Alone with Me

By Elizabeth Williams

The year is 1962. The moon has never looked closer. The Beatles haven't invaded yet. Drive-ins are the best place to do anything but see a movie.

There are few places that have tighter races about keeping up with the Joneses than Caroline Hills in upstate New York.

Two teenagers, however, aren't con

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Storyteller
• Release date: Dec 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9798987360705

Elizabeth Williams

Elizabeth Williams is a light worker and third generation Catholic Mystic, known in modern terms as a Modern Day Mystic. She founded and has owned The Center of Truth and Light for 17 years. Her client base ranges globally across Presidents of Universities, celebrities, leadership authors and speakers, bestselling authors, CEOs, housewives, nurses, teachers, those in transition to next dimension and caregivers. She lives in Syracuse, NY.

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Alone with Me

Copyright © 2022 by Elizabeth Williams

Alone with Me

All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

With much gratitude to all those who believed in me, especially my lovely mother.

Together, you make up my guiding constellation.

Contents

Chapter 1-Paul

Chapter 2-Paul

Chapter 3-Jenny

Chapter 4-Paul

Chapter 5-Jenny

Chapter 6-Paul

Chapter 7-Paul

Chapter 8-Jenny

Chapter 9-Jenny

Chapter 10-Paul

Chapter 11-Paul

Chapter 12-Jenny

Chapter 13-Paul

Chapter 14-Paul

Chapter 15-Jenny

Chapter 16-Paul

Chapter 17-Paul

Chapter 18-Jenny

Chapter 19-Paul

Chapter 20-Jenny

Chapter 21-Paul

Chapter 22-Jenny

Chapter 23-Paul

Chapter 1-Paul

Okay, I know I said this will be the last time. But just once more. It’s getting to the good part. I mouth the words as I sing along with Roy Orbison. And when I do it, I do it with utmost sincerity. Nobody sings like him. I don’t even have a girl. I never have. But I feel it. He always makes me feel everything he does. I imagine losing her. That slow painful spiral of saying good-bye because people don’t just say good-bye. There is a gradual parting before the final verbal good-bye. At least one of them slips away. The other person may never see it coming. I keep my eyes closed so I can see her silhouette leaving in my mind. She’s walking out of my room. She pauses at the doorway. She wants to look back one last time. If I could only see her face then I would know when we’d first meet, I’d never lose her.

The door opens.

Damn it, Paul! Give it a rest, will you?

I open my eyes. I’m lying on my bed. Bobby’s standing in the doorway. He’s killed my dream girl.

"How many times did I play it this time?"

He stops the record. You’ve played Crying almost ten times already this afternoon. But you’ve been playing it every day this week.

I smell the chocolate chip cookie in his hand and prop myself up. What can I say? It’s a great song.

He bites into his cookie. I don’t know how you can listen to it.

It’s Roy Orbison.

I admit the man has a good voice but Crying, come on.

It was a hit last year.

Real men don’t cry, argued Bobby.

He’s lost his girl.

So he gets a new one after a couple cold beers. He doesn’t cry about it. That’s…

What?

Girly. Weak. Petty. Whatever you want to call it. Men don’t cry. They just don’t.

"Old Yeller made you cry," I remind him.

Everybody cries when a dog dies!

So it’s okay to cry if your dog dies but not if your girl’s gone?

Bobby straddles his chair backwards. Well …yeah.

And why is that?

Geez, Paul, why do you have to ask a thousand questions? Just give Roy Orbison a rest. His stuff is so depressing.

Maybe that’s why I like it. He’s one of the few who understand.

What?

You wouldn’t understand. You don’t do sad.

Bobby glances at the window. I got to mow the lawn which means you’ve got to—

Trim the hedges. Do you want to switch?

Are you kidding? I’d butcher her bushes.

Yes, but if you do, she’ll just laugh and forget about it.

Bobby doesn’t like to argue with me about Mom. For one, he is terrible at it.

That lawn’s not going to cut itself. He leaves the room.

So I listen to Crying too much. Fine then. Let’s talk about happiness.

