Imaginary Enemy (15 page)

The Little Neighbor Boys

“I
could sure use a couple more hours’ sleep,” I muttered to myself when the alarm buzzed the first day of eleventh grade. I hit the Snooze button and turned over.

“Hey, Jane. Wake up,” said Zander brightly.

I glanced at him standing in my doorway already fully dressed. “You look good.” I yawned.

“Thanks. I woke up early. First-day jitters, I guess.”

“It’s weird we won’t be going to the same high school,” I said.

“It’ll be weird going to school at all,” replied Zander. “But I think I’ll like Stonegate. Sharp says it’s great, as school goes, anyhow.”

“I’m going to take a shower,” I said sleepily.

Dad poured himself a second cup of coffee. “Do you need a ride to school, Jane? I’m taking Zander and the deMichaels to Stonegate on my way to the marina.”

“No thanks, Dad. Raphael’s picking me up.”

“Well then, have a good day, sweetheart. Zander, have you seen my keys?”

The deMichael boys, dressed in their usual eclectic style, were waiting for Dad and Zander in the driveway when Demonseed drove up. Chord wore a red Dickies jumpsuit and flip-flops. Sharp had on a white dress shirt (untucked), a thin black tie, red and black board shorts, and soccer slides. Jazz was dressed in all black, as if he thought he was Johnny Cash. His hair was slicked to his head in a way I’d never seen before. I looked at them quizzically. “Does your school even have a dress code?” I asked.

“Sorta,” said Chord.

“A loose one,” added Sharp.

“Not strictly enforced,” Chord said.

“Apparently not,” I muttered as Raphael pulled away. “Bye, guys,” I called out the window.

“So was that the boyfriend we’ve heard so much about?” asked Chord that afternoon.

“Who?” I asked.

“The guy whose car you crawled into this morning.”

“Yeah, that’s Raphael.”

“The one you bake cookies for?” asked Sharp.

“Actually, yes.”

“Why don’t you go make
us
some cookies?” asked Chord. “Like now.”

“Yeah. I’m starved,” said Jazz.

“No cookies today. I’m making lasagna.”

“Awesome!” said Zander. “Jane makes great lasagna.” When I took foods and nutrition in ninth grade and learned to cook, I became Zander’s hero. Considering his appetite, that was no surprise, but I liked it that he always praised my culinary skills, especially since there weren’t many other things he’d ever openly admired about me.

“What time do we eat?” Sharp asked, laughing.

On a whim, I said, “Six o’clock. See you then.”

“Really?” asked Chord.

“Sure,” I said.

“I was never one to turn down a free meal,” said Sharp.

“And me? Can I come?” asked Jazz.

“Of course. All of you.”

“We’ll be there,” promised Chord.

“
Who
came to dinner?” Raphael asked me later on the phone.

“My neighbors. Sharp and Chord and Jazz.”

“Why’d you invite them?”

“No reason. I said I was making lasagna and they wanted to come.”

“A bunch of guys?”

“Raphael, are you jealous?” I asked incredulously.

“Maybe.”

“That’s really dumb. They’re just my neighbors. I’ve known them…like…forever. You saw them this morning when you picked me up.”

“Those freaks? You invited
them
to dinner?”

“They aren’t freaks, Rafi.”

“Raphael, Jane. It’s Raphael.” He rolled the
R
in his name every time he said it. I wished there was an
R
in my name so he could make it sound like a song.

After the lasagna dinner, the dynamic between the deMichael boys and me changed again. Some of the awkwardness that had seeped into our relationships melted away and was replaced with casual friendliness. We didn’t go out together, or even hang out at home very often (we all had friends and activities outside the neighborhood), but at least when we met in the yard or joined their family for a cookout, we could engage in conversation without a lot of negative energy between us.

Reflecting on the changes we’d gone through over the years, I realized what a brat I’d been, always placing myself in a position of superiority. I wondered if they knew it was my insecurity, and not really them at all, that had brought on such haughty behavior. They were so creative, quick, and confident, and I was Jane White, as generic as a yellow number two pencil.

Even Jazz, who’d been on the receiving end of more scorn than the others simply because he was with Zander so often, eased up around me. He actually joined me one night when he dropped by looking for Zander, who was out. “Whatcha doing?” he asked when he saw me sitting on the porch.

“Just killing time with George, Abraham, Alexander, and Andrew.”

“Who?” He looked around.

I fanned a stack of bills. I pulled out a one, a five, a ten, and a twenty and pointed to the faces on the bills.

“George, Abraham, Alexander, and Andrew. My favorite men, if you exclude Ulysses and Benjamin. They’re on fifties and hundreds, but not terribly available.”

“Where’d you get all that cash?”

“We worked at a tournament today. Sloppy Joes and barbeque sandwiches. Sides of potato salad and my barbeque beans, which are always a sellout. Made a bundle.”

“Let me work next time.”

“If we need you. Minimal labor costs mean a greater profit margin.”

“But more hands means shorter hours, so it could balance out.”

“I dunno. I’m pretty greedy.”

“So I’ve heard. Anyway, if you need me…”

“Wanna watch a movie?”

“What movie?”

“I dunno. We can raid Zander’s DVD collection.”

“Great plan.”

Steamrolled

I
went about my life thinking I had the world on a string. The occasional fishing tournament, paired with my father’s generosity, kept me in acceptable financial shape. Not that I had endless resources, but I managed to get basically what I needed. My social life revolved most tightly around Raphael and Emma, but a larger group filled the empty spaces. Mom normally let me use her car when I wanted. Things unfolded with relative ease.

