Amy pawed through outfit after outfit. The clerk kept sniffing around her. I hovered around the exit, waiting for her to be done.
She never noticed.
Unasked for, an image of Melody appeared in my mind. She never would have made me change what I wore. Or ignored me when we went out.
But then again, Melody didn’t have a perfect body. Even if she’d been unscarred, Amy would have won the swimsuit competition. And the evening-gown contest. As for Miss Congeniality…
Amy joined me in the main part of the mall.
“Hey, can we stop by RadioShack?” I asked.
“Oh, Leon, do we have to?” She pouted.
“Then how about the bookstore?”
“Sure. Hey, sale at Francine’s! Wait here for a minute, Leon.”
A minute turned into twenty. And we never did go to the bookstore. But Amy held my hand as we went to clothes store after clothes store. And she let me kiss her when I dropped her off at home.
Everything would work out. I was sure of it.
Besides, if I didn’t make the effort, I knew some other guy would.
On my third or fourth time out with Amy, I began to notice how stinky our dates were. There was the sweat of the party and the bowling alley foot odor, and now, as we strolled through the chill night air, I stank again. We had met in University City (part of St. Louis) several hours earlier. I had hoped we’d just hang out, but instead we spent three noisy hours at a dance club, listening to some lousy local band, as I sweated and was knocked around by the various headbangers. Then we ran into some of Amy’s friends and I was dragged to an all-night diner, where I ate an overpriced omelet while a bunch of people I’d never met discussed people I didn’t know. Finally, we all went to some dude’s dorm room at Washington University, where about fifteen college students were blasting their stereo and getting ridiculously drunk on some supermarket tequila.
Now here it was, around midnight. My new shirt stank of sweat, cheap booze, and pot smoke. I felt like I’d inhaled three packs of someone else’s cigarettes. We were blocks from our cars. I hadn’t expected to be out this late, so I hadn’t brought a jacket. For late April, it was pretty damn chilly.
Amy walked close to me, stopping to examine the various window displays we passed. While I felt like a human hair ball, Amy still managed to look like a picture you’d see in a photographer’s display.
Amy was studying an outfit in the window of a vintage-clothes store. “I dunno. Kind of cute, but…what do you think?”
It amazed me that women wasted time asking men for their opinions on clothes. “Looks great,” I replied without looking.
Amy nodded, gazed for a few more seconds, and then moved on. I fidgeted. Once again, I was out with Amy and not enjoying myself. The highlight of the evening had been kissing her on the dance floor, hours earlier. Even that had been rushed. It was like kissing me was something she was supposed to do every so often, like putting change in a parking meter.
I wished I was home. I had sort of expected to get further with Amy by this point. But aside from holding hands and kissing good night, there was nothing. We were never alone long enough.
My date was looking at some titles displayed in a bookstore window. I noticed with annoyance that she was reading the cover of a book by a radio commentator I hated. The more I got to know Amy, the more I realized how little our personalities meshed.
I blew on my hands, fidgeted again, and basically, without saying it, let her know I was ready to go. She giggled, let me take her hand, and walked with me toward my car.
“You’ve seemed quiet lately, Leon.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t have much to say.” Maybe if we’d talked about something interesting…
“No, I mean for over a week now. Whenever we go out, you act like you’re bored.”
“I’m not bored.”
“Leon, c’mon. You never talk when we’re together.” She stopped walking and looked at me. “Sometimes I think you’re not having fun with me.” She sounded sad, but her voice held just the slightest hint of a threat. Other guys would enjoy being with me no matter what we did.
“Of course I’m having fun,” I asserted, but it sounded flat.
“You need to cut loose. I can’t be holding your hand every time we go out.”
“Holding my hand?” For the first time, I raised my voice at Amy. “I don’t need anyone to hold my hand.”
She looked slightly abashed. “I didn’t mean that. But when we do stuff with my friends, it’s like you can’t wait to leave. You’re allowed to talk, you know.”