Happiness can be a color, a favorite food, a big pay raise. It’s not easy to pinpoint. And for most of us, it lasts only a matter of seconds, maybe minutes if we’re lucky. As soon as the newness wears off, it vaporizes.

For Bobby, happiness has never been far out of his reach. Some may think he’s lucky. Others may even envy him. I do not. All he needs is attention. He gets it. He’s the star high school quarterback. Coach Huxley wants to adopt him. His teammates love to shout out his name, even those wishing for his jersey. My brother looks like he was cut out of a magazine. He’s a good-looking kid. You’d think he carried around a surfboard instead of a football. His blonde hair, blue eyes, and yearlong tan make him look like a teen idol.

Everybody loves Bobby. You can’t help it. He’s like a puppy. He does a trick and gets a ridiculous amount of praise. You can’t hate a puppy. He is and has everything a boy of eighteen could want. But somehow I’m not the least bit interested. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me and why I can listen to Crying every day. But we were talking about happiness.

His arrival into the world on April 1st, 1944, was greeted with much anticipation. I, on the other hand, was a bit of a surprise. Twins don’t run on either side of my family. But there I was. I must have some rebel in me after all.

We share the same birthday, same parents, and couldn’t be more different. You can’t solve it. I tried, but I can’t. I favor Dad’s side of the family, unlike Bobby who takes after Mom’s. I have wavy black hair, hazel eyes, and am a tad on the skinny side. I don’t know what I ever did to the sun, but it hates my guts. Okay. Maybe Bobby’s tan is the only thing I could ever possibly be jealous of.

As I leave our bedroom, I can smell those chocolate chip cookies. I tiptoe down the stairs. Mom recognizes our steps. If she hears me, she will tell me to trim the hedges. Cookie first. I hear the oven door opening halfway and then closing. She must be working on another batch.

My mother has strawberry blonde hair and gave Bobby his big blue eyes. She’s pretty and dresses as if it is always Sunday morning. She may not wear her Sunday shoes and gloves, but the dress is always perfect. She was a seamstress before she married Dad. When she can’t sleep at night, she makes herself nearly identical dresses of those fancy brands I can’t pronounce.

You’d think living in the neighborhood we do she could afford to buy them. As far as I’m aware we are the only family who lacks a maid. You wouldn’t know it because my mother keeps the place so perfect. To keep up with appearances, Mom tells people we used to have a black maid at our last house. She tells them she was lazy. The lady she is referring to is now deceased. If that isn’t bad enough, the poor woman was too old to still be working. That lady probably worked harder in her life than anyone in this neighborhood ever did. Dad hired her to help Mom out when Bobby and I were eight. Mom was expecting. So Miss Addy came to watch us. She did help my mother out quite a bit, but sometimes she fell asleep. Mom seemed to enjoy catching her and scolding her as if she were a child.

One day, Miss Addy took her seat on the rocking chair and fell asleep. She never woke up. Her passing had no effect on my mother. I remember her smiling, how happy she was during those nine months. She tried to explain to us how natural it was for people to die and for people to come into the world.

To be honest, I think Bobby was sadder about the baby’s arrival than Miss Addy’s passing. Bobby was the center of her universe. I never was. Mom didn’t have either high hopes or ghastly predictions for me. I didn’t fit into her perfect plan.

On October 12, 1952, Joe Dawson came into the world. Bobby was happy again. Our mom who had already sewed dozens of pink dresses was blindsided. Bitterness crept in over time. Relatives remarked how much Joe looked like Bobby’s old baby photos. None of that mattered. She already had her perfect baby boy. Where was her darling baby girl?

Then came the thunder after the lightning she could not ignore. For months, it felt like it was always raining inside our house. Mom wouldn’t answer the door, let alone the phone. She even stopped going to church. She was right with us, but it was if she had left us behind. She would watch television for hours on end. She started to out smoke Dad.

