Zander's Affairs
By Cindy Preston
Copyright 2011 Cindy Preston
Smashwords Edition
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Preface
I made lots of money the summer before my eighth grade year. The work from several regular mowing clients and other odd jobs I picked up here and there kept me exhausted, but prosperous. I spent ninety percent of my time working and no time spending any of my coin, so by the end of summer I had accumulated a tidy sum. Once school started, though, I had to find replacement income. Nothing came to mind until one day after school when I saw a group of freshman guys standing on the drugstore corner downtown debating something. Brows furrowed, fingers pointed, and heads wagged back and forth. I sidled up near them, as nonchalantly as possible, leaning against the drugstore’s brick edifice so as to covertly overhear the conversation. One said he had a hot date that weekend and wanted to be prepared, “just in case.” Well, he wasn’t going to buys condoms. Neither were the others. The little light bulb in my curly-topped head sitting atop my broad shoulders glowed bright. What did I do? You got it. While they continued debating the situation, I marched into the drugstore, purchased the foil-wrapped circles with no questions asked, and promptly left. Charging twice what they'd cost, my new business was born. It paid to be fearless. Looking older than my fourteen years hadn't hurt either.
Chapter 1
Bright morning sun beamed through the tabs at the top of the blue cotton sailcloth curtains hanging at my solitary bedroom window hitting my face. I woke startled and somewhat dazed trying to get a handle on where I was and what my name was. I sat straight up in my rumpled twin bed and looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. Crap. I was Zander Legg and the clock glowing seven forty a.m. meant that I was late to meet Nate Williams which just wasn't cool. I did not need the meanest line backer on the freshman team ticked at me. Would ditsy Ms. Fisch notice if I ditched first period English? I wondered shrugging my tanned bare shoulders into a long, lean stretch.
“You want a ride?” A cheerful voice followed a light rap on my closed door.
That would bemy older brother, Ging. The two of us are as different as any two strangers on the street. Let’s see. Well, for starters, he is smart. No, I mean really smart. He could read and write when he was four years old. In fifth grade he took the college entrance SATs scoring higher than most high school sophomores. I had trouble spelling my own name—Alexander that is. I was five years old before I could even say it. That’s why Zander stuck I guess. And Ging’s real name is James, but that's a whole other story. Ging has thick, coarse strawberry blond hair he keeps shorn close to his scalp like a military officer, perceptive deep blue eyes, and fair skin that burns on a cloudy day. I, on the other hand, have tons of dark ringlets that droop over my Machiavellian hazel eyes and always look like I just got back from a tropical vacation: gleaming skin, taut and perpetually tanned. We're both 5’ 8”, he two and a half years older than me; but, while you wouldn’t necessarily describe him as scrawny; I’m built like a sleek Quarter horse—all lean rippling with muscle ready for the starter’s pistol.
“Hold on, Ging. I’m there. Two secs."
With no time to brush the slimy film off my teeth that grew overnight or wash away the slight odorous top layer from my skin that morning, I rolled out of bed jumping into semi-clean jeans and a T-shirt I grabbed off the floor. Where was my other shoe? I tossed aside clothes, empty candy wrappers and a science paper that was due last week until my search netted me the matching Nike. I shoved my feet into clean white crew socks (some things are essential) and slipped on the sneakers leaving the laces to dangle. I met Ging in the hallway outside our respective bedrooms.
“Oversleep today? You’ve been going to school early lately, which is so unlike you. What’s up?” Ging’s eyebrows rose as he smiled. “Gotta girl?”
“No man. No girl. Nothing’s up.”
“Uh huh.” Ging knew better. He always knew better. Don’t get me started on how he always knew better.
“Okay. Fine. I’ll find out soon enough I’m sure.”
Yeah, I was sure he would, too. But better much, much later than sooner.
We pounded down the stairs with my laces flopping about my feet and breezed into the brightly lit kitchen. Mom stood at the double sink washing just-emptied muffin tins. Light streamed in between the open slats of the mini-blinds hung at the window that looked out into the immaculately manicured backyard. A hummingbird danced about the feeder hanging from the patio eve.
“There’s cranberry muffins, still warm, in the basket there on the bar,” she pointed with her soapy, glove-covered hand.
Skeeter, our giant-of-a-tabby cat, watched the flurry of excitement safe atop a furry bar stool hunched on all fours. We each reached into the warm towel withdrawing huge muffins dotted with lush cranberries and smelling of cinnamon.
“Thanks Mom,” we said in unison as we turned to leave, each patting Skeeter on the head as we passed.
The screen door banged against its frame signaling our departure. Ging’s 1971 Pontiac Lemans Sport waited patiently at curbside. The sun ricocheted off its canary yellow exterior returning blinding beams back to the globe in the sky. Under the hood, a four barrel carburetor sat on top of a 400 cc engine making it the fastest car around that would leave you in a wake of dust. Now, school work didn’t suit me, but it had paid off big time for Ging. He had tutored poor stupid kids for three years, saving up enough money to buy this sweet ride. I hoped my biz would net me enough for a 1968 Chevy pickup I had my eyes on. I thought I’d hit big time with the condoms.
A few blocks before school I spotted Nate standing with his buddies.
“Ging, just drop me off here, man. I’ll walk the rest of the way,” I said reaching for the door handle ready to make my escape, trying to avoid questioning.
“You sure? Isn’t that Nate Williams and his cronies on the corner? You two don’t get along well,” he said glancing at me as he careened the Lemans to a stop at the curb.
“It’s fine. I can take care of myself. Later!” I averted meeting his eyes. The heavy car door thumped shut behind me and Ging drove away spraying gravel. What a showoff!