I pretended to be interested in a flier on a phone pole. “Maybe if people would ever discuss something interesting, I would talk.”
In less than a second, Amy was staring me in the eyes. “So my friends are boring? Is that it?”
Yes. “No. I’m just not a party guy.”
“I guess you’d rather hang out in a bowling alley, then? Talk about farting with Johnny or listen to Samantha wish she wasn’t a girl?”
There was a long pause. On the next block, someone peeled out.
“Watch how you talk about my friends, Amy. And do you have to do that now?” She’d been about to light up again.
Amy held the unlit cigarette in her fingers. “So it’s okay for you to talk about my friends, but I can’t talk about yours?”
This was getting out of hand.
“Amy, I like you. All I’m saying is, I wish you wouldn’t try to change me.”
Amy’s cigarette crumpled in her fingers. “I never tried to change you!”
That was the biggest load of BS I’d heard since my report on politics. “What about taking me clothes shopping?”
“Well, pardon the hell out of me, Leon! I had no idea your ratty jeans were such a part of you!”
“It’s not just the jeans. I always feel like I’m not good enough for you, that I’m letting you down.”
“I never thought that. Leon, you’re great. I didn’t realize you needed to be told that every two minutes.”
“Listen, Mel…Amy.”
Whoops.
It was dark and cold and lonely, and I wished we’d get mugged to cover up my enormous screwup.
“Did you just call me Melody?” Her voice was hardly audible.
“No.”
Amy began to walk. Quickly, but not so fast that I couldn’t follow her.
“C’mon, it was an accident.”
Amy stopped in front of a McDonald’s. “Leon, you better make goddamn sure you don’t have another ‘accident.’ I saw you talking to Melody before school the other day.”
“What business is that of yours?” Exactly the wrong way to answer, but I didn’t think I needed an excuse.
“I thought we were…” She trailed off. “Forget it. I don’t own you.”
“Amy, c’mon. Melody and I, there’s nothing going on.” Anymore.
“Bullshit! She likes you. I just didn’t realize you liked her. I actually bought that ‘just friends’ crap.”
A couple of college dudes paused at the entrance to the restaurant to watch us fight.
Now was the time for me to say I didn’t like Melody. To call her ugly, or stupid, or whatever. Amy wanted blood. It was my only salvation.
“Melody’s nice. Lay off her.”
“Good night, Leon.” She turned to go into the fast food joint.
“Amy!” I grabbed her arm. She yanked away.
“Don’t you touch me!” More people were gathered around, watching us. Someone laughed.
“Amy, let’s talk.”
“Fine! Let’s talk. Let me hear you say you’re not hung up on Melody. Let me hear you say that I don’t have to live up to her. Tell me you won’t talk to her anymore.”
Amy? Jealous of Melody?
“Listen, Amy…”
“I mean it, Leon! Tell me it’s over between you, or it’s over between us.”
I paused for a second. A second too long, as it turned out.
 
; “Goodbye, Leon.”
“Amy! Melody’s not…”
She was running. I chased her. By the time I caught up with her, she was at her car. She didn’t listen when I shouted her name, and I knew better than to try to touch her right then. When she got into her car, I risked a head injury by leaning in after her.
I thought maybe she’d yell at me, but she sat still and emotionless, like an exquisite mannequin. She didn’t turn toward me or make an effort to start the car. I stood up and she slammed the door.
I watched her taillights fade into the distance. (Actually, traffic was thick, so there was an awkward minute when I just stood there, two feet from her car, as she tried to merge.)
Dumb-ass! What did I go and defend Melody for? She didn’t want to have anything to do with me. I should have called her every name in the book instead of jumping to her defense. I kicked the fender of a parked car in anger, then went scurrying off when the alarm sounded.
