Imaginary Enemy (19 page)

Bubba Crosses the Line

C
hord met me on the porch. “Sharp’s teaching a lesson,” he said. “That means we have thirty minutes.”

“This is getting old,” I complained. “Sneaking a moment here and there. We have to find a better way.”

“I agree, but for now, I’ll take what I can get. Come on.” We walked across the deMichaels’ backyard and climbed the ladder to the tree house.

I opened the mailbox. Only one envelope occupied it. I reached for it and gasped, because even though I’d only seen it once before, I immediately recognized the handwriting. I looked up and down the street as if I expected my imaginary enemy to be lurking nearby. Then I slowly tore away the flap and unfolded the paper inside.

Dear Gabriel,

Don’t you think it’s time we met face to face? Waffle House. Wednesday at seven. Booth four. Be there.

By invitation only,
Bubba

Yikes! I’d certainly never imagined anything like this. Bubba in the flesh? Did Bubba have flesh? What was appropriate attire for meeting your imaginary enemy?

Once again I couldn’t sleep. I rolled over and pulled the blankets up to my chin. Through the window I stared at the crescent moon, faceless and bored, hanging in the sky. I replayed the events of the night of the fire, as I had done countless times. I remembered serving that last hungry customer, a middle-school-age boy with braces and a gold hoop in one ear who knew Carmella and Harmony from their homeschool network. Then Zander and I had cleaned up, him tackling the heavier tasks such as folding up serving tables and taking the trash to the Dumpster. I’d put away the condiments and spices, cleaned pots and utensils, and washed the ceramic liner of the Crock-Pot. I didn’t specifically remember turning off the fryer, but who remembers incidental things such as flushing the toilet and hanging up the phone? No one, that’s who. But that doesn’t mean those things weren’t done.

I
did
turn off the fryer. I was meticulous and methodical. I would never have been that careless.

I turned away from the window and flipped my pillow over. Bubba was freaking me out…writing these unasked-for letters and invading my head space. “I’ve about had enough of you, Bubba,” I said aloud. “Take your spooky tricks elsewhere.”

Reality Check

I
poured the batter into the pan and slipped the pan into the oven. Then, as I cleaned the mixing bowls, spoons, and measuring cups, I thought about Bubba and the letters I’d received.

I’d known Bubba most of my life, and he’d never done anything like this before. Come to think of it, he’d never done
anything
before. Which was exactly the way it was supposed to be.

Bubba didn’t write those letters. He couldn’t, considering his status—nonexistent. This whole thing had to be one of those strange dreams that somehow tangles itself up with real life.

I dashed down the hall to my room, where I unearthed my Bubba folder from a pile of stuff on my dresser. When I flipped it open, fantasy collided with reality like a speeding truck slamming into a telephone pole. Because there, in the left-hand pocket, lurked those haunting messages.

This is insane, I thought. Absolutely insane. I removed the stack of letters from the right-hand pocket. They were the ones I’d written to Bubba over the years, from second grade to the present, covering a variety of my personal disasters and defeats. There must have been more than a hundred. I read them one by one, looking for some clue as to what had awakened Bubba from hibernation. Had I inadvertently summoned him? But nothing I read looked to me like grounds for Bubba to suddenly become assertive.

Could it have been something I did? Some accident or prank? The fire, maybe? Or was Bubba misinterpreting some of my actions—reading them at face value without peering beneath the surface?

“Jane! Your cake,” called Zander from the kitchen.

“Oh no!” I jumped up and ran to the oven. The timer was buzzing away like the honeybees Elliot had recorded at the blueberry farm. I grabbed a pot holder and opened the oven door. Then I muttered a short string of those inappropriate French words. The cake was flat and round and nearly black.

Zander leaned beside me to peer into the oven. “Least you didn’t catch the house on fire.”

“Zander, shut your trap.”

“I hope that’s not all you’re planning for Dad’s birthday party, because he doesn’t need an oversized hockey puck.”

“You’re just hilarious.” I yanked the mixing bowl out of the cabinet. “Back to the drawing board. Hey, Zander, go borrow three eggs from the deMichaels. Please?”

I reread that second letter from Bubba. Over and over and over. I reached for my pen and a sheet of loose-leaf.

Dear Bubba,

First of all, I’m not sure I want to meet you in person. This whole thing has become very eerie. You’re imaginary, remember, so the very fact that I’d even consider meeting you puts my sanity in dangerous territory. Get it?

Secondly, if I do agree to meet you, and that’s a big if, it certainly will not be at Waffle House. That would be far too complicated and uncomfortable. A public place, however, is a good idea, as you could be just as dangerous and unstable as some online pervert.

Cautiously,
Gabriel

When we reached my driveway, Chord glanced around nervously before taking my hand and gazing into my eyes. We talked, our faces close together, and the energy between us palpable. He gave me a hug. His hand lingered on my waist. “Bye, Chord,” I called, blowing him a kiss as I opened the front door.

