In the moonlight, I decide she's kind of pretty, not cover girl pretty, not sexy pretty like Cheryl, but pretty in a sort of sweet way. I wonder what she'd do if I tried to kiss her, a thought that surprises me.
I light a cigarette and look at her profile while I smoke. She has a nice mouth, full and definitely kissable.
We talk for a while about ordinary things. I ask her if she ever got a better camera but she says no, she's still got that Kodak Hawkeye. I tell her I drive around sometimes and take pictures of places Cheryl and me used to go. I don't say I always hope I just might see her wading in the spillover at the reservoir like she used to or walking along the road swinging her purse or sitting at the counter in Walgreen's drinking a cherry Coke or playing the jukebox at the Sugar Bowl or sitting on her front steps waiting for me to drive by. I can see her in those places so clear, I can't believe I'll never see her anywhere again. It's like a dagger in my heart carving me to pieces.
I tell Nora I'd like to be a photographer for National Geographic and travel all over the world—Africa, the South Pole, India, the Amazon, Japan and China and Easter Island where those heads are. I've never told anybody this, not even Cheryl, but Nora doesn't laugh or say guys like me don't get jobs like that.
Instead she says, "Maybe that's why you enlisted. To see the world. You should take lots of pictures and when you get out of the navy you can show them to National Geographic."
Like it's that easy. For a smart girl, Nora doesn't know much about how the world works. But still you can never tell. I could get lucky or something.
She tells me she wants to go to Maryland Institute, this art school in Baltimore, but her parents say they can't afford to send her there. She has to go to Towson State and live at home and take the trolley to class like she's still in high school. Her mother tells her she'd meet the wrong kind of people in art school—wild, Bohemian, no morals. She'd be ruined.
I tell her that's bullshit. She's a really good artist (and she is, I've seen some of her pictures in the art display case) and she should go to a real art school. But she just sighs and looks sad.
"The trouble with you is you got no backbone," I tell her. "You got to fight for what you want."
We look at each other and laugh because neither one of us knows how to get what we want. Never have, never will.
After a while we run out of stuff to talk about. She goes back to looking out the window, even though there's nothing to see in the dark. I go back to thinking about kissing her.
I look at the key in the ignition. I should start the car and take her home—yes, that's what I should do, what I ought to do, but I keep sitting there, smoking and thinking about kissing her. I never expected this. It wasn't on my mind when I called her up, it wasn't on my mind when she came walking out of the dark on those long legs of hers, it wasn't on my mind till she touched my shoulder and said she was sorry.
"Do you know what time it is?" she asks. Even though her voice is low, it's like a shout in the silence.
I check the glow-in-the-dark dial on my watch, a birthday present from Cheryl so we'd always know what time it was, even in the dark. "A little past ten," I say.
She draws in her breath. "Oh my God. I promised my parents I'd be home at nine thirty. They'll be worried to death—they think I'm at the Sugar Bowl with Susan Allen. Shit!" She says it in a cute way, like a kid who's just saying it out loud for the first time.
"Shit," I say like a goddamn echo. "How come you have to be home so early?"
"They're scared something will happen to me." She hesitates, bites that sweet lower lip. "You know, I might be killed by a maniac or something."
I feel like laughing, only it's not funny. "What do you think they'd say if they knew you were out with the killer himself?"
"They'd send me to the looney bin in a straitjacket." She tries to laugh like she's joking, but she means it. That's what her parents think of me. A girl would have to be crazy to get in my car. It's what they all think.
Nothing to do but drive her home now. It's probably just as well. She's not really my type. Cheryl was in Commercial like me—she was planning to go to secretarial school. This one's academic, maybe not in the Honor Society with the other brains, but going to college for sure. No sense starting something with her.
I turn the key and the engine starts. Maybe I was hoping it wouldn't, that we'd be stuck here and I'd take a chance and kiss her.
Secrets
Sunday, July 22
Nora
BUDDY stops the car around the corner from my house. He looks at me and I get this strange feeling he'd like to kiss me good night. I jerk the car door open. "I've got to go," I say and then add, "I hope you like the navy." Boy, does that sound dumb.