Nate and his football buddies huddled on the corner at the edge of old Mrs. Jensen’s weeping willow tree. They were just a year older and one grade ahead of me, but acted as if they were gods looking down on their lowly worshipers. Wes Waterman, the freshman team’s quarterback who always looked like he had just stole the last cookie from the jar; Nick Tate, a linebacker, Nate’s personal stooge, falling over his own feet to do what ever Nate bid; Randy Cloves, the tallest of the group at six feet even and the best freshman receiver in many years; and Brenda Leonard, head freshman cheerleader, all stood adoring Nate. Brenda was stereotypically tall, thin, and blonde with the perkiest little A-cup boobs I’d ever seen. Too bad she was Nate’s and oh, a royal bitch.
Observing them from a safe distance across the street, I hollered, “Hey Nate! Got your stuff,” nodding my head toward him.
“What stuff is that Zander?” Brenda purred, ever on the prowl for her next prey. “I can’t image Nate needs anything you’d have.” She flipped the bangs out of her periwinkle blue eyes and linked her arm with Nate’s drawing closer into him.
Nate scowled removing his arm from her clutch and brushing her shoulder as he passed. Heading toward me he slipped his jacket off over his head and looked back to Brenda, “It doesn’t concern you. I’ll catch up with you at lunch.” Dismissing his court, he dictated, “I’ll see all of you at lunch."
Wes yelled after him, “I’ll watch Brenda for you! No worries.”
“You keep your hands off me Wes Waterman,” Brenda sneered sauntering toward school, holding her nose haughtily high in the air.
Nate left them bickering and strolled across the street to me.
“So Nate, sorry I’m late, man . . . overslept,” I said standing with my hands deep in my jeans’ pockets, locking my elbows straight.
“Next time you see me with anyone else, don’t stop. I got a reputation. Don’t need to be seen with you.” Nate’s glare bore through me.
“Yes Sir,” I saluted. “Sorry man, thought you wanted the stuff,” I shrugged turning away.
“I do. I do,” he declared and exchanged cash for a plastic bag I withdrew from my pocket.
~~~
The second bell ringing announced my tardiness when I arrived at school. The corridors’ silence echoed like an empty cave. Fields High School was a single-story brick building built in the early 1960s that had had numerous additions added over the ensuing years. This created a snarly octopus making it hard to know what arm held what rooms. Eighth grade had been moved into the building a few years ago with all its classes down one arm to keep the older students segregated from the younger, more easily influenced students. Lunch, however, was served in a commons area in the center of the building to all five grades. It seemed to me to defeat the purpose of separating the grades. Didn’t they think of this? It’s doubtful that adults ever really see what’s going on in front of them.
Any who, I digress, much like Ms. Fisch had droning on about William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet as I handed her the late slip I’d picked up from the office located just off the commons area. Chapters two and three evaded being read over the weekend. Oh well. Maybe next assignment.
I flopped into the closest unoccupied seat noticing someone new to the class. One row over and two chairs up sat a girl whose dark short-cropped hair stood erect at the crown and long multi-colored strands framed her round face. Soft fawn eyes fixed on mine for a split second sending shivers down my spine. My eyes shifted away and heat traveled from my face to my chest to parts south. I didn’t notice paper being passed back.
“What?” I snapped at the person shoving paper in my face and pulling me out of my reverie.
“Take. The. Paper. Zander."
I kept a sheet passing the remainder back. It held blurry, unfamiliar references to what would be on an upcoming test. The teacher’s voice buzzed in the background, but I couldn’t get my thoughts off the amazing new girl. I looked up to a wonderful view of her profile. Her stark black hair contrasted against her alabaster skin. The bright colored strands gave her a wild appearance. At the same time, the air about her seemed composed and thoughtful. Almost familiar.
The bell sounding the end of class rang and Ms. Fisch wrote that day’s assignment on the board, but no one paid much attention as they rushed out the door to make a quick stop at their lockers before heading to the next class. I was the last one to leave right behind the new girl. I couldn’t keep caller her that, even to myself, and followed her to a locker (there is a God!) just two away from mine. I was determined to introduce myself and find out her name. She’d already opened her locker door and was bent over searching its contents when I approached.
“Hi,” I said leaning up against the bank of blue metal lockers. I folded my arms across my puffed-up chest and pulled up one knee resting the bottom of my foot against the door, trying desperately to look extremely calm and cool like I do this routinely.
She glanced up at me, but didn’t say anything and then resumed her search.
I lowered my leg, re-puffed and spoke again cautiously, “Hi. My name is Zander.”
“I know who you are,” she said further rummaging the depths of her locker, this time not even looking up.
I guess my reputation preceded me. What a minute: I have a reputation? “Your first day here?” I ventured. This conversation was going nowhere fast.
“Yeah, sorta,” she quipped distractedly. She paused her search long enough to glance up and ask if I had an extra pencil.
Pushing away from my really cool, laid-back recline, I smoothly reached into my back pocket and produced a plastic pencil holding several leads in its center. “Here you go a. . .” I stammered searching for the name of this curious vision.
This time she stood taking the proffered pencil, saying in a puzzled tone, “Rachael? Thanks, Zander. Want to get together after school?”
Wow, I guess coolness just oozes from my pores. “Sure. Do you like pizza?”
“Always.”
We arranged to meet by the flagpole out front after last bell. I think I skipped to my next class and I hoped no one saw.
~~~
Rachael greeted me at the designated spot straining under a heavy book bag. “Hey,” she said nodding in my general direction.
Being the gentleman that I was, I offered my services.
“Thanks.”
“Not a problem."
We walked together in silence taking in the warm fall day. It was late September, the temperature not having dipped yet. A typical beautiful Indian summer washed over the quiet. Dove flew above in the azure sky enjoying the weather as they headed south to escape the upcoming winter hitting with a vengeance. Late blooming cannas lilies nestled in beds among remains of less hearty specimens, apples hung heavy on drooping branches, and deciduous trees shimmered bright reds and oranges raining some to the ground. Mrs. Jensen’s weeping willow stood unyielding, not ready to shake off its leaves.