My father finally accepted a promotion as an accountant. His boss had always wanted to move Dad up the ladder. Dad was reluctant to take it because he understood how stressful it would be and how little he would see us. But eventually he did and we moved into my mother’s dream house. It was to break the spell, but for people like my mom there is no magical enchantment. It’s incurable. She started comparing us to our neighbors. She came up with a strategy on how to belong. I have to give her credit. Mom knew who to charm and flatter and how to gently squeeze the juice out of the busy bodies. It was an act that had no intermission. I know I was talking about happiness. But my mom has never been happy, and when she smiles she is living in her delusional perfection. She still keeps all those pink frilly dresses in a box downstairs, yearning for the baby girl that never came.

As I go downstairs, I can see my father asleep in his recliner, his pipe wedged between his lips, his arms folded, and legs crossed at the ankles. He can only nap on the weekends. By the time he gets off work, there’s only enough time for dinner, pie, and the Dick Van Dyke show.

His grey hairs are becoming snow white on the sides of his head. My mother’s tea bag trick couldn’t touch the bags under his eyes. He’s only a few years older than Mom, but he looks more like ten. It hurts, but I don’t lie to myself. He’s not going to live to be an old man. He’d laugh and say he already is one. But whenever he goes, he’ll go truly happy. And that’s more than I can say for the rest of us.

Carefully, I pull out his pipe and lay it on the side table. If any ashes fall on the carpet, Mom will have his head.

Psst!

I look over Dad and see Joe lying on the carpet with his sketchbook. He’ll be ten this October and with each passing day looks more like Bobby.

He holds up his book. What do you think?

You never have to guess what Joe is drawing. He has drawn an up close sketch of a dog with a ball in its mouth.

He looks so real I think I could pet his fur.

Not real enough.

Truthfully, my little brother would be the happiest kid on earth if Mom let him have a dog. I turn to go to the kitchen.

If you go in there, she’ll put you to work.

I shrug. She’s got cookies in there.

See if you can get me one.

I see my literal window of opportunity. She is tiptoeing against the sink, peering out the window. I slip a few cookies into my left pocket. It isn’t uncommon to catch her being nosy.

Are the Paddingtons painting their house again?

Paul, you startled me!

Sorry.

And no. The Paddingtons are not repainting their house.

Well, that’s good.

A couple years ago, our neighbors had their house painted while they were on vacation. Mom insisted we have ours repainted to match theirs. Unfortunately, their painters used the wrong color and we were stuck with the yellow.

There’s a cab parked in front of Ms. Winters’ driveway.

I thought you said she didn’t have any family.

Not any from around here. You only ever see her maid and chauffer. The servants are a married couple. I believe I overheard the maid’s name is Cora. Perhaps, Ms. Winters’ health’s failing. I suppose she called her few living relatives to see her before she goes.

She loves this dark sort of guessing game. Have you ever even spoken to Ms. Winters?

How could I? She’s practically a recluse.

With such warm and thoughtful neighbors, it’s hard to imagine why.

She hears me but doesn’t care. Go trim the hedges before dinner.

She returns to her baking. For Mom, I often disappear from the room before I actually leave. I pass a cookie to Joe before I step outside. I remember to use sunscreen.

The driver gets out of the cab and runs around the front. A blonde lady carrying a rather large purse approaches the car. When she reaches the cab, I can see she is pregnant. She looks like a perfect model except for her swollen belly. Even with those sunglasses that cover half her face, I can tell. This woman knows she is beautiful and she is proud of it. There is no hesitation in any of her movements up until she looks back at the house. Has she forgotten something?

Whatever it is, she is fine with leaving it behind. She gets into the yellow cab and takes off. Why do I care what this woman is doing? She’ll probably be happy to leave here. I return to trimming the damn hedges.

At dinner, we are doing the same as every meal. Bobby agreeing with Mom is the basis of every dinner conversation. Yes. Every meal, every conversation.

I think the roast is a little dry.

She wants us all to say it isn’t. But she’ll only accept the compliment from Bobby so we let him do the talking.

Tastes great, Mom.

Are you sure?

Yeah, it’s good.

I’m glad. I spent most of my evening in the kitchen preparing this meal. Couldn’t help but notice Ms. Winters had company tonight. I suppose I’ll have to ask Ms. Reynolds tomorrow. I pray Ms. Winters isn’t ill. That would be terrible.

