Stalker

By James Fishinghawk

Everyone wishes for immortality. Be careful what you wish for.

God killed his only child.

Remember this: everything you desire has a price. I’ll tell you my story, but you shouldn’t want to be like me. I don’t love you. I have loved one person, and I found her tonight for the first time in over 300 years.

Her name was Angela. I can still picture the way her black hair draped over the side of her face like a shadow, that one eyebrow raised when she coyly smiled. Her hazel eyes sometimes wanted to be brown, sometimes green. They were black when I found her the last time. She writhed on the floor, desperately pushing a knife into her own body. Then I took her life. I want to love like I did then.

If you want immortality, I’ll tell you what that means: it means you die and hope for resurrection; or it means you are reborn and remember nothing. And then there is me. When I die, I always return, and, eventually, I remember everything. I want to make this clear: if you killed me, I’ll find you, and when the night begins, you will never know the passion of anger that I will bring. And you don’t want to know the way I feel.

I want someone to know my history. The devil has stalked me from that moment when I was the only being he couldn’t possess. I am hunted by the beast—a being that has never known death even after betraying God. And now we face each other. I crave Angela’s love. The devil craves my soul. And she doesn’t know.

Be warned. To be like me is not to face absolution. Forgiveness can be redundant.
In the end, to be like me is to face the reality of floating endlessly through the darkness of the universe. To be like you, though, brings better promises. I’ll explain it all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Fishinghawk
• Release date: Oct 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301783915

James Fishinghawk

My name is Jim Fishinghawk. I studied psychology at Fresno State University and UC Santa Barbara. At the time of this writing, I live in Tulare, California; however, within seven days I will be living and thriving in Sin City, Las Vegas, Nevada. I was married when I began this book many years ago. It all started when my wife told me she was afraid to die. I didn't want her to be afraid. This book is the beginning.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Déjà vu’

In 1710, Angela Allbritton, in the early evening, passed away in a pool of blood. The next night, she arose from her bed with matted blood on her clothes and no memory of anything. She spent the next 30 years creating a new life before she was struck over the head and thrown off a boat by a fisherman and drowned in 1740. In 1741, Elizabeth Thomas was born. She died by a stray bullet in 1779 during the Revolutionary War when a battle broke out near her home. The next year, Catherine Benton was brought into the world. She lived alone for years after her parents died. In 1859, Catherine met a Chinese man wandering the docks by her town. Five days later, her legs ached, and she began vomiting blood. On the third day following, her swollen lymph nodes burst. The fear of bubonic plague was great, and her house was burned down with her in it. Helen Rankin entered the world in 1860. In 1937, at the age of 77, she died of starvation in her basement when a handyman locked the door without checking to see that the basement was empty. In 1938, Mary Kirk was found on a doorstep. She spent the early years of her life in an orphanage. She left for the military at 18 and was decapitated in a traffic accident 29 years later when the taxi driver failed to stop for a red light.

All of the women had several things in common. Each was a single child, none of them ever married, they had continual, powerful instances of déjà vu’ throughout their lives, all of them looked identical, and each was born approximately nine months after the death of the one before. They all had one other thing in common, as well: when death arrived, it was unpleasant.

None of the women were ever aware of the dark presence around them from the day they were born. If they had spent time together, they may have drawn a connection between a fisherman, a soldier firing a bullet, a Chinese man, a handyman, and a taxi driver. They may have found it odd that each of these men killed himself after the deaths of the women. But these women never existed at the same time.

In 1986, Erica Kaye Warren was born to Albert and Sandra Warren, two parents who devoted their lives to their only daughter. Her mother loved combing her jet-black hair and marveled at how pale her skin tone was in contrast. As a child, Erica spent hours playing in a fantasy world with dolls she dressed up as princes and princesses. She fancied a little cottage by the ocean where the prince arrived to claim the beautiful girl as his bride.

