April Love Story (2 page)

“Marnie,” said Lucas Peterson, squatting down next to me, “I have to talk to you.”

It was not really true that the only boy I could ever talk to was Joel. Actually, I could talk just fine to Lucas, if you could call it talk. It usually resembled more an exchange of insults. Still and all, I couldn’t believe that academically perfect, behaviorally flawless, teacher’s pet Lucas Peterson would come up to throw a few insults when we’d just been instructed to maintain silence and not move our muscles.

I looked around carefully. Mr. Ricks had vanished, but probably he was a master of camouflage and was sitting on the other side of my very own bush. Joel was barely visible, trying to look tree-y at the far side of the big clearing. “About what?” I whispered.

“About the move, of course,” he said. “And don’t tell me we’ll talk about it later. There is no later.”

“Lucas, what are you talking about?”

“The farm, Marnie. Don’t be thick. I hate people who are thick.”

“I know nothing about farms, Lucas. Don’t be difficult. I hate people who are difficult.”

“North Carolina,” he said. “The farm. In the mountains.”

The only thing I knew about North Carolina was that, contrary to its name, it was quite far south. My parents spent three weeks there last summer in the Smoky Mountains and loved it. I was at tennis camp at the time and hadn’t even gotten around to reading their postcards because Susannah and I were so busy practicing on the courts. My parents had certainly liked it down there, though, because at least once a month they went back for three-day weekends. I loved that. It meant I could stay with Susannah, whose mother never cares what we do or how late we stay up doing it, as long as we do it quietly.

“What about the mountains?” I said irritably.

“Our parents, Marnie. You and me.”

“I’d rather not be paired with you, Lucas. Now buzz off. We’re supposed to be bird-watching. I would like to have at least one bird for my little list.”

“Over there is a white-throated sparrow. Write that down and listen to me.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Right there, pea brain.”

“Right where?”

“I cannot credit this,” said Mr. Ricks in a tiny nonbird-scaring, but definitely Marnie-scaring, tone of voice. “Two of my best students behaving in the exact opposite manner from what I requested?”

It was the first I’d known that I was a best student. I apologized quite cheerfully. Mr. Ricks drifted off. I expected Lucas to leave, but he didn’t. I considered leaving myself, but my legs were frozen in a crouch that if I tried to get up I’d have to hang onto Lucas or tip over and crawl.

I lifted my binoculars and surveyed branches, sky, and ground. There seemed to be a serious bird shortage. I did locate David, who was studying his wrist. Twice when he moved, the wrist gleamed, so I deduced that David was wearing a watch, and counting the seconds until release from feathered friend study.

Not far from David were two brown-haired heads topping two navy blue jackets. These heads were bent over a book that might have been a bird identification text but which I knew from its turquoise cover was geometry. And since geometry was having an exam last period I further deduced that the heads belonged, in unknown order, to Chuck and Leigh.

There was enough lack of interest in biology to match the lack of birds to be interested in. Every time Mr. Ricks finishes a lecture he leaves a little pause, in case we want to ask a penetrating question or make an intelligent observation. But all anybody says is, “Are you done yet, Mr. Ricks? Can we go now?” Except Lucas. Lucas can always think of something to prolong a class.

I scanned for birds again, but all I saw was Holly, poking with a stick at something on the ground that was making her go all fluttery and disgusted. Beside her was Eve, stroking her poor stockinged legs, which looked as if they had had a bramble encounter.

What city types we are, I thought. I was proud of it. A city type was all I ever wanted to be.

One bird flew quite close to me then, and the only thing I could state categorically about that bird was that it qualified for the species because it obviously could fly. I couldn’t even guess its color, length, beak shape, or flight pattern. I wrote carefully in my notebook, “bird.”

“Junco,” said Lucas.

“I am not,” I said indignantly. “I’ve never had anything stronger than an aspirin in my life.”

“The bird is.”

“The bird is on drugs?”

“The name of the bird, Marnie,” said Lucas, chewing the words like rocks, “is junco. J-U-N-C-O.”

“I think that’s terrible. Why do they call it that? Is it given to eating marijuana seeds or something?”

“Marnie when I consider what the coming year holds for me, I cannot believe that I am going to have to endure it in your company. You are ignorant, completely lacking observational skills, and you don’t even care what’s happening. I should think you, of all people, would be concerned.”