34
ZONED OUT
Shortly after I’d met Jimmy and Johnny, their parents had finished off their basement and turned it over to the twins. Mr. and Mrs. Thomson always said it was so their sons would have a place to be noisy. In truth, it was more like something you’d do for a destructive dog or an insane uncle: they had to sacrifice the basement to save the rest of the house.
Whatever the reason, it was a great place to hang out. There was a pool table, a couple of old couches, and an Xbox. Provided we didn’t smoke or use drugs, the elder Thomsons pretty much allowed us to run wild. They never asked about the stains on the rug or the head-shaped holes in the drywall.
It was Monday evening, and Rob and I were facing off against Jimmy and Samantha in a game of eight ball. Jimmy was the only one who was any good—when he wasn’t reminding us of the alternate meanings of “ball,” “stick,” “rack,” and “hole.”
“Now watch this. Trick shot.” Jimmy made a big show of lining up his stick. I wasn’t sure what he intended, but he managed to miss the ball entirely. Somehow his pool cue ricocheted off the felt and smacked him right in the face.
“Hey, first try!” said Rob. We all applauded.
“You assholes,” moaned Jimmy, clutching his bleeding nose. “That’s not what I meant to do.”
I managed to sink the cue ball on the next shot. Samantha began to rack the balls for another go-round.
“So where’s your brother?” asked Rob, sighting his cue. He always tried to come across as a hustler. I didn’t tell him he had a big streak of chalk across his forehead.
Jimmy cleared his nose. “Out with Jessica. Apparently he got tired of making out with Leon.”
Samantha was still obsessively straightening the triangle. “Speaking of which, where’s Amy?”
How the hell would I know? She hadn’t called me for the rest of the weekend. I didn’t call her. Well, actually, I did. But no one answered, and I didn’t leave a message. In chemistry that day, she didn’t look at me. She made it a point to ignore me.
I chalked up. “We had a fight the other day.”
Several snide comments died in the air. Friends know where the line is. They might insult your looks, your clothes, your family, and your personality, but they also know when to lay off.
Samantha broke. The cue ball gently rolled into the one ball. The triangle sat undisturbed.
“What did you fight about, Leon?”
“Melody. She thinks I’m still hung up on her.”
“So?” said Jimmy. “Girls are like that.”
Samantha jabbed him in the ribs with her stick.
“People are like that,” he immediately corrected himself. “Just tell her she has nothing to worry about.”
“Well,” I said, thinking about what I’d been dancing around for a couple of days, “I’m wondering if Amy might have a point.” There. I can admit it.
Rob, Jimmy, and I all shot in silence. Samantha made three unsuccessful attempts to hit the white ball.
“Leon, I warned—” She caught herself. “So what are you going to do?”
I shrugged. “Call Amy and apologize, I guess.”
“Is that what you really want?” Rob sank two balls with one shot. For a second I thought he’d broken his cue, but it was just his back popping.
“I guess. It’s just that Melody…Jesus.” I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I even got choked up when I thought about The Twilight Zone.
Though the game wasn’t over, Samantha hung up her cue. “I have to go. Leon…” She stood in front of me and gently took my arm. “You’re not the first guy this has happened to. But if you really want to patch things up with Amy, do it soon. She’s not a girl who’s used to competing with anyone.” She squeezed my arm and headed for the stairs.
Amy, I pondered, wasn’t the only one who wouldn’t wait. School ended in three weeks. Then I wouldn’t see Melody again for nearly three months. When we came back to MZH as seniors, we’d be strangers.
What sort of people watched TV at three o’clock on a Tuesday morning? People who needed phone sex and drunk-driving lawyers, judging by the commercials.
I couldn’t sleep. Samantha had rattled me. I guessed I’d had such a high opinion of myself that I’d secretly believed that Melody would always take me back. But once school ended, I wouldn’t see her until late August. Her feelings would fade. Maybe Rob was right, she might even meet someone else.
And so what? I could grovel my way back into Amy’s life; she saw something in me, apparently.