The ocean fascinated her, but she didn’t like to go in it. She didn’t like to step in any water. She cried when taking a bath. There was no wading pool in the backyard. She avoided mud puddles. Her phobic shyness of bodies of water, no matter how small, seemed unusual to her parents, but they hoped it would pass. They moved beyond the bath problems when she was old enough to graduate onto showers. That did the trick.

Early on, she was noticeably independent, wanting to do things herself. Sandra Warren often explained to her friends that she had the only child in the world who would rather do the dishes than eat the dinner. It migrated to clothes. She couldn’t count the number of times she found her daughter putting laundry in the washer,

Erica, what are you doing?

Washing clothes.

Sweetheart, you’re not old enough for that right now. I’ll take care of it.

They’re already in the washer.

Do you know how to turn the washer on?

Yes. I just can’t reach it.

which Sandra had to take out and sort until Erica decided she could sort them, too.

On the first day of kindergarten, while other kids cried and hung close to their parents, Erica hugged her mother quickly and bounded into the classroom with unabashed joy. At the end of the school day, Erica couldn’t stop talking

Did you know the moon makes the ocean have waves?

A butterfly starts as a caterpillar, and when it gets wings it only lasts a month. Like Christmas.

Mr. Terry said we have to drink milk.

about how much she loved her school, so much, in fact, that she went to her mother’s side of the bed very early the next morning.

Mom, Erica said, her eyes almost three inches above the bed. Sandra awoke to her only child’s voice and a pair of eyes just visible, innocently existing beneath a head of hair that blended perfectly in the darkness.

Erica? What are you doing up, honey?

Mr. Terry said we can’t be late for school.

Sandra looked at the clock on the nightstand. It read 4:30 A.M.. Sandra leaned up, stroking her daughter’s hair.

Sweetheart, it’s early. School starts at eight. She knew all too well about Mr. Terry, Erica’s kindergarten teacher. Erica liked rules, and Mr. Terry had plenty of them. Luckily for Sandra, there were only two major principles for the first day.

Rule number one: Mr. Terry said we should drink lots of milk, a very serious-looking Erica said on the drive home from school. Once home, she ran to the refrigerator to ensure that mom had an adequate supply. After a thorough inspection, Erica closed the door, put her hands on her hips, and turned to her mom. I think I should have some now, she said. At dinner, she decided another glass would satisfy rule number one.

At the time, Sandra didn’t know there was a rule number two. Even if she had anticipated a second rule, she didn’t expect it to arrive at 4:30 in the morning. But there stood her anxious daughter, barely able to see over the top of the bed.

Erica, honey, we have plenty of time. Go get some sleep. I promise we’ll be to school on time.

Mr. Terry said we can’t be late. Maybe we should start getting ready now.

Sandra sighed and kissed the top of Erica’s head. You don’t have to worry. We’ll make it.

But Mr. Terry said . . . .

Peanut, her dad’s tired voice said from the other side, Go to bed.

But Mr. Terry said . . . .

Go. To. Bed.

Erica knew that tone and rhythm when it came from her dad. Mom was a little more flexible. From her, it would have meant Please. With dad, it meant Now. Erica folded her arms, turned, and walked toward the bedroom door with a frown. As she exited her parents’ bedroom, she muttered Mr. Terry said we can’t be late, just loud enough for her parents to hear but close enough to the hallway that she could run if dad had the energy to get out of bed.

It was around this period in her life when young Erica saw her father cleaning a pistol he kept in the house for protection. When she saw the bullets strewn on the counter, she ran to her bedroom. Her father followed her. Walking in, his daughter sat cross-legged on the bed with tears in her eyes.

Peanut, what’s wrong? He always called her Peanut. She looked up. Her eyes glistened.

I don’t like guns, Papa. She always called him Papa. Peanut and Papa.

Her father walked over and sat beside her on the bed. What don’t you like about guns? He put his arm around her, at which point, she began sobbing.

I don’t know, she said, her shoulders heaving. I don’t like them.