Bubba Strikes Again

Y
et another letter from Bubba arrived the Saturday of the homecoming dance. I stood in my bedroom, freshly showered, with a towel wrapped around me and my hair dripping. That was when Carmella came in. “You got a letter,” she said. I froze, realizing immediately that there was only one person I’d received mail from lately. (Person?) Like I needed this now! Like I wasn’t nervous enough about going to the dance with Sharp! Did everything have to happen at once? I tore the envelope open and tossed it away, anxiously unfolding the page inside.

Dear Gabriel,

Because I know you are a curious girl, I’m certain you won’t be able to resist the urge to meet me in person in spite of your reservations. I do understand your desire to choose a public location (although I can assure you that I am harmless), as well as your reluctance for such an event to occur in your place of employment. I have another suggestion—someplace neutral. The nonfiction floor of the public library—the Mercury Boulevard branch. The tables by the windows behind the psychology books (the one hundreds in the Dewey decimal system) would be perfect. Five-thirty Thursday works for me. I look forward to seeing you.

Your imaginary enemy,
Bubba

I read and reread the letter. What kind of an imaginary enemy would choose a library as a meeting place? Then I thought about all those books, stuffed to the gills with fictional characters, and decided that maybe the library was an obvious choice. But why the psychology section? Wouldn’t the fiction section have been more appropriate?

Then I almost threw up. Psychology! I’m going crazy. I’m losing my mind. I’m slipping over the edge, and there’s no sliding back. I sank to the floor, panicked and threatened.

“Aren’t you getting ready? Sharp is. I just got off the phone with Harmony, and she said he was taking a shower.” Carmella was standing in the doorway. I don’t know how long I had been sitting there in a daze.

“What time is it?”

“Six-thirty.”

“Oh drat! We’re leaving at seven.” I jumped up and looked in the mirror, which may have been a bad move. My hair was clumpy and damp, and my face was splotchy.

“What’s with the black nail polish?” asked Carmella.

I resisted the urge to call her a squab. “It completes the look,” I said matter-of-factly. “I wonder what Chord’s doing tonight?”

Carmella looked up at me, puzzled. “What difference does it make?”

“None. I was just wondering, that’s all…. Do you think he’ll like my outfit?”

“Chord? What do you—” She glanced at my dress hanging on the closet door and gaped. “Oh no, Jane. What happened to it?”

“I fixed it,” I said. “I told you I was going to make some adjustments.”

“But Jane…it’s…um…it’s…well, it’s like the Barbies.”

“Yeah, I know. Isn’t it great?” Originally a scarlet dress with a fitted bodice and gracefully flared skirt, my gown was now slashed and studded and totally punkified. I’d ripped one sleeve from a black lace blouse and attached it with a tightly spaced row of silver safety pins. The outer skirt was torn into narrow strips, knotted at the ends. I was too modest to slice the lining as well. A heavy black zipper snaked like railroad tracks across the chest. Brass studs and ruby rhinestones were scattered in constellations over the fabric.

“So what about Chord? Do you think he’ll like it?”

Carmella stared at me. “Chord? Who cares…Sharp’s your date. Jane, what are you putting in your hair?”

“It’s temporary dye. I’m doing blue streaks. Blue is Sharp’s favorite color. I wonder what Chord’s favorite color is?”

“Who cares?” Carmella’s frustration was rearing its ugly head. “Are you really going to wear that dress?”

“Yeah. Is my hair spiky enough?”

She shook her head in despair.

“Carmella,” a voice called.

“Harmony, get in here. Now. My sister’s lost her mind.”

“Hello, Harmony. Hand me that black leather vest on my dresser,” I said as I pulled on a pair of fishnets.

“You’re wearing that, Jane?” Harmony asked.

“Yeah. You like it?”

For a while she just stood there with her mouth hanging open. Finally, she touched my hair and said, “You can’t go out like this. Sharp looks…normal.”

“I shoulda pierced my lip,” I said.

Carmella moaned. “I told you she’s gone crazy.”

“Carmella, I’m not having a Meltdown. Or if I am, then it’s a good thing. Way overdue.”

“Poor Sharp,” muttered Harmony. “He’s in for a shock.”

“Well, what do you think?” I asked, pirouetting in front of the mirror. I didn’t look remotely like the Jane everyone knew, but I definitely had style for the first time in my life. Not the style Trina or Emma would choose, but style, definitely style.

“Sharp’s gonna croak,” said Harmony.

“This is a really bad idea,” said Carmella.

“It was your idea, remember?”

My little sister planted her hands on her hips. “This was
not
my idea, Jane. Don’t try to blame it on me.”

“Blame? Oh brother, Carmella, you deserve praise.”

“Just keep my name out of it,” she shouted.

I blew kisses to Voodoo Raphael, the Barbies, and the Gothosaurs. “Wish me luck,” I sang to them, and left the room with Carmella and Harmony in my wake.

Zander and Jazz saw me first. “Whoa, Jane, you’re all punked out,” said Jazz as he jumped off Zander’s bed and ran into the hallway.

Zander dropped his guitar and followed. His eyes bugged out. “Yikes! What happened to the Hollister look?” he asked.

