Read Between the Lines (19 page)

Mostly our mom is really nice. But things can set her off. Things can upset her. When that happens, she disappears down the narrow hall through her maze of boxes and bags full of outgrown clothes she won’t part with and into her room. Her den. Her
cave.
Where she is surrounded by even more piles and piles and piles of stuff. Since I can remember, she has been building it around her. Someday she will disappear. That’s my biggest fear.

So whenever I can, I sneak away bags and bins and boxes as stealthily as she sneaks them in. It’s a balancing act neither of us talks about. But despite how frustrated she gets with me when she suspects I’ve taken something, my mother loves me. And I love her.

But I don’t necessarily love her mess.

Sammy pretends she can’t see my mother’s piles of stuff. That she can’t see the stacks of debris that separate her feet from the real floor. The minute she gets home from her cheerleading ridiculousness, she goes straight to her immaculate room and shuts the door. I hear her on the other side, going through her nightly routine. Logging on to her computer, talking with friends, singing to some crappy boy band while she does her homework. She lives in a perfectly pristine bubble.

It drives my mom crazy, but she is not allowed in Sammy’s room. That’s their agreement. I swear if my mom pauses in Sammy’s doorway too long and gets a good look inside her clean, spacious room, she gets the sweats. That’s why, most often, Sammy’s door is shut. And locked.

My neighbors know one of their pavers is missing. From a crack in my window blind, I watched the dad walk out of his house to get the paper the morning after I stole it. He called Ape Boy outside to look at the small but gaping hole in their otherwise perfect driveway border. A chink in their armor. That’s what it felt like, pulling it from the soil. Like I made a dent in their pristine fortress. Me. It felt good.

They weren’t happy when they discovered the gaping hole. They both looked up at my house at the same time, knowing it must have been me. I stepped back from the window and pulled the paver out of my backpack and wondered if I’d gone too far. I was just so tired of the two of them calling me
bitch
and me not knowing what they meant. Tired of them telling me what a slob my mom is. And tired of them looking at my sister like they want to eat her. And I do mean that in the grossest way possible. But mostly, and I really hate even talking about this at all. I hate how Sammy seems to know and doesn’t care. Sometimes I even think she likes it.

So I guess I do know why I picked up that paver. Because I knew it would piss them off. And because for some strange reason, having a piece of their perfect — knowing I could just take it — felt good. And I carry it now, just in case. Just in case I need to do something about those looks they give my sister. This might make me sound sexist and old-fashioned, feeling like I have to defend her honor, but that’s not it. It’s them. It’s their disgusting faces. I know I would never really
do
anything. But I would like to scare them. I would like to scare the crap out of them. Smash their windshield, throw the brick through their newly washed living-room window. Or . . . I don’t know. Just make a bigger chink.

I’ve seen the Apes slide the curtains back from their living-room window when Sammy walks down the driveway. I’ve watched her wiggle her bum, giving them a show. She thinks it’s funny. I do not. Because knowing the Apes, she is the one they think about and fantasize about when they . . . do things guys do.

My mom says all men are like that, “except you, Dyl.” Like this is supposed to make it all OK.

I say to her, “Aren’t you worried that someday they might try something?”

And she says, “Like what?”

As if she doesn’t know.

“Sammy knows how to take care of herself,” she says. And she and Sammy nod like they know something I don’t.

“Do you
like
them looking at you?” I ask Sammy.

She tells me to shut up.

She’s so mean to me sometimes. But I guess that’s her role as my big sister. I know she loves me, even though she pretends not to know me. Even though she pretends that she doesn’t live in this mess. Even though she lives in a fantasy world of clean, crisp cheerleading uniforms, basketball victories, and best friends who have never stepped foot in our house and don’t know our secret. She cares. I see it in her eyes when she turns to look at me apologetically before she shuts her bedroom door and locks it. She needs her piece of perfect, too.