There is no comment or argument. Unfortunately, Mom catches the scratching sound of Joe’s pencil on his notebook.

Joe! How many times have I told you about bringing your sketchbook to the table?

I don’t know. A lot.

Mom reaches for the book. You can have it back after dinner.

He groans but hands it to her.

I can’t believe you went through an entire sketchbook drawing dogs.

There’s lots of kinds of dogs, and some of them don’t shed.

All dogs shed. Their fur gets everywhere on the carpet, on the sofa, on the—

Not all dogs! Joe protests.

I pity him. He still believes he can change her mind.

Joe, don’t interrupt your mother, Dad says, speaking for the first time.

Sorry, Joe apologizes.

The last thing we need is a dog, Mom states. They make one mess after another. I can barely keep up as it is.

If we got a dog, Joe, Dad begins.

"Really?!" Joe squeals.

Robert! Mother cries louder than Joe.

"I said if, Dad repeats. the dog would have to live outside. I could make him a place to sleep in the garage. He would be your responsibility."

I would take care of him! I’d feed him, clean up after him—

We are not getting a dog! Mom cries.

Mom looks very hurt as she stares across the table at Dad. Do you have any idea how hard I work to keep our home in this condition?

I do. That’s why I said the dog must live outside. The dog would be entirely Joe’s responsibility. He’s old enough to have a dog.

Please, Mom, Joe begs. All I want is a dog.

Mom’s body tightens. We can’t always have what we want.

I don’t know why I do, but I am speaking before I realize it. Why don’t you let Joe prove himself? Give him a chance to show he’s responsible enough.

Dad smiles. Thank you, Paul. That’s a very good idea. Joe, you keep up in school, make your bed every morning, and do everything your mother tells you to do the first time and you can have a dog.

Thanks, Dad! I’ll be so good you won’t even recognize me.

Now, Joe, settle down. Growing up means being responsible every day. So if you keep on your best behavior until…let’s say the beginning of next summer you can have a dog.

Yippee! Joe runs over and hugs Dad.

But Dad is looking over Joe’s shoulder and can see the face Mom is making. I don’t have the courage to look at her. Dad claps Joe on the shoulder and lets him go.

Louise, I believe it’s a fair arrangement.

I see Mom’s hand place her napkin on the table. I’ve lost my appetite. Paul, if you’re not too busy giving advice, you can do the dishes tonight.

She can cast me aside whenever. But she has to make sure I know when she is displeased with me. Though she has beautiful eyes, my mother has the gift of turning them into pure ice. After she leaves, Father goes out to the living room. He will be sleeping in his chair tonight.

Joe scrapes the plates and hands them to me as I wash. Bobby wraps up the leftovers and sticks them in the fridge.

Thanks for helping me out.

Bobby nicks a roll. Don’t mention it. She gets like this. It’ll blow over.

Joe is being very quiet.

Joe, what’s eating you? I ask.

She won’t let me get a dog. And even if she would, I can’t be good for a whole year.

You can, I argue. You just have to put your mind to it.

Joe shakes his head. You don’t understand. I forgot. I’ve got Ms. Ferguson next year.

Bobby and I cannot hide our mutual looks.

See! There’s no way I can be good.

Is she the one with the bad eye? Bobby asks.

Yeah. But they’re both so bad it’s hard to tell which one is the really bad eye. So how am I supposed to be bad if I don’t know which way she’s looking?

The point is you’re not supposed to be bad at all, I remind him.

If I can’t be bad here, I’ve got to be a little bad somewhere, or I’ll explode!

Bobby busts out laughing. We used to call her Ms. Froguson because her eyes were like a frog’s.

Not helping, I hint to Bobby.

Great. My teacher looks like a bullfrog, and I can’t make any jokes or smart cracks about it. There’s so much already there to go with, you know.

As long as you’ve been able to talk, you’ve wanted a dog. Don’t you think you can put a little effort into it?

But what if I am really good all year and Mom still won’t let me have a dog?

You can’t control what Mom does. You only have to answer for yourself.