Reaching Martin’s Pizza, I opened the door and let Rachael walk through first. I know Martin’s doesn’t sound Italian. But believe me, it is. On Friday nights, especially after a game, no seat sat empty. Martin hadn’t owned the place for years, but his recipes continued to make mouths water in anticipation for miles around. The big chains (you know which ones) had nothing on Martin’s. We sat down across from each other in a booth with a wooden, laminated red and white checkered table top and a taper candle stuck in an old wine bottle with wax dripped down the sides. Menus magically appeared. The place was a hub of after-school activity. Several kids played pool and the jute box blared out standards.
“What can I get you two to drink?” The waitress flashed brilliant white teeth at us between loud smacks of her gum.
“Rachael, what do you want?”
“Pepsi.”
“I’ll take coke. Thanks,” I said turning my attention back to Rachael. “I’ve noticed you don’t talk a lot.”
“I suppose not. Idle chitchat is overrated. Unless I’ve got something to say, I don’t say anything.” She took a napkin from its holder and spit her gum into it. She then wadded the napkin and pushed it off to one side of the table.
I sat resting my hands on the table, fingers clasped together circling my thumbs. I swallowed hard and asked, “So what brought you to the small town of Clay Ridge?”
“You don’t remember me,” she stated flatly, her dark brown eyes enlarging and dampening.
Oh crap. She’s going to cry. I shifted on my plastic covered bench seat, audibly gulped and with a timid screech escaping said, “We’ve met before?” I searched long-archived files deep in my mind’s recesses, but came up empty. The waitress brought over our drinks giving me additional time to ponder.
The gum-smacking, aproned waitress deposited glasses on the table and quickly turned on her heels having not helped me a bit with my dilemma. There went her tip. Rachael glared at me and immediately lifted her chin and laughed. Her eyes twinkled like a mischievous nymph’s who’d just clinched a timely prank.
“My dad’s brother lives here. . .” she lured. “There was a job he wanted, so we moved back. Still nothing?” she queried. “Wow, I can’t believe you still don’t know who I am. I’m Suzy Stratman’s cousin.”
“Rachael Stratman? Little crooked toothed Rachael Stratman? Your hair use to be down past your waist!”
“Yeah. I just got my braces off and I cut my hair a couple years ago. Mom let me color the strands just before we moved back.”
“You look amazing. I mean. Wow.” While words tumbled out my mouth, rosy patches appeared high on my cheekbones. I reached for my soda to douse the fire that blazed in my chest.
“Thanks. You’ve gotten pretty cute yourself,” she said leaning across the table and rubbing the back of my hand in taunting little circles.
I did my best to clear my head of thoughts of her in a bikini and we ordered a thin crust pie with the works from the vigilant waitress and caught up on old times. Rachael had lived in Clay Ridge when we were in kindergarten and first grade, but moved to the east coast that next summer. I’d seen her several summers ago when she visited but she’d looked like the old Rachael then. This new Rachael was amazing. It’s like she’d grown up (and nicely filled out by the way) overnight.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Wes Waterman walk into the dimly lit restaurant and glance around squinting to adjust his eyes to the low lighting. His scan landed on me and he snaked his way through the crowd winding around tables in the center of the room quickly making his way over to our booth.
“Got a minute?” He directed the demanding question to me while leering at Rachael.
“I’m kind of in the middle of something here, Wes. Can’t this wait?”
“Not if you want my business,” he snapped drawing his attention across the table to me.
“Okay. Meet me outside in five minutes."
He took leave and I turned back to Rachael who eyed me intently. She opened her mouth to say something, but our ever attentive waitress deposited our pizza on the table between us temporarily interrupting any conversation. I used the intrusion to my advantage and plunged into the pizza scooping up a piece. I burnt the roof of my mouth in my attempt to avoid questioning. Rachael gently blew before taking a hearty bite of the steaming slice she’d taken, balancing the remainder in one hand over the table.
“What was that about?” she asked, tucking pizza into her cheeks like a hamster.
“Oh, nothing much. I'm selling something he wants.”
I took another slice and this time savored the mix of oregano and garlic embedded in the tangy tomato sauce, the spicy cured meats and the tender-crisp fresh vegetables that topped the thin cracker-crisp crust. The flavor rolled over my palate and I made slight yummy noises at the heavenly taste, all the while under Rachael’s intense scrutiny. Then I excused myself saying that I would be right back. Rachael shrugged her shoulders while taking a sip of her drink. I snatched my jacket off the seat and slid out of the booth.
Outside the restaurant I rounded the corner of the building leading to the alley. Trash lined the broken pavement; a mouse scurried away with a brown lettuce leaf in its mouth. Wes stood behind the ineffective dumpster. I approached and ask how many condoms he wanted. He said five would do and I pulled out a handful from my jacket pocket and counted out five shiny pouches into Wes's palm. He gave me a couple bills completing the sale.
I stashed the money in my front jeans’ pocket leaving my hand in place as Wes turned walking down the alley away from the front of the building. I stood for a moment, hands in pockets, mulling over the transaction. Why hadn’t Wes just come over with Nate this morning before school? Maybe Wes didn’t know what Nate was getting from me? Maybe Wes didn’t want Nate to know he was buying condoms, too? Neither answer made any sense; they were supposedly best friends. Oh well, the reasons didn’t matter to me, just the money I was making.
I shrugged it off and retreated to the pizza parlor passing two older girls coming out. From the doorway I could just make out that Rachael wasn't sitting at the booth. Thinking that she was probably in the bathroom, I glanced at my watch and sat down continuing to eat pizza. A few minutes passed before I noticed money sticking out from under the edge of the pizza pan and motioned to the waitress.
“Did you see the girl that was with me? Did she go into the bathroom?”
The harried waitress shook her head saying, “She left right after you did. Left money for half of the bill and told me you'd be returning.”
“Was she alone?”
“She was with an older girl. I think it was her sister or something.” The waitress turned toward a group at a center table calling for her.
“Thanks.” I mumbled after her, slumping in the booth staring at the half a pizza left on the pan. I stood up digging money out of my pocket and threw down the balance of the bill onto the table. Crossing the floor, someone playing pool hollered for my attention, but I kept my head down walking through the door below the red neon exit sign.