“I wasn’t feeling it,” I said. “You like?”

“Fabulous,” said Jazz.

“Totally awesome,” added Zander. “But I’m not sure Mom and Dad will agree.”

I walked into the living room. Stupidly, I hadn’t anticipated the family plan. My clan and Sharp’s were gathered there like our date was some newsworthy event. Sharp was standing next to Dad, looking more traditional than he had since the day three years earlier when I’d joined the homeschool brigade’s field trip to the courthouse.

My mother’s face paled when she caught sight of me. “Her dress didn’t look like that when I saw it,” I heard her explain to Peggy.

“Nor did her hair,” added Dad.

For a fleeting moment, Elliot studied me like he’d never seen me before. Then he smiled and winked and I relaxed a little.

Chord was sitting on the sofa. “Yo, Cinderella, the glass slippers really make the outfit,” he said, gesturing toward my violet patent-leather platforms with five-inch heels. I couldn’t decide if it was scorn or admiration I saw in his eyes.

Sharp grinned and grabbed my hand. “Wow, Jane. You look great!” And even though I knew everyone else thought I’d gone bananas, I realized Sharp was dazzled. And I was so taken with him that I forget to wonder how Raphael looked that night or what his reaction to seeing me at the dance would be.

“Hi, Emma.”

She looked at me for a second, a puzzled expression on her face. “Jane!” She fingered the one sleeve of my garment. “You look…Wow, I’m stunned. I never imagined you dressed like that. And I didn’t know you were coming.”

“My little surprise. This is Sharp.”

“Hi. We’ve met before. The homeschool brigade, right?” Emma teased.

“Homeschool brigade?” asked Sharp.

I winked at Emma, turned to Sharp, and said, “Let’s go dance.”

“You sure you want to dance with the ‘little neighbor boy’?”

“Positive. Come on.”

Kids from school hardly recognized me with my blue hair and black eyeliner. It made the evening much more adventurous. And the fact that my date was a tall stranger only increased their curiosity.

Raphael and Trina were suddenly standing next to me. “Rafi,” I said, breezing a casual kiss on his cheek. “You sure look handsome. And isn’t Trina lovely?” She looked like a model in a tight black dress (predictable choice) and stiletto heels, but she must have been trashed, because her makeup was smeared and her face seemed wilted. She kept giggling, stumbling about, and bumping into things.

“Jane?” Rafi was looking at me like he wasn’t certain who I was.

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember me?” I teased.

“Course I remember you. You look different, that’s all.”

“This is Sharp,” I said. I grabbed Sharp’s hand. “I love this song. See you later, Rafi.” Sharp twined his fingers through mine and I felt tingly all over. You’ve heard that bit about hindsight being twenty-twenty. It’s funny how when you reflect on something once it’s over and done, your perspective is totally different than it is while events are unfolding. Looking back, I’m not sure why I ever thought Raphael was so great. We had fun together, but I don’t think either of us tried terribly hard to really get to know the other deep inside. After he dumped me, it was less his companionship I missed and more the status of having a boyfriend and the fun of hanging out as a foursome—Emma, Tony, Raphael, and me. Of course, my pride was wounded. That was what really stung—knowing that when Trina walked into the picture, I became invisible. I suddenly realized I didn’t care what Raphael thought about my attire or my escort. I only wanted to be with Sharp.

On the ride home, I kept wondering what to do. Would he kiss me? I hoped so. Should I kiss him? I wanted to. How did people go from being childhood playmates to something else?

“I had a great time, even if you didn’t really want to be with me,” Sharp said, jolting me out of my reverie.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Carmella and Harmony told me about your boyfriend.”

Yet again I wanted to annihilate those two blabbermouths. “Ex-boyfriend. I don’t care about him, Sharp.”

“It’s okay, Jane. I knew what this date was about. But I hadn’t anticipated having so much—”

“But you’ve got it wrong,” I protested. Then I did the boldest thing I’ve ever done. I leaned over and kissed him right on the mouth. I felt the car swerve. “I wanted to be with you,” I said, pulling away.

Sharp watched the road. Silence filled the car. I felt shattered—like I’d been really stupid and once again couldn’t fix it.

“Sharp?”

Still he said nothing.

“Talk to me!” I cried.

He glanced at me, then back at the road. “I have feelings, you know, Jane. I don’t want you making a joke of me.”

I touched his arm. “Sharp, I’m not. I wouldn’t do that. I like you. A lot. Please believe me.”

He turned onto our street.

“Sharp. I’m serious.”

“I want to believe you,” he said, pulling over to the curb and turning off the car. “But it scares me. I don’t want to be a pawn in some game.”

“What?”

“You know what I mean…. I’m just the boy next door you can use to get at Raphael.”

“It’s not like that, Sharp. You’re seeing what you want to see. Not what’s really there.”

He sat motionless, looking straight ahead, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I leaned over and kissed him again. This time, after only a moment’s resistance, Sharp kissed me back. And I’d never been kissed like that before.