Okay, Peanut. Tell you what, I’ll get rid of it. Will that help?

She looked up with her wet eyes and shiny cheeks. She nodded. Her father put the gun in a locked box high up in the closet. Albert Warren was a practical man. He would protect his family if the need should arise. And as far as Erica was concerned, the gun was gone.

Erica’s parents promoted honesty and togetherness, which worked out for the most part, except for a couple of jarring bumps along the way: wine and sex, two promotions of honesty and togetherness, which led to three rules.

Al and Sandra enjoyed a nice glass of wine at dinner. Erica stuck with milk until the middle of her ninth year. By that time, her penchant for milk had laboriously run its course. Sitting at the dinner table one night, she asked if she could have some of their Kool-Aid. Her parents looked at each other.

Honey, this isn’t Kool-Aid. It’s wine.

Erica shrugged. What’s the difference? she asked.

Peanut, wine is an adult beverage.

You mean it’s bad?

Al and Sandra laughed.

No, honey. It’s only bad if you drink too much of it.

Then what happens?

Her father scratched his head. Her mother looked at her father.

Tell you what, Peanut, her father said, getting up from the table, would you like to try some?

Erica nodded. She had never had an adult beverage before. Al walked over to the cabinet and pulled out a small drink glass. He poured about a third of an inch of wine into the glass and handed it to Erica.

Now, remember, Peanut, it’s for sipping during dinner, between bites of food.

Erica looked at the glass in her hand. Why are your glasses different?

Sandra looked at Al, who simply walked back over to the cupboard and retrieved a wine glass just like theirs. He took the other glass from Erica and poured the contents into the new, identical glass. He placed the identical glass on the table.

Be careful with that.

Okay, Erica said with a vigorous nod. Sandra smiled at the look of wonderment on their daughter’s face. She watched her take a bite of food and take a small sip of wine. Erica’s face went from wonderment to puzzled.

Honey, if you don’t like it, you don’t have to drink it.

No, I like it, Erica quickly said, nodding her head. It tasted kind of funny—bitter in a non-Kool-Aid type of way—but there was no way she was going to give up an adult beverage that was just like her parents’.

Thus began an ongoing tradition of dinner and wine. Erica felt very grown up. She would have used the word sophisticated had she known it at the time. They all enjoyed wine and dinner together, which led to jarring bump number one.

It was at a steakhouse. The family strolled in, sat, and studied the menus. When the waiter came over, mom and dad ordered steaks and wine. The waiter turned to Erica:

And what would you like?

Erica pointed at her parents. I’ll have what they’re having, she said.

Very well, the waiter replied, writing on his tablet. And what would you like to drink?

Erica pointed at her parents again. I’ll have what they’re having.

I’m sorry? the waiter responded, pausing.

I’ll have wine, Erica said, nodding, but only this much. Raising her hand, she demonstrated a gap between her index finger and thumb to show how much.

Ummmmmm . . . , The waiter looked at her parents, we can’t serve wine to children.

Al looked out the window with a smile, leaving Sandra to frantically shake her hands in front of her. Oh, no, no, she said, she . . . is just kidding. She doesn’t drink wine.

Yes, I do, Erica said, looking at her mom. At dinner. But just this much. She did the finger measure again.

Oh, my God, her mother said before smiling at the waiter. She’ll have milk.

Before Erica could respond, Sandra looked at her and raised an eyebrow—the dreaded Sandra Warren eyebrow, which meant I’m serious. It wasn’t quite as potent as dad’s tone and rhythm, but it generally did the trick.

When the perplexed waiter left, Sandra nudged her husband in the ribs to wipe the smile off his face and looked at Erica.

Honey, wine is just for dinner at home. You don’t drink it unless it’s during dinner at home.

Why?

It’s a rule, and we’ll talk about it more at home. And another rule is that we are the only ones who know we all have wine during dinner.

Erica shrugged. Adult beverages had secrets. But she liked rules.