Chapter 2
The rest of the week passed without even a single hello from Rachael. I'd tried to talk to her several times, but she was always going in another direction or busy with someone, and I never saw her at our lockers. Finally, Friday morning presented an opportunity. She stood alone at her locker looking into a mirror hanging on the inside door. The hall reverberated with kids jostling to and from lockers and classrooms sounding like stampeding elephants.
I approached warily and said, "Hi. I haven't seen you since the pizza place."
She continued inspecting her reflection, combing her eyebrows with a little brush.
“Hey, are you mad at me or something?” I slumped against the adjacent locker, bile creeping higher up my throat with every passing moment. “I mean, I would really appreciate knowing if you are.”
“Zander, you've changed a lot since we were kids.” She said glancing at me and back again to the reflection in the mirror.
“So? So have you,” I defended. “You've got short hair, straight teeth, and I do believe you're a couple feet taller,” I snickered.
“Very funny.”
“What? How have I changed that is so bad?”
She stuffed the little brush in a jam-packed case, zipped it closed and placed it on the upper shelf in the locker. Taking her purse off its hook, she looked at me and huffed, “I never thought you'd be selling drugs.”
That snapped me to attention. I planted my feet firmly apart resting my hands on my hips in defiance and echoed, “Drugs?” My voice carried through the hall catching the attention of passersby. Hushed, I continued, “What are you talking about? I don't sell drugs. I don’t even have any friends that do drugs."
“Maybe you don't have any druggie friends, but you sure don't seem to mind selling stuff that gets other kids high!” She abruptly turned slamming her locker door shut and marched down the hall trying to avoid colliding with students traveling in the reverse direction.
I plodded after her, snagging her arm and jerked her to an abrupt stop a few feet down the corridor.
“Whoa, what are you talking about? I don't do drugs and I certainly don't sell them. Who said that?” I demanded.
She snapped around boring her chocolate brown eyes into mine. Several kids stood back listening intently. I pulled her over to the opposite side of the hall.
“You were seen in the alley at the pizza parlor selling little shiny pouches.”
“You mean after school the other night? When we were there together? Is that why you left without saying anything?” My face flushed and my voice crackled. “Boy!” I huffed. “For your information, I was selling something, but it wasn't drugs.”
“So if it wasn't drugs you were selling, what was it?”
The warning bell sounded for the next class and the hallway began emptying. Now it was my turn to pivot and stomp away. She ran up to me, but I kept walking. She caught up again and walked backwards facing me.
“Stop and talk to me Alexander Legg!”
Stopping short, I said, “I don't see why I should explain myself when you couldn't even come to me directly with your accusations.”
“I'm sorry. I should have. It just shocked me that you would do that.”
“Maybe because I didn't.” I said between clinched teeth looking down at my feet, head hung low.
We stood there gawking around, neither one saying anything for what seemed the longest time. I glanced at my watch and snarled, “I need to get to the next class before I’m late.”
“Yeah. Okay. Can we get together this weekend?”
“I'll be around. We still live in the same house if you want to stop by.” I skulked away not looking back, slipping into class moments before the second bell rang.
I sat in math class only half listening to Mr. Pulsum. My mind wandered around Rachael, selling condoms and the pressure building from it. Two guys wanted to meet with me after school and another tomorrow morning before noon. I'd told him to call my house before dropping by. Word was getting around that I had condoms for sale and that I could keep my mouth shut about who was buying. Most were high school guys, but once in a while a girl would want to score. The teacher dismissed us for lunch and we swarmed out the door. I made a quick pit stop at my locker (didn’t see Rachael) and headed down the hall towards the commons area.
The lunch line wound down around the corner for another twenty five feet or so. I should have skipped my locker; this would take forever. Kyle Lake, a friend of mine, lumbered by carrying a brown bag.
“Hey Kyle. Bring your own lunch?”
“Hey Zander!” We did a high five. “Yeah, man. Hate the lines. Wanna share?” He asked raising his sack.
“That would be awesome.”
I split away from the growing line and moved off with Kyle. The commons area was the round core central to the arms housing the classrooms. Jam packed with eight-foot-long white plastic banquet tables and uncomfortable, static-producing matching chairs, it bustled with lunchtime activity. We spotted a couple of empty seats by the vending machines on the far side and made a beeline for them before they were snatched up. Kyle took a seat across the table and dumped the contents of his sack for consideration. Available were two peanut butter sandwiches, an apple, a soda and a cupcake. He offered me whatever I wanted and I opted for one of the sandwiches and the apple.
“An apple over the cupcake?” He yelled, taking one napkin and handing me the other.
“Yep. The cupcake would send me to the hospital. Eggs.” I hollered holding up my left wrist sporting an emergency medical emblem.
“Oh, I forgot. That would be hard. No pancakes. No cookies. No deviled eggs, fried eggs, scrambled eggs . . .” he trailed off chewing a bite of sticky sandwich.
“Yeah, but at least I’ve outgrown all my other allergies. I use to be allergic to peanuts, corn, wheat, and dairy, too. Having to avoid eggs is easy in comparison. Luckily I have a mom who likes to bake so I don’t have to go without treats completely."
We continued eating in silence. Competing with the high decibels was difficult anyway. The room predictably grouped into clicks: jocks, dweebs, eggheads, rich kids, etc. We were in the general vicinity of the dweebs. Next to me, an emaciated girl with long, straight red hair, a pierced nose, and black fingernail polish gazed at her compartmented lunch tray, not making a move to eat. Sitting across from her, a guy, also extremely thin and with a similarly morose air about him, forked through the grayish matter resembling swamp moss in his large compartment. I felt I’d hit the jackpot with a mooched PB&J and a bruised Granny Smith.