“Concerned about what?” I hissed. I tried to kick his shins but I was too scrunched up. I just seemed to be twitching.

“Let’s have a truce, okay? No more insults. Just tell me what we are going to do.”

“As far as I know, Lucas Peterson, we aren’t doing anything.”

“You mean you’ve talked them into letting you stay here? You have relatives or something?”

I took a deep breath and held it, counting slowly. I learned to do that in Sunday School, to help keep my temper. But before I could calmly tell Lucas to stop bothering me there was a sudden burst of birdsong. It wasn’t twittering or squawking like most birds. It was a wild, sweet cadence, like a fife, some ethereal descant for a special chorus. The melody splashed on me like a falling flute.

I caught my breath from sheer love of the sound, and when it finally ceased, the silence seemed reverent and soothing. I became aware of the shaft of sunlight warming my back, working its way through the fleece lining of my denim jacket. I began to feel toasted and sleepy. It was a feeling of deep contentment, like August, when nothing needs doing and nothing takes worrying. In a few minutes I’d be back on the bus sitting next to Joel, who just might ask me to the senior prom. Or to a movie. Or at the very least, get me another bag of chestnuts.

“Marnie, do you mean to say you honestly don’t know what I’m talking about?” Lucas’ voice was full of contempt. If he’d been an ant I’d have stepped on him for ruining my mood. I settled for a killing glare but it regrettably had no effect on Lucas’ lifespan.

“Don’t you ever talk to your parents, Marnie? Don’t they ever discuss things with you?”

“Of course they do,” I said irritably, but even as I protested I was remembering my parents saying
Slow down, Marnie, we need to talk, there are some important things… But I’m in a hurry, I told them, rushing out, thinking of Joel and school and chorus and ninety-five things to tell Susannah.

I lifted my binoculars to focus on Joel Fiori.

“Marnie, you are amazingly self-centered,” said Lucas.

I was saved from doing violence to Lucas’ body because Mr. Ricks blew his police whistle with a blast so shattering I tipped over. Lucas didn’t even notice, he was so busy telling me how rotten I was. The groans, moans, and complaints of twenty-nine people who knew now they could cross bird-watching off their list of possible future careers filled the air.

“My feet are killing me,” said Holly.

“Feet!” said Susannah, tottering over to me and helping me up. “I have frostbite of the fanny.”

“The temperature,” said Mr. Ricks witheringly, “is, as is typical of late March, well above freezing.”

“But I saw a redheaded woodpecker,” said Chuck helpfully.

“Oh, yeah, where?” said Kay. “Caught in the logarithm tables?”

Chuck blushed.

Joel came loping over to me. Oh! how he ran. Graceful as an Olympian. And they wanted us to watch birds!

“What was the bird that sang?” Joel asked Mr. Ricks. “The one like a music box just a few minutes ago?”

I felt a deep pleasure that he, too, had been affected by that song. It was a sort of cement between us, I thought.

“I’m not entirely sure, Joel, as this is a little far from its normal late winter habitat, but I would not be at all surprised if it were the winter wren. Latin name
troglodytes, troglodytes.”

Joel shouted with laughter. “Sounds like a troll. Lurking under a dark and rotting bridge waiting for innocent maidens.” He turned to me, spread his jacket threateningly, and hovered over me. I cowered obligingly. “If you don’t watch out,” said Joel hollowly, “the
troglodytes
will get you.”

Susannah looked at us wistfully. We promised each other in seventh grade we would date together. We didn’t understand at the time that boys wouldn’t necessarily ask us together. Joel reached for my hand.

And Lucas got between us. “I have to talk to Marnie,” he said.

Joel looked a little startled but he said, “Sure. I’ll save a seat for you, Marnie.”

“Looks like she’ll be sitting with Lucas,” said Eve. “I’ll sit with you, Joel.”

“I’m sitting with Joel,” I said firmly, and Joel grinned and went on. Eve flounced after him. Mr. Ricks gathered the school binoculars and Lucas and I brought up the procession. I was seething with anger.

“Tell me this, Marnie,” said Lucas, not noticing my wrath, “have you ever wondered what my parents’ hobbies are?”