The subject never came up again, which was fine. There were rules, which Erica accepted. It applied only to her family, and that felt nice.

Rule number three followed very closely on the heels of jarring bump number two. It happened during Erica’s third grade show-and-tell. When it was Erica’s turn, she walked up to the chalkboard and drew stick figures of a man and a woman. When the figures were drawn, she colored in the area between the woman’s legs and drew a line between the man’s.

Turning to her classmates, she pointed to the colored-in region of the female stick figure and proudly began her presentation.

This is a vagina, she said, then pointed at the line in the man’s middle area. And this is a penis.

Her teacher, a young woman with a beehive, jumped up. Nooo! she shrieked, grabbing Erica by the hand, leading her outside the classroom with the chalk still dangling in her fingers.

An hour later, her parents sat in the principal’s office, explaining that they preferred to be honest with their daughter, and when she asked where babies came from, they told her the truth. Erica couldn’t hear what they discussed inside the office, but when they came out, mom looked flustered and dad smiled.

Rule number three, courtesy of mom: There are certain things we only discuss at home.

Jarring bumps aside, all through her elementary years, Erica excelled at whatever tasks her teachers gave her. She made friends wherever she went. While each week a different child was being diagnosed with A.D.D., Erica’s teachers often had to pull her away from her schoolwork for such events as recess and lunch.

She was very meticulous in her work, meticulous at home, too. There was no cleaner bedroom in the entire world. She also tended to her hygiene but not to the point of obsessive-compulsiveness. She just didn’t like germs. Something about them made her cringe. Germs made you sick. They could kill you.

By the time she hit junior high, she had blossomed into a startlingly pretty girl with the same long, black hair and pale tone. Her hazel eyes, always a mixture of brown and green, advanced between each other, depending on the sunlight and the angle.

By then, she had a certainty about herself that would have bordered on arrogant unless you knew Erica Warren. This was a person who volunteered her time in soup kitchens during the summer or on food drives in the holiday seasons. The axioms were simple: nobody should go hungry, and nobody, nobody, should starve.

Erica had no problem sharing food with anybody or anything, even if it meant spending money. She didn’t have a lot of her own, so mom and papa usually took the hit. Her family never owned a pet, but Erica sternly suggested they keep pet food in the house.

"Why do we need pet food, peanut?"

"Because, dad, animals get hungry."

"We don’t have any animals, peanut."

"Actually, it’s kind of funny that you should mention that."

She was always bringing stray dog or cats in. She understood that they weren’t going to keep them. It was a rule: no pets. Still, her parents kept enough pet food in the house to satisfy the numerous animals Erica stumbled upon over the years. They also helped her put up signs to find the owners. When that didn’t work out, papa delivered the animal to the SPCA while Erica stayed behind in tears. She knew what could happen at the SPCA, but having a temporary home, no matter how bried, and a chance to find a permanent family was better than starving to death.

In junior high, came across as a bit aloof because every boy in school wanted to be the first to kiss her, and she didn’t seem a bit interested. Finally, at her junior high prom, she let Charlie Smith be the first, right on the dance floor during a slow song. For Charlie, it was an impulse, a natural moment when the soft, throbbing music caught up to his puberty. It felt like love.

For Erica, it felt like metal. Charlie wore braces and kissed her with the same inexperience she possessed. When his braces caught the surface of her lip, Erica awkwardly pulled away and rubbed her mouth.

Youch, she said with a little smile.

What’s wrong? Charlie asked

Nothing. Hey, let’s go sit for a while, she said, taking him by the hand and leading him off the dance floor. Charlie didn’t know it, but he had unofficially become the first in a long line of hopefuls to have his heart broken by Erica Warren.

By the time she reached high school, Erica had done her fair share of simple kissing. During her freshman year, she was introduced to the French kiss. His name was Dave,

Scott? Scotch?

a junior with a blonde mullet. When his tongue entered her mouth, she felt startled but went with it. It was wet, stiff, flicking around like a meat torpedo. She went home that night and asked her mom if that was the way it was supposed to be.