Apparently done eating (or maybe too hip to be seen doing something common people do) a group of jocks and their assorted girl friends swaggered their way across the room passing right behind me. Brenda Leonard hovered on the edge of the passing horde. She bumped into my back shoving my face into the hand holding the sticky sandwich causing me to let my sandwich fall to the table. In the process, she dropped her purse. My napkin wafted to the floor and when I leaned over to pick it up, we hit heads.
“Shit Brenda! Watch out! I’ll be digging peanut butter out of my nose the rest of the day! Never mind the knot to my head.”
She quickly thrust a piece of paper into my hand whispering, “Read this.” She rose clutching her purse and hollered, “Watch out yourself, Zander."
With napkin and note in hand, I returned top side. Kyle took a gulp of soda, burped the first four letters of the alphabet and eyed the note.
“What’s that?”
“A note from Brenda.”
I read the note making sure to keep my face frozen from any emotion and shoved it into my jacket pocket.
“Problems?”
“No.”
“She’s trouble you know. I’d watch out for her.”
I agreed letting the matter drop. We bagged our trash after finishing eating and slumped in our chairs. By now the place was starting to clear out taking the noise down a level. Kyle leaned to the center of the table motioning me to do the same.
“I heard Rachael Stratman moved back,” he commented in a conspiratorial tone.
I confirmed, “Yeah she did,” but didn’t elaborate. Changing the subject, I asked, “Are you going to hang at Tom Cadel’s tomorrow night?”
“I might go over for a bit. I get bored gaming all night long, though. Ehh, once in a while’s okay,” he shrugged.
“Me, too. Hey, man thanks for the lunch,” I stood and paused. “I’m going to head to class. Later.”
“Yeah, later.”
I left the table and crossed the commons area and headed down the hall to my locker. I opened it and reached into my pocket to retrieve the note from Brenda. Using the door as a shield from any prying eyes, I reread the note. Meet me behind the bleachers after football practice – after everyone else has left – B.
I crumpled the note and threw it in the bottom of my locker among some empty chip bags questioning if B stood for Brenda or bitch. Science book in hand, I closed the door and walked away. The rest of the afternoon passed as fast as a dental visit. Finally the last bell rang and I meandered my way through the school maze to the back entrance leading out to the football field. I crossed the end zone passing a group of huddled jocks and walked up the bleachers taking a seat in the last row. It was the only row that had a back rest; part of the support for the whole stand. The sun radiated off the shinny metal making it seem warmer than the actual outside temperature.
I know what you’re thinking: if Brenda is such a bitch and is nothing but trouble, why was I there? My two after school appointments were to meet me there anyway and it gave me a good chance to survey the cheerleaders, making special effort to concentrate on Brenda. (Although we both know that my curiosity would have forced me to go, nonetheless. I mean, really, what could she possibly want with me?)
Twelve girls ranging from freshmen to seniors dressed in matching short blue skirts with contrasting white sewn-in panties, blue and white sweaters, and wore blue ribbons around their identical bouncy pony tails. The dozen were all within a couple inches the same height causing them to resemble natty little clones. The eagle mascot crouched center, bottom row in a pyramid. Brenda perched at the top, where else. The football players made a rambunctious backdrop on the field.
Joe Hurd walked up the steps to me and sat down staring at the fiasco below as the pyramid fell into a heap of legs, arms and heads.
“Hey Zander, what’s up?” he chuckled watching the heaping pile dislodge, bolstered by a barrage of expletives.
“Just checking out the activity wait’n on you."
“Yeah, here you go. I just need a couple,” he continued, handing me a few bucks.
I gave him two packages from my pocket tucking the money away. The cheerleaders were pulling themselves apart, dusting off their bruised egos and wrangled stray hairs back into place. Tom Stevens joined us making the same transaction as Joe. The performance below got back on track and the guys dismissed themselves claiming other matters warranted their attentions.
The sun hung low in the sky painting wisps of bright colors along the horizon and dropping the temperature. Most of the football players had gone inside and the cheerleaders started dispersing. Brenda hung out till the end watching the others truck across the field. I descended the stairs where she joined me, sitting on the first row. She popped a piece of gum in her mouth but didn’t offer me a stick. Go figure.
“So Brenda. I can’t imagine I’d have anything you’d want,” I mocked holding her steely glare.
“Look, Zander. I don’t like meeting anymore than you do, but it was necessary,” she said twirling a ringlet that dangled at her temple.
“What could you possibly want from me?” I quipped.
“A few of the freshman football players want hooked up with some roids and your name came up,” she said between smacks of her cinnamon Dentine. “They’d be willing to pay double, maybe more, to make sure their names weren’t involved in anyway. What do you say?”
“I don’t do that. What would make them think I could get a hold of stuff like that even if I would?”
“Your brother is a friend of Peter Parrow whose brother is John who can get anything, yada yada yada. They’d go straight to John themselves, but again, they don’t want it linked back to them.
“In, fact, you’d give me the stuff, not the players. That way no one has a direct link to anybody.”
“Yeah, except me who’d be carrying.”
“Just think about it over the weekend and let me know Monday.”
She turned and glided across the end zone toward the school building leaving me to my thoughts. Dollar signs flew across my line of sight and I had to shake my head to get rid of them. This deal could put me a lot closer to getting my pickup. Maybe I could come up with a plan where I didn’t have to actually handle the stuff either. You know, I’d be a broker of sorts. That’s not technically selling. Is it? I mean, I’d just told Rachael I didn’t sell drugs. And I didn’t want to, either. Thoughts filled my mind during my walk home. Maybe this could work.
Chapter 3
Mom insisted we all eat dinner together on Friday nights before we could do anything else. Sometimes we’d eat out, but tonight she had the table spread with fried chicken, mounds of mashed potatoes and gravy, glazed carrots and homemade rolls. The smell of apple pie drifted in from the kitchen. Dad always sat at the head of the six foot, blonde oak table in the captain’s chair with Mom to his left nearest the kitchen. Ging and I sat in our regular seats at the other two sides. Skeeter kept watch from his regular perch on his table-high, fur-covered stool.