That night when we go to bed, I regret opening my big fat mouth. I rarely do that. I just feel that if Joe just wants a dog, doesn’t he have a right to have one? Essentially, he wants a friend. That’s happiness in its purest form.

Do you remember Miss Riggs?

Bobby is lying in his bed across from mine staring at the ceiling.

What?

Miss Riggs, our seventh grade teacher.

I nod. Yeah, I remember.

She was my favorite teacher.

She was a witch.

She could have spanked me with her broom until I was black and blue.

I look up at the ceiling, trying to imagine the stars. My favorite teacher is and will forever be Mrs. Mahoney.

She’s prehistoric.

She’s not that old.

I don’t know. I was almost benched because of her.

Don’t blame her because you blew off her class one too many times.

I can’t just write five pages to answer one simple question, Bobby said in frustration.

Writing is my football. So let’s leave it at that.

Fine. New topic. Want to come to a movie at the drive-in on Friday?

We should go to a real theater if you want to see a movie. You can’t hear anything at a drive-in.

Bobby sits up in his bed. You go to a drive-in to mess around.

I can’t resist. So you and Susan mess around, do you?

Yeah. Lots of times. Well …maybe not all the time. We’ve done stuff.

And when she touches you, how do you keep from turning into stone?

Have you even kissed a girl?

No. I am not ashamed. There is no one I like.

So don’t be making any cracks at me and Susan. She says we’re in a good place.

What’s that supposed to mean?

It means that if I call her every evening, pick her up when she wants to see me, and listen, then we are happy.

There’s that word again.

What? Bobby asks.

Nothing. I’ve just been thinking a lot about happiness today.

Well, I know someone who will be happy if you come.

No.

You don’t know who it is.

It’s Connie. I cover my eyes with the back of my arm. She’s been in love with me since the fifth grade.

Lots of boys like Connie.

That’s because Connie is whatever you tell her to be. Connie says she likes whatever you like. Haven’t you ever noticed that she just agrees with whatever Susan says?

All the other cheerleaders listen to what Susan says.

Well, Connie wouldn’t know what to do if she wasn’t on somebody’s leash.

You know, Connie sort of looks like Annette Funicello.

Never said she wasn’t a pretty girl. All I’m saying is nobody, including Connie, knows who she really is. I can’t go out with someone like that.

Fine. Take Fatty Patty to the Homecoming Dance.

Don’t call her that. I should have said it louder like I meant it.

They say as Patricia gains weight, she loses friends. Susan always has such a smirk on her face when she can hear Patricia coming. She invented Patricia’s nickname.

I don’t care about Homecoming. I want to be already graduated and done. But I can’t leave any sooner than they’ll let me. I am still serving my time. I have always resisted outside pressure. But why not? Why not give in just a little on my expectations? Would I be happy? If I’m even asking then that means I’m not happy to begin with.

I’ll go.

Really?

But I’m driving. And tell Susan to tell Connie not to be planning our wedding.

I turn over on my side. Whenever one of us does this, the other is supposed to shut up. Happiness. I suppose I’m more of a chaser than I thought I was. It’s hard to ignore though that Connie doesn’t match up to my dream girl’s silhouette. I wish I could see her face.

Chapter 2-Paul

The Parrs’ house is one of the biggest in the neighborhood and sits right on the corner.

I’ll wait here.

You got to go in.

Just say we’re running late for the movie.

It will take five minutes. Tops. Bobby gets out of the car.

I let out my exasperation and follow Bobby to the front door. First of all, I hate the Parrs. And Susan is a Parr through and through. Her being head cheerleader and Bobby being the all star player make them a couple. I don’t even know if he asked her out. But I’m sure she made him sign a contract. He is to always look presentable, visit her locker, ask her how her day was, and carry her books. Our mother prepared him well for Susan.

Susan’s hair is as real as her sweetness. For years now, her hair has been dyed blonde. Susan looks the exact same no matter what day it was. The only thing that changes is the color of her headband. If I had to pick the one thing that irritates me the most, it is that Susan thinks she is funny and she isn’t. She is a mean-spirited and dull bitch. If I could compliment Susan, maybe it would be on her powers of manipulation. That must be a Parr family trait.