Honey, mom said, at your age, that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

It changes?

Over time.

How?

Ask your father.

Erica chose not to. With her mother, she could ask anything. With her father, she held back. And when her mother said Ask your father, that meant the conversation had reached its boundary.

Dave

Scott? Scotch?

did his best to create something from the time they shared. He approached her at school. He called. He wrote notes. She talked to him at school and on the phone but only responded to one note. In it, she wrote: We can be friends.

At 16, in her junior year, Erica began formally dating. Her parents instituted three rules: the boy must come to the house and meet them; she must be home at a certain time, and; NO sex. Her favorite was rule number one, and Jay Swinker got to be the first to sit and meet her parents.

Jay, in his senior year, was a tall, thin, athletic, kid with a ponytail. The girls loved him, and he took pride in getting to know as many as he could. Getting swinked became a popular euphemism between him and his male friends. It meant he got his hands down a girl’s pants (or up her skirt, down her bikini bottom, whichever). A double swink meant sex. During lunch, he often sat on the outside benches with his buddies and pointed at different girls in the area, announcing their swinkedness.

"Swink, swink, double-swink, swink, double-swink, double-swink."

Jay could point to practically every girl around him except for Erica Warren. The guys continually told him she needed to be swinked. Someday, he would say. There was a problem, though. He had been trying the entire year. His buddies didn’t know that. They didn’t know she intimidated him, either. Girls did not intimidate Jay Swinker. But his buddies also didn’t know one other thing that Erica figured out the first time he talked to her.

It was in the second week of school. He finally had his own car. Jay was beginning his senior year—a chick magnet with his own wheels. Walking out to the parking lot that day, there sat Erica Warren, reading a book, alone on one of the lunch benches. He had sized her up since her freshman year, waiting for the right moment. If Erica had been like other girls, she would have found her way to him a long time ago—at parties, football games, school—but she never attended parties and never paid him any attention at football games or school. But there she was, alone, which never seemed to happen.

He strolled up with a smile.

What are you reading there? he asked.

She looked up. Oh, hi, she said. I’m reading the bible.

Oh. Are . . . you getting ready for church?

Her quick laugh made Jay’s smile even bigger.

I’m kidding, she told him. It’s for a book report. I’m waiting for my mother to get me; so, in the meantime, I thought I would get some reading done.

Jay sat on the top of the bench and extended his hand. She looked up at him.

I’m Jay.

I’m Erica, she said, shaking then immediately returning to her book.

Jay felt confused. He cleared his throat.

I’ve seen you around a lot, but we never really got a chance to meet.

She smiled, still staring at the book. I know.

He considered her smile a flirt.

Can you put the book down for a second?

Erica, still smiling, sighed, and closed the book. Turning back to Jay: Yes?

Jay took in the moment, feeling hungry for her attention. She was more beautiful than he thought. You just had to get this close to her to know that. And she flirted.

Umm . . . he began, why don’t we get together some time? Dinner? Movies? A party, maybe?

She pursed her lips. I don’t know, she said. I would hate for something to happen.

Jay grinned. Like what?

Like I don’t want you to sit with your buddies and tell them I got swinked.

Jay froze. His mouth almost refused to move.

Uh . . . what do you mean? he stammered.

Erica picked up her book but kept her eyes on him. The girls know, Jay. They just don’t care.

His face was red. Well, uh, it’s just all in fun, and . . . it’s just . . . guys being guys.

Oh, by the way, what is a double-swink?

He didn’t know what to say. He scratched the back of his neck. Then he thought for a second. He was Jay Swinker. This was a girl. He was a chick magnet.

He cleared his throat. A double-swink is sex. I know, I know it sounds dumb, but it’s a guy thing. We’re guys. We talk like that. We laugh at those things.

I know. Girls do, too.

This felt better. Look, he sat on the bench next to her, granted that it’s stupid, I can quit doing that. If you go out with me, I promise not to do the swink thing.