But I can’t stop worrying about Sammy and the Apes. I have seen them watching her with their hungry ape-y eyes. And finally, today, all my worst fears came true.

We were at Little Cindy’s, as usual. Me, Cal, and Jack. Normally we use the drive-thru, but there was a huge line, so we decided to go in. I saw him right away. He was pacing behind the counter, shouting orders at the other workers. When he saw me, he kind of shoved one of them aside and stood behind the register, waiting for us. He looked tough, even with his blue Little Cindy’s polo and his stupid visor.

“What do you want, boys?” he asked us. He said
boys
like he meant something gross. Like we were worse than dog poo you step in with new shoes.

When I handed him my money, he grabbed my hand and squeezed it. The guys weren’t paying attention. I tried to pull away, but Ape Boy is apelike in more ways than one. He’s one of those guys who “goes to the gym.” He wears these ridiculous black sweatpants and tank tops all the time. That’s his other uniform. To show how buff he is. Gym. Job. I wonder what he hopes comes next, if anything. Maybe he just plans to mooch off his dad forever. Who knows?

But there he was, squeezing the hell out of my hand and giving me this look like he was going to eat
me.
He leaned forward and smiled this disgusting smile and said, really quiet, so only I could hear, “I had your sister.”

He nodded his head in this satisfying way, then licked his lips. “And she liked it.”

I didn’t believe him. She wouldn’t. He’s Ape Boy. He’s hairy. He’s stupid. He’s . . .
Ape Boy.
The guy who calls me
bitch.
She
wouldn’t.

He was just daring me to prove him wrong.

I played it cool, even though I felt like I was going to throw up.

“Right,” I said. “Hope you had fun.” Then I yanked my hand away and walked out of there. The guys grabbed my food for me. They didn’t ask what was wrong. They know Ape Boy is always on my case. They try to make me feel better by telling me how he is working at Little Cindy’s, for God’s sake. So what do I care? He’s a nobody.

I ate my food. Went back to school. I let the paver bruise my back as it thudded against me with each step. Felt the pain and knew it was time. The moment I knew would come was here: Ape Boy had gone too far. And now I was going to use their piece of perfect to make them pay.

The boys in the car are quiet now. I can tell they’re worried. We don’t keep secrets from each other. Not in theory, anyway. But I suspect each of us has plenty. Everyone does, right?

“Where are we going, anyway?” Cal finally asks. We’ve been driving around for a while. No music. No questions. Just the Three Musketeers, aka us, looking out the window, wondering what finally caused me to lose my mind.

“Boulevard,” I say. He nods and we continue on.

Cal glances over at me and raises his eyebrows in a silent
You OK?
kind of way.

I turn back to my window and squeeze the strap of my backpack. My back aches against the seat behind me. I’m sure the bruise is purple by now. A perfect rectangular shape.

I picture Ape Boy again, grinning about “doing” my sister. I shouldn’t believe him. I should go to her and tell her what he said. But I barely ever see her alone because she’s always hiding in her bubble. Or avoiding me at school. Or at practice. Or at away games. I realize I hardly even know her anymore.

Once I caught her smiling at Ape Boy. He was washing his car. He’d tossed his tank top on the grass. He had a tan where his shirt should be. He nodded at her but didn’t say hi. She smiled back that way girls do when they know you think they’re hot. Like they know you’ve checked them out and the smile says,
It’s OK
, without really knowing what that means. What if she’s drawn to their immaculate lawn? Their probably spotless house? Their lack of clutter?

I feel the outside of my backpack and find the shape of the paver. Squeeze it.

“Yo, D. Now where?”

I look out my window at the strip malls and food chains and boarded-up shops that used to rent XXX movies or fix appliances or sell flowers until I spot the Little Cindy’s sign up ahead. The little girl in pigtails looms over the parking lot.

“Leave me at Little Cindy’s,” I say.

Cal grunts. “Yeah, right. We’re not leaving you anywhere.”

“Why do you want to go there?” Jack asks. He’s always the practical one.