Bobby, my boy, who is that stranger? Can’t be any relation of yours. He doesn’t look a thing like you. Mr. Parr looks like Humpty Dumpty wearing a plaid shirt thanks to his odd shape and shiny noggin. Maybe Susan’s misconception of her humor is also hereditary.

You’ve seen Paul before, haven’t you? Bobby asks.

I’m just pulling your leg, son. Well, how are you, Paul? He rubs his hands together. Susan tells me this is your first date. You must be nervous.

Look, son. Mr. Parr puts his hands on my shoulders. It’s perfectly natural to be excited about a girl. But some girls like Connie…They’re good girls. The kind you want to bring home to meet your mother. They’re just…not a good time if you know what I mean.

He pulls a rolled up magazine of nude girls out of his pocket. You gotta place you can hide this?

No.

Well, try tucking it in a sock drawer or under—

I don’t want it.

Well, then. Have a fun time, boys.

As soon as Mr. Parr leaves the parlor, Bobby smacks me on the shoulder. You should have just taken it.

So you could look at it?

Shut up, man, the girls will be coming down soon.

I did not intend to shut up, but a model airplane goes whizzing straight towards my head. There was barely enough time for me to duck. It crashes into the wall and breaks into pieces.

Standing on the stairs is the youngest Parr, Henry.

Bobby picks up the pieces of the airplane. Sorry, little man. This one looks like it’s done for.

Henry doesn’t care. He’ll get another airplane. We have a little, personal, ongoing war between us. Henry is in Joe’s class. One day, I picked Joe up from school. We hadn’t gotten far when Joe realized his sketchbook was missing. I went back and found the little bastard ripping out the pictures. I didn’t even think. I just knocked the kid down. He didn’t cry. But he looked at me in such a way I knew I was the first person to strike a hair on his precious head. I shouldn’t have done what I did. But Henry Parr is an unoriginal person. He doesn’t have a clue of what he did and didn’t give a damn.

Henry, what are you doing?! Susan’s voice calls.

He runs down the stairs and scoops the pieces out of Bobby’s hands, zooming out of the room before Susan comes down. Connie follows two steps behind her.

Well, this should be a fun night. Susan means that she permits us to have a good time.

Hi, Paul, Connie squeaks.

I like your dress.

Connie giggles.

This is going to be a long night.

Let’s go. Susan decides.

***

There are a lot of people going to catch the show. I don’t even know what we are seeing.

I wonder if Betty Jo is working tonight, Susan says.

My ears twitch. Why would Betty Jo have a summer job?

Because she got caught stealing from her mother’s purse and now she has to work all summer. Too bad. Susan smiles just the same.

Betty Jo is working, but she doesn’t look embarrassed when she sees us pull up. She always keeps her sandy brown hair up in a high ponytail. Sometimes, she adds a ribbon. She is creative with her eye makeup, unlike Susan.

We wondered if you might be working tonight, Susan greets.

I told you my schedule, Betty Jo reminds her.

Betty Jo leans to take my money and winks. You clean up real nice, Paul.

Thanks. Something about how she said it makes me feel like she was fishing for a reaction, but not for mine. Maybe she is trying to get Connie upset.

It’s a real shame that your parents caught you, Susan sighs.

Betty Jo chews her pink gum. They were going to fire our maid, remember?

Oh, right. Well, I suppose it was sort of valiant of you to come forward.

The point was for them to notice me in the first place, states Betty Jo.

She hands me the receipt. She doesn’t let go until I look up. Enjoy the show.

As we pull up to a spot, I know this was a terrible idea. Nobody in the other cars is watching the movie. They are all teenagers acting on their hormones. Some of their windows are even fogged up.

Bobby opens his door. I’m going to get some popcorn. Anybody want anything?

I don’t eat after dinner, Bobby. Susan reminds him.

Me neither. Connie says.

I’ll take a soda. If I’m drinking a soda I can’t be coerced into making a move on Connie.

Be back. Bobby slams the door and disappears between the cars.

So, Paul, Connie and I were talking about Homecoming. Susan sticks her head between ours.