Wedged into our dining room were the table and chairs, a book case shelving numerous cookbooks and other informative manuals among a few novels, and a computer desk holding a computer, monitor, printer and a small TV. A peninsula with two bar stools divided the room from the kitchen while a half wall separated the dining room from the TV room. Family pictures and heirlooms hung on the stark-white walls.
“Kevin, how did it go at the shop today?” Mom asked Dad passing the mountain of potatoes.
“Pretty good. Had trouble with a damn fuel line on a damn Peterbilt. I hate those sombitches.”
“Kevin, please. The swearing,” Mom tsked wagging her head.
“Sorry, Kat. My tongue gets pretty loose around my mechanics during the day and I forget to rein it in before coming home."
The platters and bowls continued their merry-go-round about the table while spoons excavated potatoes for gravy lakes and pats of real-cream butter were spread on rolls.
“Ging, Zander, how did your week go?”
Ging jumped right in telling us how his school physics club, The Electro-Nuts, was hosting a competition the next day.
Five teams of four from surrounding schools signed up for the first-ever physics competition. Each team would get an identical box of components (no directions) and have two hours to put together a robot that had to move an object from one side of an arena to the other in the shortest amount of time. There were numerous ways the parts could fit together, but really only a couple that would work with any efficiency. The box also held extra, useless parts to confuse the building process. Ging’s club designed it and he and two other members would serve as judges. Throughout the year each participating school (six total including ours) would take turns serving as hosts, designers, and judges, each concentrating in a different sub-field of physics. This first year of competitions stood as a testament to Ging’s commitment to further science in his peers. Ging started last year coordinating and scheduling the events between the schools. His excitement overshadowed his nervousness, and he was hopeful they’d be successful and continue in years to come.
“There are tons of sports for kids to participate in, but very few scholastic competitions. I just wanted to spark an interest in science if I could.
“I’ll be able to help next year. By then, hopefully I’ll have found someone to take over, and he in turn finds someone else when he graduates, etc. etc. I’d like to see this be permanent just like football and tract.”
“You keep saying he. Aren’t there any girls in the clubs?” Mom questioned between bites of succulent crispy-fried chicken.
“A few, but not many. Suzie Stratman is in my club and I think there might be two more girls from other schools participating.”
“I heard her cousin, Rachael’s family moved back to town. Isn’t she in your class, Zander?” she asked looking to me for an answer.
“Yeah. I’m mean yes, she did.” Mom was a stickler for proper grammar.
“You two use to play together a lot when you were little. Suppose you’ll be friends again?”
“Maybe. She may drop by this weekend.”
“Oh cool. I’d love to see her again. She always had the prettiest long hair.”
“May I be excused?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“Sure. Do you have plans for tonight?” Dad asked.
“No. Just going to hang out in my room,” I said getting up and pushing my chair in. I took my empty plate to the kitchen setting it in the sink.
“You can have pie whenever you want,” Mom mentioned to me as I made my way up the stairs.
~~~
Ging was up and out of the house early Saturday morning saying they had to get things set up in the school gym by ten o’clock that morning. Dad worked Saturday mornings at the shop, usually on something of his own that needed repaired and this Saturday morning Mom was busy in the backyard cleaning out deceased flower beds for the winter. The sun shone bright, but the air was crisper this morning and would stay cooler longer in the day as fall commenced as was typical in Clay Ridge.
I’d been downstairs earlier for breakfast, but now lay on my back on top of my bed with my arms behind my head weighing my decision, trying to figure out a way to make the deal with Brenda work with the least possible risk. Skeeter stretched out in the crook of my arm beside me with his head resting on my peck as a pillow. Disturbing him, I sat up and swung my legs over the side of my bed scanning the room. A desk sat up against the wall at the foot of my twin bed. Bookshelves hung above it and a clothes hamper sat off to the side near the door. Two heavy tab-top curtains suspended from a rod above the single window let light stream in around their edges and through the tabs. Clothes, shoes and other essentials found in ones bedroom carpeted the floor. A night stand stood next to my bed under the window and a dresser, its drawers ajar with clothes cascading out like a waterfall, sat on the other side of my bed next to the closet. Housekeeping wasn’t my strongest suit.
I yanked the curtains open to let in more light aiding in my search for something to wear that wasn’t too dirty or too wrinkled. I couldn’t stay in PJ’s all day, although it sounded like a good idea to me.
The doorbell ringing distracted me. The clock on my night stand displayed ten thirty five and I glanced out my window overlooking the front step where Rachael stood. Sun rays bounced off her hair and her skin radiated. The doorbell rang again and I hurried to put on the first pair of jeans I laid my hands on and snapped up a T-shirt. Mom must still be out back.
I rushed downstairs and jerked the door open just as she reached once again for the doorbell.
“Hey,” I said between quick breaths.
She jumped back saying, “Oh, you scared me.”
“Sorry.”
We inspected my naked feet in the awkwardness hanging between us.
“Nice shoes,” she said. Slowly she moved her eyes upward over wrinkled jeans with grass-stained knees, a bare, mostly hairless chest and met my gaze with wide eyes. She averted her eyes to the living room.
“Uh, yeah. Want to come in?” I asked stepping aside letting her into the tiled entry way at the foot of the stairs as I slipped my shirt over my head.
Mom walked through the sliding glass door off the kitchen directly across from the entry way and spotted us. She took off her garden gloves brushing hair back out of her face.
Extending her hand she said, “Hi, I’m Zander’s mom, Kathy. You are?”
“Rachael Stratman, Mrs. Legg,” she giggled shaking Mom’s proffered hand.
Mouth agape, Mom dropped Rachael’s hand and walked a circle around her.
“Look at you! You are just the cutest! Isn’t she just the cutest, Zander?”
I didn’t have time to respond as Mom continued her declaration.
“I just love your hair. Although I must say I did like it long, too.”
“Thank you Mrs. Legg,” Rachael beamed.