He shrugs. "It can't be worse than high school."
"Yeah." I hesitate, one foot outside the car but the rest of me inside. Do I want him to kiss me?
"If I write to you, will you write back?" he asks.
"Yeah, sure." But I'm thinking how will I explain when Mom notices I'm getting letters from him?
"I'm a lousy writer," he says, "almost flunked English more than once. Can't spell. So don't laugh when you read my letters."
He's still got that look in his eyes. I'm still more in the car than out. Part of me wants to lean over and kiss his cheek, which is crazy.
"I really should go," I say. "My parents..."
"So go," he says. "I'm not forcing you to stay."
"You know something?" I've got both feet on the sidewalk now, but I'm leaning in the open door. "You're much nicer than I thought."
Suddenly he reaches over and pulls me closer. His lips bump against mine.
Startled, I let him kiss me again. His mouth is soft and warm, his teeth hard. I kiss him back.
Suddenly a car passes us, and I jump away, caught in the headlights.
We stare at each other, surprised. I remember laughing the first time Charlie kissed me. I don't laugh now. Buddy's not joking around. And neither am I.
"Take care of yourself, Legs," he says.
"You, too."
We stare at each for a long moment. I want to get back in the car and come home when the sun rises. Like a girl in a story. A doomed girl maybe. But I don't even touch the door handle. I stand there in the dark and memorize his face, scared of my own thoughts.
"I'll write," he says.
"Me, too," I whisper.
Then I turn and run around the corner toward home. Behind me, I hear him drive away. I touch my lips with my fingers.
Mom and Dad are watching What's My Line? and laughing at Bennet Cerf's attempts to guess the identity of the show's mystery guest. Taking advantage of their good mood, I apologize for being late and make up a lie about meeting some other kids and forgetting about the time. Since it's obvious I haven't been drinking or making out, they say good night and I go up to bed.
Alone in the dark, I hug my old bear and worry about what happened between Buddy and me. What if Ellie finds out I let him kiss me? She'll hate me. But maybe she hates me anyway for writing all that stuff about the Church.
Downstairs I hear Mom and Dad talking. Their voices are soft, but I can pick out a few words. "Seems happier ... Susan ... Sugar Bowl ... just what she needs..." They must think I'm getting over Cheryl and Bobbi Jo, I'm going to be my old self again, I won't be moping around the house all day. They're happy because I lied to them.
I've never had a secret life before, and I'm not comfortable with it.
I'm not comfortable with my feelings about Buddy either. Truthfully, I wish he'd kissed me while we were parked in the woods, I wish I'd stroked his fuzzy head, I wished we'd made out. I wish I'd gotten back in the car and we're driving through a dark wood with honeysuckle and lightning bugs and the moon gliding along beside us. He's so much nicer than I thought. He's so sad. So haunted, so tragic ... Oh, I don't know what it is about him. I like him, I just do. I can't help it.
My life is in danger of becoming a True Confessions story.
br /> Cheryl's Diary
Friday, May 11
Guess what? I broke up with Buddy tonight. He's been getting on my nerves really bad, always kissing me and hugging me and touching me, even in school down by the gym he tried to feel me up. He's like that joke about foreign boyfriends—russian fingers and roman hands and a french tongue. Ha ha. I told Bobbi Jo that but as usual she didn't get it, said she thought he was an american. That girl needs to get out of catholic school, and get away from those nuns. What a load of crap they put in her head about sin and hell and stuff. You just can't take religion all that seriously. I mean I believe in God and all but I don't think I'm going to hell for the stuff Buddy and me do.
So anyway he begged me not to break up, I swear he almost cried. I gave his ring back and he threw it out the car window. If I didn't want it what good was it? I got out of his car and ran inside and told my dad he wouldn't leave me alone so he went out and cussed him out and Buddy drove away so fast I was scared he might wreck the car and kill himself. I saw him the next day and he tried to talk to me but I was with Bobbi Jo and Ellie and they didn't let him near me. I told them I was scared of him which was a lie but I figured it was good to have them on my side. I also told them he gave me the black eye my father gave me last month.