“Just go,” I say.

“D., you seem kinda freaked out. Maybe you should tell us what’s up before you do something stupid.” Cal gives me a concerned look. Even though he’s in the back, I can tell Jack is making the same face.

“Forget it,” I say. “I’ll jump out at the next light.”

“Relax. I’ll take you,” Cal says.

We pull into the lot, and Cal shuts off the engine. They wait for me to get out first.

“You’re not taking that, are you?” Jack asks.

I don’t answer. I open my door and swing the bag over my shoulder. It thuds heavily against my bruised back.

The lot is pretty full for the afternoon, and we have to weave our way through the parked cars. When we get near the last row, there’s something familiar about the car at the end. As I look closer, I notice a headlight’s broken. I wonder if it’s the car we scammed earlier, but what are the chances? I keep walking. The guys follow me.

I open the door and we’re engulfed by the smell that is uniquely Little Cindy’s. There’s a long line of the after-school crowd waiting to torture the register workers. Ape Boy is behind the counter, talking to a girl cashier with long dark hair. He’s looking at her the same way he looks at Sammy, the bastard.

“Well?” Cal asks. “Who’s getting the brick?”

Jack elbows him. “No one!”

Cal scopes the place out curiously, then sees where I’m looking. “That guy again? Your asshole neighbor? What’s with you two?”

The brick presses against my back. I clench my teeth and force myself to breathe through my nose, slowly, to calm my racing heart. I imagine myself waiting patiently in line, stepping forward as each customer takes a tray and moves on. Inch by inch until it’s my turn. I will order food I will never eat. Then I will slip my backpack off my shoulder and onto the floor, pretending I need to get my wallet out of it. But instead, I will reach for the gray paver. I will grip it tightly and raise it up so he sees it clearly. He will say something stupid. Last words almost always are. Something like,
Hey, that’s my dad’s paver!
And everyone will look over at us. And I will say something equally stupid because the one thing I didn’t plan on was a good one-liner to deliver just before I make him eat it. So I’ll say something really lame, like,
This is for my sister!
And then I’ll wind up and take aim and —

“Uh-oh,” Cal says, grabbing Jack’s shirt. “Isn’t that the guy from this morning?”

He’s right. It’s the guy in the Taurus who we ripped off.

“Crap,” Jack says. “We need to get out of here.”

Cal nods. “Act normal.”

He leads and Jack follows. But I hesitate, my eyes still fixed on Ape Boy, who sees me and nods cockily in my direction, then licks his lips. My hands form fists. I’ve never really felt this way before. I’ve never wanted to
hurt
someone before. I want to punch his mouth so it hurts to lick his lips. I don’t care about the brick anymore. I want to use my fist. I want to feel the contact —

Taurus man stands up, recognizing me. I look from him to Ape Boy. I can’t move.

Jack comes back just in time. He grabs my backpack, still over my shoulder, and drags me out the door. We hurry to Cal’s car and get the hell out of there. As we race out of the parking lot, Taurus Man stands behind the glass door, giving us the finger. I could swear he is crying. I am filled with guilt.

I lean my head against the headrest and close my eyes.

What is wrong with us?

What is wrong with me?

“Did you see who Taurus Man was with?” Jack asks. “Stephen, from school. He’s in our lit. elective.”

“Who cares?” Cal says. “What’s he going to do?”

But he says it in a way that convinces no one. I hope this means our scamming days are over, though I wouldn’t mind pulling a fast one on Ape Boy and his father.

“Plans foiled, I guess. Huh, D.? So, where to now?”

I don’t answer.

I wish Cal could be sincere for one minute of his life. I think calling me D. is his way of showing me that he thinks I’m special enough to him to have a nickname. But I just think it’s stupid.

Cal shrugs and keeps driving. As always, we end up at Jack’s and go out back to our tree house. Or hideout. Or whatever you want to call it. It sounds so babyish calling it a clubhouse, even though I guess that’s basically what it is.