Then again, maybe I’d just end up being bored, with Amy trying to change me. Or more likely, she’d get bored with me. We’d dated only a couple of weeks.
Why couldn’t I get a sign from God? Why couldn’t he just descend from his heavenly throne for five stupid minutes and say “Leon! Don’t give up on Amy!” or “Melody’s the one!”
Of course, if the Lord had something to say to me, it probably wouldn’t be about sorting out my love life. Which is too bad, because otherwise more teenagers would go to church.
In the meantime, I was watching infomercials in the middle of the night. Maybe I ought to just go psycho and join Dan in whatever he did.
Most stations were off the air, and I was having serious doubts about the weight-loss pills being advertised. I turned on the DVD player.
Rod Serling. It was the Twilight Zone DVD Melody had returned. I started an episode.
It was the one Melody had talked about back on her birthday. For twenty minutes, we heard a female hospital patient bemoaning her hideous face, but we never saw her. Then, surprise, surprise, she was actually a gorgeous woman, living on a planet of pig people. In the end, she was banished to the island of the ugly people, escorted by a handsome “mutant” guy.
Rod then beat us over the head with the obvious moral: beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
What if Amy had a pig face? Would I date her? Of course not.
What if Melody had a pig face? In a way she did. Not literally, but no one found her attractive. Even when I’d been on top of her in the barn, I’d wished she was normal.
What if they both had pig faces?
Then my choice would be easy.
“Leon?” Mom was standing in the hallway in her bathrobe. “What are you still doing up?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
She joined me on the couch.
“I remember this show. Your grandma wouldn’t let me watch it. She said it would give me nightmares.”
Quietly, we watched part of the episode where William Shatner was tormented by the diner fortune-telling thing.
“Leon? What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing. Well, something, but it’s not drugs, or sex, or suicide, so don’t worry.”
She paused the show. “I’m always going to worry about you, whether you like it or not. Do you want to talk?”
I yawned. “No. It’s something I have to deal with on my own. But, um, thanks for…you know, worrying.”
“It’s what moms do. I was pregnant wit
h you before your grandma stopped reminding me to change my oil and check my tire pressure.”
“Mom, she still does that.”
“Yes,” said Mom, bitterly. “And I’m sure I’ll still be bugging you by the time you’re my age.”
I smiled at Mom, and for the first time in years, she leaned over and kissed my cheek. I winked at her and headed off to bed, hoping to get a couple of hours’ sleep. I had some unpleasant stuff to do the next day.
35
DOWN IN THE DUMPS
I gazed across the Formica tabletop into Amy’s blue-gray eyes. I couldn’t help thinking she was the prettiest girl in the room. Of course, maybe the Taco Barn wasn’t the greatest place to make such comparisons; next to this crowd of hicks, the Elephant Man would have been a looker.
It was Tuesday afternoon. I had called her earlier and asked her to meet me here. She hadn’t said much since arriving. Her face told me nothing: her lips stretched in a tight line, her eyes expressionless. So cold, so distant, and so very, very beautiful. I knew I had made the right choice.
“Listen, Amy.” Sheesh, where to begin? “I’m sorry about the other night. There was a lot I wanted to say, but it came out wrong.” God, this isn’t easy.
Amy smiled a little. I felt like she was holding my heart in her hand. “Amy, I’ve enjoyed being with you so much. You’re a great person, and I’m sorry if you ever thought I didn’t have fun with you.”
“It’s okay, Leon…” She moved to touch my hand. I pulled back. Then I said the word that bode disaster in any relationship talk. The dreaded word. The B word.
“But…”
“But…,” repeated Amy, the smile gone.
“But”—I struggled to maintain eye contact—“we don’t get along that great.”
“Leon…”
“We don’t, Amy. We have fun, but…we like a lot of different things. Whenever we do anything, it’s either what I want to do or what you want to do. There’s never anything we want to do.”
I waited for Amy to say something but she kept staring me down. “Go on,” she said eventually.