“I suppose you came by to see Zander, but I’d love to chat and catch up with your family’s goings on if you have the time.”
“Why don’t you two do that, and I’ll go up and finish getting around,” I said eager to get away from the gab fair.
Mom escorted Rachel to the non-furred bar stool as I bounded up the stairs, taking two at a time.
I quickly shoved the escaping clothes back into the dresser drawers shutting them, save a clean pair of jeans and T-shirt. Mounds of dirty clothes went into the hamper and I tossed all my shoes except my Nikes into the closet, sliding the doors shut. I pulled the covers up on the bed and hung my green Heineken hoodie on the back of the desk chair. I took my clean clothes and ran down the hall to the bathroom and quickly brushed my teeth, washed my hands and face, ran a comb through my hair and got dressed.
I exited the bathroom just as Rachael was coming up the stairs.
“Your mom said I could come on up,” she said glancing around.
“You didn’t talk long.”
“The phone rang. She said she’d be awhile; I might as well talk with you.” She gave me a sidelong, quick look. “Is this still your room?” she asked pointing to Ging’s.
“No. We switched years ago.” Pointing to my door I said, “Come on in.”
I closed the door behind us. Rachael settled on the bed, head poised inspecting her surroundings. I flopped onto the floor; legs crossed looking up to her.
“This is a little awkward, Zander. Sit up here with me,” she said patting a spot on the bed next to her.
“Yeah. Okay."
I uncrossed my legs and slowly made my way to the bed sitting down gently, hands in my lap gawking around. Rachael turned to face me crossing one leg in front of her, the other dangling over the edge. She reached out and rubbed circles on my knee with one finger sending electric shocks throughout my body.
“Zander, I’m really sorry about the other day. You know, not talking to you about the drug thing.”
“That’s all k. I mean o right,” I stumbled. “That’s fine, Rachael,” I said, my clean shirt starting to stick to my back.
“What’s got me curious is what you were selling. If it wasn’t drugs, that is.”
“Well it wasn’t drugs!” I shouted jumping up a little too fast.
“Okay. Okay. Don’t get upset.” She stood up just inches in front of me. “Just tell me what it was you were selling,” she said walking two fingers down my chest and back up again.
Her hair smelled like wildflowers blooming after a spring rain. I took her hands in mine and moved us back onto the bed.
I looked into her eyes and said, “You have to promise not to tell my parents, or worse yet, Ging. Okay?” She nodded. “It’s been kinda touchy what with wanting customers to know, but trying to keep it from Ging.”
She continued to nod, “Okay. I promise. What was it?”
Rachael’s eyes widened as I went over to my closet and opened one of the sliding doors. Pulling back a pile of clothes revealed a case of condoms.
“It’s not ‘what was it.’ It’s ‘what is it’.”
“Condoms? That’s it? That’s the big secret?”
She failed to understand my family. “Rachael, my mom and Ging would both flip out!”
“I don’t get it.” She came over to the closet and picked up a handful of circles letting them fall back into the box. “What’s the big deal?”
“Mom is the president of the Catholic Ladies Altar Society and Ging is a member of the chastity club at school?”
“Oh,” she thought. “Well that doesn’t mean you have to be a prude,” she said retrieving one package and putting it in her pocket. She held my stare and motioned me with her finger to come closer.
I leaned in to her, sweat trickling down the small of my back.
“For later,” she whispered in my ear, her breath scorching my neck.
While I stood confounded, she went to the door and opened it. “Come on. Let’s go check out the exciting competition at school,” she winked snatching my favorite hoodie off the chair back as she slipped out the door.
Mom sat at the bar still yapping on the phone. She stopped long enough to get a where-about report from me and continued.
“I do think, Fr. Mullen, that we should look at holding it the second Sunday in November. . .”
~~~
The high school gymnasium roared with enthusiasm comparable to an Olympic event. Teams wrestled to assemble the best robot before the allotted time expired. Judges dashed from one team to another observing the action. At eleven o’clock a horn sounded the end of the building phase. All contestants were instructed to cease construction and check their robots in at the judges table. Three stages were to be judged: first, the integrity of the design; second, the ability of movement; and third, the time it took to complete the task of moving an object from one side of the six by six foot arena to the other. Each judge would assign points ranging from one to ten for the first two objectives with the lower the number the better. Then the time would be added to the points to arrive at a final score. The team with the lowest score won.
Rachael and I caught up with Ging, her cousin, Suzie, and Shorty Thompson sitting at the judges’ table inspecting robots. Each was scrutinizing a robot and jotting notes about it on a clipboard. When done, each would pass it on to the next judge.
We stood back, jostled among one hundred or so spectators observing the process. The photographer for the school paper fluttered around snapping pictures and generally being a pest. Rachael slid her hand in mine and pulled me through the crowd and out the double hung gymnasium doors. We continued around the corner of the building where she flopped to the ground taking me with her.
“I just had to get out of there! The crowd and the noise were maddening.”
Sun shone down through the streaked powder-blue sky warming us. We sat and talked. Rachael planned on trying out for the high school cheerleading squad. I told her that the freshman football coach encouraged me to go out for that. I hadn’t made up my mind yet.
“It kinda depends on what I’m doing for money then,” I said.
“What’s with you and making money? I mean, I do some babysitting occasionally so I have some spending money. But I’m fourteen. What do I need with a lot of money?” Rachael questioned.
I told her about the pickup I wanted to buy. Mom and Dad said that I had to earn the money for the pickup, the insurance, the gas, and any upkeep on it since it was something I wanted; not something I needed. I had two years before I turned sixteen and could get a driver’s license, but I could have a learner’s permit at fifteen. I needed to earn enough money by then. Currently, I had about one fourth of what I needed and only nine months or so before I turned fifteen.
“And you think you’ll make enough selling condoms?”
“I made more mowing, but I can only do that in the summertime, and after school jobs are hard to come by when you’re our age. Most people won’t hire you until you’re at least fifteen or sixteen,” I said pulling at the tops of grass strands at my side.
