gave
it to him as a birthday present.”

“It’s the only one?”

“If there was more, I’d have ‘em.”

If Danny was proud enough to show the picture
to a nerd for a candy bar, he’d show his friends for free. In a
rare moment of maturity, I imagined my sister in Roslyn’s
place.

“Whit’s got twenty candy bars in his bag,” I
said. “I’ll trade you the entire stash for that picture.”

Whether he was upset that I offered his
product for trade, or excited at the prospect of owning a picture
of a naked girl, Whit’s eyes grew bigger and rounder than the
wheels on his chair.

Danny coughed up a wad of brown spit and blew
it at my feet. He let the foil wrapper fall from his candy, slipped
the naked bar in his pocket, plucked the weapon from the stump, and
wiped the spit from his lips. “If I wanted his candy...” He began
pumping the gun.
“I’d take it.”

Whit gripped his wheels and inched away.

I backed up too, right into A.J.’s beefy
arms.

The gun was loaded. Danny poked the barrel in
the soft tissue above my bellybutton. “Tell ya what, Fatty. I’ll
give you Roslyn if you give me that camera.”

Was he serious? Apparently, the brainless
bully had some concept of value, authority, and the difference
between petty and serious crimes. If he stole my camera, he knew
I’d tattle and he’d get busted. But if I
gave
him the camera
fair-and-square, it would be his to keep.

The gun sank deeper into the crook between my
stomach and ribs; the farther Danny pushed, the more I could feel
my heart beating against the tip.

“Well?” he said. “You want Roslyn all for
yourself?”

A.J. tightened his grip on my arms.

“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s trade.”

* * *

The bullies were gone. They had my
camera.

Roslyn’s photo was in my jeans. I lifted my
shirt and inspected the grey bruise webbing across my chest. I
wasn’t sure if I had done the right thing; either way, my parents
were gonna kill me.

“They’re jerks,” Whit said as he rolled along
the path.

“Yeah,” I said. “Real jerks.”

“So...” He paused as if it was my job to fill
in the blank.

“So?”

“So are you gonna look at the picture?”

I pulled the Polaroid from my pocket and
creased it in half, then quarters.

Whit shook his head. “Do you even know that
girl?”

A Coke bottle protruded from the dirt beside
the path. I tore the picture along each crease, crumpled the
squares, then jammed them into the neck of the bottle. I added some
dirt, then stepped on the glass until the soft ground swallowed it
whole; another treasure lost forever in my castle forest.

The storybook shafts of sun had dissipated,
leaving the woods in stagnant light. As we walked toward the house,
I felt a soft poke in my side. I looked down... Whit was offering
the Butterfinger.

I took the candy bar, ate it, and pushed my
friend all the way home.

* * *

We emerged from the trees just as a burgundy
minivan came weaving down the paver-brick driveway. I waved to Mrs.
Conrad, Whit’s mom, then gave her a hug when she got out to help
with the chair.

She made a big deal about the scratch on my
face. She held my chin, inspected the depth of the cut to rule out
stitches, thumbed the bruise around my jowls, and recommended a dab
of peroxide and three small bandaids.
Good thing she couldn’t
see my ribs.

When I finally convinced her that I wouldn’t
drop dead on my way in the house, she kissed my good cheek and
helped her son into the passenger seat.

“Summer in two weeks,” Whit said.

I nodded and waved.
But it wouldn’t be
summer without a camera.

The van’s brake lights drifted left and
right, flickered between tree branches, then disappeared
completely. Sunday was “family day” in the Parker house–no
exceptions–so Whit’s Saturday evening pick-up had become
routine.

I turned around and looked at the castle. It
was supposed to be in my movie, The Girl’s final destination, a
spectacular set-piece for the epic climax. I already drew the
storyboards for the Spielbergian shots for the sword fight between
The Girl and the evil prince... but without a camera, I was
screwed.

My fingers grazed the coarse stucco retaining
wall that held the dune away from the driveway. I hop-scotched a
fallen scooter, a bucket of sidewalk-chalk, and a tipped bag of
fertilizer awaiting the geranium trough along the garage.

I should pause for brief explanation of the
castle, as it was one of the few quirks in my otherwise normal
childhood.

With an infant at home, a bun in the oven,
and the promise of more foster kids, my parents decided that it was
time to upgrade from their two-bedroom apartment above Dad’s
architecture firm to a place more appropriate to raise a family.
Through her old realty connections, Mom discovered a deal on a
1920’s Spanish-style castle in money-pit disrepair. There were
leaks in three rooms. The kitchen was trapped in the seventies with
rust-brown linoleum counters and a yellow linoleum floor. The
inside walls were slathered in lead-based paint, and the basement
was a dungeon, perpetually moist and sprinkled with the gnarled
nestings of rats. But it was huge, it was cheap, and it was a
beautiful place for kids to grow up.

Dad agreed that the investment was
promising... pending a substantial overhaul of the dilapidated
interior. (I don’t recall the exact stage of the do-it-yourself
remodel in 1994, but I’m sure there was a layer of sawdust over
every flat surface, unfinished drywall scrawled with crayon
graffiti, and a mountain of torn carpet in at least one room.)

The estate sat on the outskirts of a quaint
tourist-trap town called Grand Harbor, placing us squarely inside
what the elementary playground dubbed “hillbilly township.” The
world as I knew it stretched for five miles along the lakeshore,
starting with the red lighthouse at the State Park and ending with
A.J.’s home on Hickory Street a half-mile south. In between sat
Whit’s middle-class suburb, the Township Walmart, and the glorious
castle where I grew up.

Trees hugged the brick structure on three
sides, nestling it comfortably atop a dune grass bluff with an
extraordinary view of the lake. From the beach, the mansion was
intimidating with three steeples of varying heights, mismatched and
awkwardly placed windows, a tower that stood higher than the
tallest oak, and wrought-iron accents that bestowed the palace with
a gothic aura. When the sun dropped just below the horizon, the
castle looked majestic; “A little piece of heaven,” marveled my
mother’s friends whenever they stopped by. But at night, when the
moon cut zagged shadows across the brick and glass, I imagined the
house among the eerie fog and lamplit cobblestone streets of
Transylvania.

Woulda been perfect for a movie
, I
thought.

A new hummingbird feeder graced the eve above
the front door and glistened red in the light from the setting sun.
Leo, the stone lion, stood guard. I stroked his mane, thumped his
back, and went inside.