What about a double-swink?

Jay shook his head.

Another flirt?

Well, I guess that’s up to you.

Erica bit the inside of her lip. How about now? she asked.

Now? What do you mean?

She nodded toward the gymnasium. I want to fuck you. Right now. There’s no one in the gym. Just promise not to do your swink routine tomorrow.

Jay’s eyes were wide open. He looked around the campus. The crowd was thinning out. Uh, we can’t do it here, he said.

We can’t? I bet I know why, she said.

Why?

Because you’re a virgin, but it was nice meeting you. She stood and gave his cheek a quick pat. She smiled. Don’t worry. I won’t tell your buddies.

Jay believed her. He watched this junior walk off, her long hair swinging smoothly across her back. Erica Warren. The unattainable Erica Warren.

Jay never abandoned the swink routine, but over the weeks he kept talking to Erica. And he was honest. He told her he still did the lunch time routine. He told her when he made out with a girl. He told her that a swink and a double-swink meant the same thing: his hands on her vagina or her hands fondling his dick. He had never had so much as oral sex. Sex scared him.

And Erica warmed up to the honesty of this Jay Swinker, eventually agreeing to go out with him. But he had to meet her parents first.

They sat in the living room, her parents on the couch, Jay in one chair, Erica in another. Mom, in her cordial way, asked Jay about school, his studies, offered him a beverage, mentioned college. Papa sat quietly on the couch, leaning on the arm, with his fist propping up his chin. Eric sat politely in her white jeans and blouse. She tried not to smile.

Mom asked where they were going. Jay laid out the plans: the movies. They talked about that. Mom told Jay about the tomatoes she had growing in the backyard. Jay pretended it was the most exciting information he had received his entire life. Finally, it was time to go.

Jay looked at Erica. I guess we better go if we’re going to make the movie, he said. She nodded, rising from her chair, prompting Jay to rise as well. Mom rose, too. Papa sat.

Well, it was nice meeting both of you, Jay said. I’ll have her back on time. I promise. He turned to Erica: Are you ready?

Mm-hmm, Erica replied with a nod.

Jay.

It was her dad. Jay paused and looked over. Al Warren sat there with no expression, his fist still propping his chin.

Yes, sir?

If you try to swink her, I will kill you.

Jay Swinker’s red face swallowed hard. Yes, sir, he said.

They walked out of the house to his car. He didn’t bother asking how her dad knew about swinking. He figured it out. They drove off. Inside the house, Al and Sandra Warren sat on the couch. They laughed until their stomachs hurt.

Erica and Jay dated for two months until he graduated. She kissed him the first night, just a slow peck. He picked her up every weekend after. Always to the movies, then it became dinner and a movie, always home on time. The kisses evolved. At school, Jay made it known that he was dating Erica Warren; however, there was no swinkage about her. The same didn’t hold for him. It was almost a violation of rule number three—NO sex.

On their last night together, the weekend after school let out, Jay and Erica made out in the movie parking lot. With her mouth connected to his, she put her hand behind his neck, placed one knee on his leg, slightly lifting herself, and worked her hand down his pants. He gasped. Still kissing him, she stroked until she felt a wetness on her wrist which ran down her hand. He breathed hard.

She pulled her hand out, wiping it on his pants. She straddled his lap.

You’ve been Warrened, she said with a smile.

I love you, he said.

She stopped smiling, looking down, her hair hanging down over her eyes. She caressed his hair.

We can’t see each other anymore, she told him.

His face went blank. What?

I’m a senior next year, you’re going to college, and we have our memories.

I don’t want memories. I want to be with you.

She leaned closer and touched his face. Jay, I’ll still be in high school. You’re going to meet a lot of girls in college. And when I graduate, I’ll be going to college. If I don’t end it tonight, we’re just setting up a lot of heartache in the future.

But we still have the whole summer.