Rachael lay over on her back, snuggled in my hoodie, and put her head in my lap. She looked up into my eyes and pondered, “You have the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. Why do guys always have the most gorgeous eyelashes?”
Chapter 4
“Come on,” I said lifting Rachael to her feet. “I want to show you something.” I took her hand out from inside the long sleeve and lead her around the school building and down the sidewalk back toward my house.
“What?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see.” I gave her my biggest smile, the one that crinkles the outside edges of my greenish-brown, gold-streaked hazel eyes. “Trust me,” I winked.
The sunny day still held a bite in the air. I could have used my hoodie myself, but wasn’t about to ask Rachael for it. She did look pretty cute drowning in my way-too-big sweatshirt. I playfully tugged her this way and that way as we rambled down the walk past the park. Several families ate lunches on blankets spread out on the lush green grass getting in that last picnic before the too-cold weather kept them sequestered indoors.
Abruptly, Rachael knelt reaching her free hand out to a small white teacup poodle that’d darted out of the low bushes lining the sidewalk and let it lick the tips of her fingers. Its owner briskly snatched the tiny dog away as if Rachael were a larger dog attaching the poor defenseless creature.
“Hey,” I said tugging her back. “You should never approach an unfamiliar dog. It could be vicious,” I mimicked in my best Mom tone.
“Ooo. I might have lost my hand!” she retorted.
We burst into laughter as we crossed the street toward my house. We reached the front stoop just as Mom was coming out. I quickly let go of Rachael’s hand.
“What are you two up to? You just left a little while ago,” she questioned with raised eyebrows.
Had she noticed the abruptly separated hands, I wondered? “Just came home to grab a magazine real quick. Then I’m taking Rachael over to Harry’s Salvage.”
“I’m sure she’ll enjoy that,” Mom said rhetorically.
“Ya, okay Mom. Where are you going?”
“I’m meeting Dad at the high school to see the results of the science competition. You know . . . support-your-brother kind-of-thing. I’ll see you later!” she said turning to go around to the driver’s side of our burgundy Impala.
I told Rachael I’d be right back and left her on the front step to herself. I returned downstairs holding the rolled-up magazine to find her inside, leaned up against the closed front door.
“Rachael, whatcha doin’?” I queried cautiously striding up to her.
“What are you want’n to show me?” she teased lunging for the magazine.
I held my hand over my head way out of her reach. She jumped to no avail for the prize. “You’ll just have to wait and see. Boy, you have no patience,” I tsked.
Then she did something I wasn’t prepared for. She started tickling me under my raised arm and around my waist. I gasped for air and tried wriggling away from her, but her assault was relentless. I harnessed one wrist, but had to drop the magazine in order to grasp the other. “Okay, stop. Stop. I can’t take it anymore.” We stood facing with me holding her wrists in my hands high above her head gushing with laughter and fighting for our breaths.
“Now, if I let you go, will you behave?” I panted.
“Maybe . . .”
“You have to promise.”
She promised but lunged for the magazine the second I let go of her arms. I beat her to it and ran outside. She slammed the front door shut behind her running to catch up with me. I stopped at the end of the block, bending over resting my hands on my knees.
“You dirty rat!”
“Me dirty rat? You’re the one who promised to be good and went back on her word.”
We rested for a few more moments before I guided her across town to Harry’s Salvage Yard. We walked through the open gate of the eight-foot-tall, barbed-wire-topped chain link fence. Harry’s makeshift office occupied the living room portion of a vintage single-wide trailer house. The skirting gaped open in places revealing the supporting blocks underneath. We stepped carefully up the rickety stairs, squeaking the door open to find Harry at his desk busy with paperwork.
Several piles of large bound catalogs reached up to the lower edge of the double-window sill. A filing cabinet sitting next to the catalogs spewed papers out like an impact sprinkler. A dirty grimy film covered every horizontal surface. Rachael gingerly stepped over a paper land slide just inside the door.
Harry was a minuscule-of-a-man, standing just over five feet tall, who for as long as I can remember always had a piece of straw in his mouth.
“Hi there Zander,” Harry beamed as he got up to shake my hand. “I haven’t seen you for a couple weeks. Who’s your friend?”
“This is Rachael Stratman, Harry. I was hoping I could show her my pickup?”
“Sure. Sure,” he said taking Rachael’s hand pumping it up and down. “You know where it is, Zander. Just sitting there, waiting for you to buy her. You watch that this little lady doesn’t get hurt walking around the yard.”
He escorted Rachel to the door holding her one hand tight while cupping her shoulder with the other.
“I will. Thanks Harry,” I replied rescuing Rachael’s abducted hand.
Back outside Rachael looked a little taken aback. “He’s kinda odd, isn’t he?”
“Well, maybe. But he’s harmless enough. I think he gets kinda lonely out here all the time by himself. He lives in the back of the trailer, even."
We zigzagged through auto corpses in various stages of decomposition. I caught Rachael as she tripped over a tail pipe sticking out of the ground. We rounded a corner past a Ford Model A skeleton to come into view of my pickup: a 1968 Chevy. Wow. She was a beaut. The sun faded paint on her dintless body needed a good waxing to remove the oxidation from years of neglect. The original wood floor of the long-bed box held no rot, but did need re-painted. The interior needed some cleaning and the bench seat recovered. I opened the magazine showing a mint-condition pickup and held it up for a side-by-side comparison with my future ride.
“Look at a restored one. Isn’t she great? The last owner drove her here and just parked her. The really cool thing, Rachael, about this pickup is that the engine is an original 327 two barrel. That engine is no longer being made and hot rodders love it.” I walked over and lifted the hood pointing out the air cleaner and valve covers. “The air cleaner and valve covers were after market chromed. He also added braded metal hoses. Dad and I checked her out. He says it will need new rings, spark plugs, belts and air filter to start with, but he can help me get it in good running condition. I can’t wait. Isn’t she great?” I said letting the hood drop shut.