“No, Lucas, I can categorically state that I have never wondered nor cared what your parents’ hobbies are. If you press me to guess, I would probably expect your father to dabble in oil price-fixing and your mother to be an amateur strike breaker, but I could be wrong.”

“My parents,” said Lucas through his teeth, “are gardeners. We have a half-acre organic garden in my grandparents’ backyard in the suburbs, which they spend every weekend tending. It is their lifelong goal to have a few hundred acres, a woodlot, a log cabin, a woodstove, a quilt frame, some goats and chickens, and a good cash crop like strawberries.”

“Lucas, I grieve for them. I fail to see, however, that it is any concern of mine whether you Petersons raise strawberries or not. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m catching up to Joel.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“You didn’t warn me about anything except that your flaky parents want to keep goats. I don’t plan to visit their goat and strawberry complex, so what does it have to do with me?”

“Your parents want to go along, Marnie, that’s what it has to do with you.”

I was absolutely furious with him. “What are you talking about?” I demanded. “Go along where?”

“To raise goats. If you weren’t so thick and self-centered, and full of your own shallow dreams, you’d have noticed the people around you have a few dreams of their own.”

I didn’t even bother to laugh at Lucas. The idea of my parents wanting to go to some farm somewhere and raise goats was so ludicrous I couldn’t even waste time yelling at dumb Lucas about it.

I ran to get my seat next to Joel before Eve slid over too close.

“Y
OU DON’T NEED TO
spend fifteen minutes closing your locker door today,” teased Susannah. “Joel has an away game. He can’t walk you home.”

“Let’s go over to my house,” I said. “I bought some new makeup with my baby-sitting money. We can practice mascara.”

“Pretty soon you won’t have time to baby-sit. All these handsome men will be taking you out all the time.”

“Susannah, wouldn’t that be neat? But Joel and I haven’t had a real date yet. He hasn’t actually asked me anyplace.”

“I can’t get over the way you can talk to Joel. So easily. Honestly, Marnie, if it were me, the conversation would be Joel’s interesting sentence, my duh, Joel’s clever remark, my uh, Joel’s probing question, and my hmmmm.”

I giggled. “I’m not very good yet, myself. When we were coming back from the field trip Joel kept telling me about the intricacies of various basketball plays, and I was so busy trying to think of what I would say next that I didn’t pay enough attention to what he said to be
able
to say anything next!”

Susannah got her Latin book, I got my French, and we both had math and English homework together. We liked having classes together. It was hard to juggle our schedules to match, but this year we shared three classes and next year we wanted to try to do the same thing.

“What did old Lucas want?” she asked.

“Who knows. He was hounding me about his parents’ hobbies, or something. I didn’t pay much attention.”

“Your magnetic personality again.”

“No doubt.”

We giggled again. Susannah and I started giggling in May of the fourth grade when we were in a sack race together, and we’ve never stopped. My mother says it drives her berserk. You’re supposed to outgrow that giggly stage, she complains.

“Walk you home, Marnie?” said Joel.

Susannah grinned at me and faded away. We had an unspoken agreement that if a boy appeared, all else must cease to matter. I waved good-bye to her. “What happened to your game, Joel?” I said.

“The other team’s gym has a serious leak in the roof and we couldn’t transfer the game to our high school because there’s a gymnastics meet scheduled there, so I’ve got the afternoon off.”

I decided to ask Joel in to our apartment. Mother had made a carrot cake a few days ago and carrot cakes were yummy and kept well.
Marnie, help me cook … I’m in a hurry, Mother … We need to talk, Marnie … Here, I’ll grate the carrots for you, did I tell you I’m in charge of the French class banquet and Susannah and I made semi-final tryouts in cheerleading and we have a special rehearsal for the spring concert … ? That’s wonderful, Marnie, but … Bye, Mother!

I thought, I really must make time to talk to Mother one of these days. Then I thought, Joel and I can sit on the loveseat and eat cake. It must be called a loveseat for a reason. Maybe we’ll kiss. A real grown-up kiss.

When I was very small my favorite picture book involved a little boy who detested toy tools that broke and pretend toys that weren’t real. What he wanted was a real shovel to dig a real hole, the biggest hole in the world. Well, I never wanted a shovel or dirt, but I always wanted real grown-up things. Like kisses.