Here's the reason I broke up with Buddy. I'm in love with Ralph Stewart. He broke up with his girlfriend, that stuck-up Sally Smith the cheerleader queen, and I think he likes me. He's been hanging out near my locker and talking to me before and after school. I'm scared Buddy will see me with him and ruin everything, but so far he hasn't. Now it doesn't matter what Buddy sees me do, I'm not his girl anymore.
Ralph's so cute and he's on the basketball team and the baseball team and he drives a brand new fifty-six Chevy convertible his parents gave him cause he's graduating this year. It's got these big fins and it's turquoise and white and the seats look like leather but maybe they're just vinyl, I can't tell. Anyway it's beautiful and guess what???? He asked me out!!!!!. We're going to the drive-in Saturday night to see The Searchers. I saw it with Buddy but I pretended I hadn't seen it. It's a western, not my favorite kind of movie, and it stars John Wayne, not my favorite actor, but who watches the movie at a drive-in? Ha ha.
My mother is really glad Buddy's finally out of the picture. She says he'll never amount to anything, no ambition or anything, just like my father. She told me it was just as easy to fall in love with a rich guy as a poor guy. Smarter, too. It's practically the first thing she's ever told me that makes sense. She's right. A guy like Buddy won't get me out of a life like hers—no money, fighting all the time, trapped in a crummy little row house. But a guy like Ralph. His family's loaded, they must be if they live in Dulaney in one of those big houses. Besides, he's going to college, he plans to make something of himself.
Please God, let Ralph like me as much as I like him. Let him give me his class ring and ask me to go steady. Let me ride around in his car all summer with the top down and the radio playing loud. And when he leaves for Penn State, let him ask me to parties there. I'd love to see what college parties are like.
That's all, dear diary, wish me luck Saturday night!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ralph and Cheryl, Cheryl and Ralph,
Mrs. Ralph Stewart, Cheryl Stewart
Ralph and Cheryl 4-ever
Ellie's Letter
Wednesday, July 25
I DECIDE to write Nora and not say anything about religion. I'll just tell her what I've been doing and all. Maybe by now she's forgotten she wrote that stuff. Hopefully she's changed her mind, gotten over her doubts, back in the fold as the sisters say.
Dear Nora, I begin. Hi, how are you? I'm fine.
I sit and stare at the paper. My room is hot. My hand's sweaty. It sticks to the paper. Perspiration rolls down my back. I don't know what to say next. It's like I don't know Nora anymore.
I bend over the paper and try to picture Nora's face, her freckles, her smile, but she's blurry, like a snapshot out of focus. I frown and hold the pen tighter. I decide to tell her what I've been doing. Like we're talking on the phone the way we used to.
It's not as boring here as I thought it would be. A few weeks ago, Uncle Ed and Aunt Marie invited some kids from church to a cookout in the backyard. Lou Ann's our age and Barb's a year younger. They go to Sacred Heart Academy and they're really nice. You'd like them. A boy named Wayne also came. He reminds me of Paul, always joking but much cuter. Too bad he goes steady with Barb! It was kind of awkward at first, but after we had soda and hamburgers we all kind of warmed up and soon we were talking about movies and songs and stuff. They like the same things we do. Louise saw Picnic three times and On the Waterfront twice, just the opposite of you and me! They love Elvis just like we do, especially "I Want You, I Need You, I Love You." Except for Wayne. He says it's corny. His favorite is "Hound Dog" because you can jitterbug to it. He hates slow dancing. Boys!!!
Tomorrow we're going to the swimming pool. Wayne has a friend named Hank he wants me to meet. Lou Ann tells me he's a makeout artist, she says I better keep my buttons buttoned and my zippers zipped. Ha ha.
I have to say, it's really great to be with kids who don't know anything about Cheryl and Bobbi Jo. No questions, no funny looks. I'm not scared here either. Buddy's far away. I hope he's in jail by now.