I know. And it won’t make sense to build up a relationship that ends in three months.

I think it does.

She shook her head.

Jay looked at his watch. I want to talk about this tomorrow. I need to get you home.

They never talked. He called, but she was never available. He didn’t drive by. It wouldn’t amount to anything. He spent the summer wondering what happened. For the first time in his life, he cried over a girl. It wouldn’t be until his second year in college that he met Anna Johnson. Years later, they were married with two beautiful children, twin girls, asleep down the hall, ready to begin their first year in school.

Jay leaned over, looking at his wife’s sleeping face. Her blonde hair lay softly over her eyes. He leaned over and kissed her. He thought about his last night with Erica, her kiss, her hand, what she said.

Jay smiled. Erica was right. If they had continued over the summer, he would not be here with a wife he loved and adored. She made a clean break, and it mattered. Back then, he felt intense anger and depression; but if she had prolonged it by talking to him, it would have hurt much longer, maybe forever. Jay leaned on his back and closed his eyes. Thank you, Erica, he thought to himself. Thank you, he said.

Dating in her senior year was okay. She missed Jay, but she knew it was the right decision to break it off. They weren’t going to get married. It was a time for experience in their lives. She felt close to him, really enjoyed his company, and thought about him a lot. But he wasn’t the one. She felt that on a level far beyond what her years had to offer. Sometimes her mind felt very old.

Sex was on her mind. She wanted to know what it was like even though rule number three still applied: NO sex. She honored that by giving Jay release in the car. It was part of the equation. It didn’t violate the rule because her body wasn’t involved, and her hand didn’t count. But, still, she wondered.

Erica loved rules, but she violated two of them in the summer after her senior year. His name was Anthony—the guy who found his way to her virginity.

Anthony Bowers, three years out of high school by the time Erica began her senior year—rich parents, handsome, popular, pot smoker—first noticed Erica as a freshman. Senior-freshman connections, however, were taboo in his day.

After graduation, he tried the military for a year, but he didn’t like the discipline. He moved back in with his parents and reunified with marijuana. That seemed to hit the spot. Beer was good, too. So were tequila shots. He still attracted women (My bitches, he liked to tell his friends), but being dependent on parents meant obeying rules that critically affected his desired lifestyle. He couldn’t bring his bitches to the house; he had a curfew; he had to sneak to the backyard to smoke a joint, and; he had to hide his alcohol.

Life moderately sucked until his parents decided to rent out their existing home and buy a bigger one. The house sold within six months, and the new purchase was finalized soon after. Anthony thought he hated all of it until the day they moved in. On that day, as he grabbed one end of the couch and his dad took the other, Anthony looked across the street and saw Erica Warren walk out of the house across the street. She wore a white summer dress. She looked over as she went to her car. She smiled and turned away. Anthony remembered her. As a freshman, she was hot; now, three years later, the bitch was perfect. He corrected himself: the girl was perfect. As Erica got in her car and drove by, Anthony concentrated on flexing his muscles while hoisting the couch.

His bedroom faced the Warren’s front door. He spent a lot of time in his room, peering out the window for a glimpse, or more, of Erica Warren. He couldn’t just go up and ring the doorbell. She was a senior in high school, and he had just turned 21, another taboo connection.

Then the time arrived, right after school let out for the summer, when his parents were gone, her parents were gone, and Erica walked outside in a tank top, jean shorts, and flip-flops, washing her car with a sponge. Anthony rushed to the bathroom, swigged some mouthwash, and went out the front door.

He pretended to check the mail then pretended suddenly to notice her.

Hey, he said. She turned around.

Oh, hi, she replied.

He walked up with his best smile.

We just moved into the neighborhood. I’m Anthony.

Erica dropped her sponge in a bucket by the car. I’m Erica. I’d shake your hand, but they’re kind of soggy. She laughed.

That’s cool. Let’s shake, anyway.

He extended his hand, which she accepted. Her hands were soft.

Washing your car?

"I am. How can you