Homecoming is not until October.

It’s halfway through June, Paul, Susan snaps.

I wonder who’s going to be the Homecoming Queen, I taunt.

"If Bobby is Homecoming King, I will be the Homecoming Queen."

I shrug. You never know.

I was thinking about wearing a pink ball gown, Connie says.

"I’m wearing pink!" exclaims Susan.

I turn to Susan. Hey, what if Bobby wears a pink tux?

Gee, I wonder what this movie will be about. Connie tries to break up the tension.

Connie, look at the screen, orders Susan. It’s just a bunch of surfer shots.

Bobby was probably only gone ten minutes but it felt like an eternity. He hands me a soda and scoots in the back next to Susan.

Here’s your popcorn.

I told you I didn’t want anything, protests Susan.

Oh well, here, Connie, you take it, Bobby offers.

Oh, thanks. Connie accepts it.

I thought you wanted popcorn, says Susan.

I got gum instead, Bobby says.

You know how I feel about gum chewing. Spit it out.

Bobby rolls down his window and spits it out. He puts his arm around Susan. She stares ahead at the screen. Bobby is just another one of her accessories.

Connie scoots closer to me. Want some?

Thanks.

She rests her head on my shoulder. I can’t reach the popcorn to my mouth because my arm is caught. So I try to throw it back into her cup, but I get a couple pieces in her hair. She doesn’t notice. I look back. Susan is staring ahead as Bobby necks her.

Bobby, you’re touching my hair.

Bobby isn’t going to try again tonight. He looks at me and then at Connie. He throws me an encouraging smirk. I realize Connie is looking straight at me with those big brown doe eyes of hers.

This is nice, isn’t it? Connie asks.

Yeah. Do you mind if I move my arm?

Oh, sorry.

Don’t worry about it.

Do you think we might go out again sometime?

Sure.

When?

I don’t know.

Well, whenever you want to go out, we can.

Look, Connie, I don’t want to—

I get flicked in the back of the head. Bobby’s subtle way of reminding me not to screw this up.

What I mean is, I think we should take things slow.

I know. That’s why Susan put us together.

All I can do is sip my soda. Luckily, Connie is content with resting on my shoulder and watching the surfers do their tricks. There are no uncomfortable good-byes. Susan can sense I won’t kiss Connie, and she won’t allow me to reject her. Susan doesn’t care if Bobby kisses her good night and goes ahead with Connie inside.

I drive us back home. Give me a stick.

A what? Bobby asks.

A stick of gum.

I only had the one piece. Sorry.

I shake my head. That’s because it came straight out of Betty Jo’s mouth.

You don’t know that!

You spat out pink Teaberry gum, Betty Jo’s favorite. Now what are you doing with her? She’s a mess.

Hey, you hate Susan! Bobby accuses.

Betty Jo isn’t someone I’d like to see you with either!

Bobby’s nostrils flare. You’re a real pain in the ass sometimes, do you know that? God, you put that together from one piece of gum.

Not just that. She complimented me. She was punishing you a little for being with Susan.

Susan and I have been going steady for almost two years now. Betty Jo and I have only been together for a few months. She knows that Susan is my girlfriend.

So you really took Mr. Parr’s advice after all.

Paul, don’t say anything to anyone. Please.

***

The next morning, Mom asks us to groom the lawn and bushes again. I am almost done when someone taps me on the shoulder. I jump. It’s Joe. He’s acting like it’s his birthday.

Joe, I can’t hear you. I wave to Bobby.

Bobby turns the mower off. What?

You guys are not going to believe it! Joe cheers.

Believe what? I ask.

Look! Just look! He runs to the end of the yard.

Joe, we got to finish this, or Mom will—

Just take a look!

I trim here and there along the way.

Come on, Paul! Joe points to Ms. Winters’ backyard.

I make it to him just as Bobby does.

Is that or is that not a dog?! Joe exclaims.

Holy shit, I breathe.

Isn’t he awesome? Joe says.

I only have eyes for the one throwing the ball to the dog. She is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.

In another life, she must have been a mermaid. Someone that lovely can’t be just anybody. The sky gave her