Aunt Marie's house reminds me of your house. It's the same style. It's not as hot here though and the nights are lots cooler.
How do you like my lavender stationery? Doesn't it go well with this green ink? I bought it at the five and dime just to write to you.
Write soon and tell me what you're up to—nothing I wouldn't do, ha ha.
Your friend forever,
Ellie
The letter sounds dumb, but I don't know what else to say, so I put it an envelope and mail it. A dumb letter is better than no letter, I guess.
Part Eight
Changes
The Bookstore Beatnik
Monday, July 30
Nora
I FINALLY get a letter from Ellie. After I read it, I stare at the green ink looping cheerfully across the lavender paper. She's made circles over the i's instead of dots. When did she start doing that? I read it again—she's got new friends, maybe a boyfriend, she's going places, doing things. She's glad nobody up there knows about Cheryl and Bobbi Jo. She seems to be having fun, though, definitely more than I'm having.
I shove the lavender paper away and stare out my bedroom window at the leaves of the maple sighing and rustling in the morning breeze. It's the kind of letter you write to someone you don't know very well. She tells me what she's doing, but she doesn't say anything about what she's thinking. Or feeling. And that makes me sad. Really sad.
There's nothing in her letter about religion. Not one word. That probably means she doesn't feel the same way I do. Maybe she hates me for what I told her. Maybe she thinks I'm going to hell. What if she's right?
What if I told her about Buddy? She'd really hate me.
I decide not to answer her letter right away. Mainly because I don't know how to say what I need to say. Such as does she still want to be my friend? Is she mad because I don't believe in God?
What if she tells her mother what I said about God and church and all that? Suppose her mother calls my mother and tells her?
I look at my clock. Ten thirty. I decide to go to the used book store in Fullerton. It's a long walk, but I need something to read. I don't want to go the library because they all know me there and they'll ask about Cheryl and Bobbi Jo. I wonder how long I'll have to avoid people who ask questions about the murders. Lucky Ellie.
I take the path along the streetcar tracks. It dips through a patch of woods and I hesitate at the edge. The woods are full of shadows and splashes of sunlight and birdsong. I feel uneasy when the trees close in and I walk faster, looking over my shoulder, tensing at every rustle and snap in the underbrush. Anyone could be hiding in the shadows, waiting, finger pressing a trigger. My heart beats faster. I'm almost run
ning when I leave the trees behind.
In Fullerton, I keep an eye out for dogs and mean kids. It's got some tough neighborhoods. One night last winter, Cheryl and Bobbi Jo and Ellie and I had some trouble with a few boys from there, they followed us back to Ellie's house from the bowling alley and Mr. O'Brien had to chase them away. If Cheryl hadn't been such a flirt. God, she just had to go after every guy she saw, even though she was with Buddy then. She'd toss her hair and smile and give them the eye and before you knew it they were expecting a makeout party.
I realize what I'm thinking and I feel awful. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I tell Cheryl. But does she hear me?
By the time I get to the bookstore, I'm melting. I must look awful—my blouse is sticking to me and the hair on the back of my neck is damp. I'm sure my bangs have curled up like I have a home permanent and whoever did it left the stuff on too long.
The bookstore's not air conditioned. An old fan whirs away, but it's just moving hot air around and making my hair look even worse. Not that it matters.
I wander between rows of tall shelves, crammed tight with books. Surplus books are stacked in piles on the floor. The store smells like old paper turning to dust, ink evaporating, glue dissolving. I breathe it in, loving it. I wonder how long it takes books to get this particular smell.
I come across a bunch of Kathleen Winsor's books. Ellie and I read Forever Amber last year, even though it's on the Index of books Catholics aren't supposed to read. According to the Church, it has too many sex scenes, which is why, of course, we read it. Gone with the Wind is on the list, too, because of Scarlett and Rhett's divorce, a sin in the eyes of the church. We read it, too. I had to hide Forever Amber from Mom and read it under the covers at night, but she didn't even know Gone with the Wind is on the list.