Then, a few weeks into eleventh grade, my blissful, brainless complacency was shattered. I’d never dreamed that a ditzy blonde transferring to our school from one across town would be the source of my heartbreak, but from the first time I saw her I knew Trina was trouble. She walked into chemistry class, tossed her silky hair, handed Mr. Stanton a yellow slip of paper, and struck a pose. “She can share my table,” David Horton announced.

“She can share my chair,” chimed in Rusty Hayes.

“She can share my lap,” called out Sammy Anders, and the guys all laughed. There was only one vacant stool in the chemistry lab—the one right next to Raphael. And naturally (life isn’t fair, remember?), that was the seat Mr. Stanton assigned to Trina.

I smiled at Demonseed from across the room, but he was totally engrossed in Trina-gawking and didn’t acknowledge me. I knew even then…Well, let’s just say I had a premonition.

Trina whispered something to Raphael as she took her seat. He giggled. Giggled! It was disgusting and I wanted to puke. The next time I glanced their way, they were sharing a textbook in the coziest manner imaginable, Trina’s blond head practically resting against Demonseed’s thick brown hair. I knew trouble was a-brewing.

After class, I met Raphael at the door. “Walk me to French.”

“Can’t. I’m gonna show Trina around,” he said, rolling the
R
in her name.

“Trina?” I asked stupidly, considering the fact that she was standing right next to him and I knew exactly who he was talking about.

“Trina, this is Jane. Jane, Trina,” he said in an offhand way, almost as if I was a vague acquaintance. Then, to Trina, “I’ll show you where the lunchroom is.” And they were gone. He hadn’t kissed me or even touched me.

I stood there alone—fuming, insulted, and…well…threatened. I followed the stream of kids going in the opposite direction.

I ran into Emma in the hallway. “Who was that blonde with Raphael?” she asked.

“New girl. Trina.” I tried to roll the
R,
but failed, probably because I spoke through clenched teeth.

“Why’s he with her?”

“Don’t ask me,” I snapped.

“Sorry,” she replied, offended.

I stalked off toward my class, using a few of the choice French words my teacher had put on the forbidden list.

“I know we’ve been seeing each other for a while, and I really like you, Jane, but I never said we’d be exclusive.”

I just sat there. Why make it easy for him?

“You’re a great girl. We can still hang out.”

Silence from me.

“Are you listening?”

“Sorry, Rafi. Did you say something?”

“Jane, this is important.”

“I know. If you botch your SATs, you’ll have to retake them.”

“What? Jane, I’m not talking about SATs.”

“Oh. I thought you were.”

“Please listen.”

“Raphael, don’t you think we should see other people? I’ve been feeling restless…smothered…. Oops, I’m late for class. See ya.” I blew him a casual kiss and dashed off down the hall.

Dear Bubba,

I hate it when you make me act like that. It was totally graceless, and pathetic, too. Stay out of my business and go destroy your own hapless relationships.

Scornfully yours,
Gabriel

P.S. Ignore those smeared words on the paper. They were not caused by tears. It must be raining.

Demonseed and I had been going out for six and a half months by the time the beautiful Trina Nobles transferred to our school. She had a golden tan and bright blond hair. Well, long-legged Trina set her sights on Raphael and he was powerless to resist. So it was adios, Jane, hola, Trina. Maybe he wanted a girl with a more exciting name than Jane. One whose name had an
R
he could roll. Who knows?

And what about all those sappy lines he’d fed me? “Oh Jane, my life was dull and meaningless without you.” “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.” “I never want to be with anyone else.” “You make my life complete.” Barf. What crummy book or movie had he snatched those old standbys from? And was I really
that
gullible? Because I had fallen for them completely.

Part of what bothered me was that I felt like a stereotype. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. I was moody and irrational. My heart turned somersaults every time the phone rang. I desperately wanted it to be Raphael, yet was petrified that it might be. So there I was, a living, breathing cliché you might find in any cheap tearjerker romance on the shelves at the bookstore.

The worst thing was this: I had to sit through chemistry class every day while Rafi and Trina drooled at each other through Mr. Stanton’s boring lectures about ions, electrons, and the periodic table. Trina wore short skirts and stretched her legs between lab stations during class. She even dangled her strappy little sandal from her big toe, with its carefully polished flame-colored nail. Believe me, for Trina, chemistry had nothing to do with that stuff in the textbook.

Dear Bubba,

Why don’t you send Trina (roll the Rs when you read this) back where she came from? Her hair can’t naturally be that blond. And her grammar is pathetic. Doesn’t she know that double negatives cancel each other out? Enroll her in a remedial English class.

Ain’t got no shame,
Gabriel

Voodoo Revisited

L
uke was at the house when I got home from school one day shortly after Demonseed’s defection. He was wearing his Ferrier’s Point Marina shirt and a pair of dirty jeans.

“Just got off work,” he said. “I’m starved.” He pulled a container out of the refrigerator, opened it to peek inside, then replaced it. “How you doing, short one?”

“Don’t call me that,” I snapped.

“Touchy, touchy. So, how’s the hero?”

“What hero?” I asked.

“Raphael, who else?”

“He ditched me. And for a brainless blonde.”

“His loss, Janie. His loss.”

“Then why do I feel so bad?”

“I dunno. That’s part of the process,” he said. “It gets better. And he wasn’t all that, anyhow.”

I felt an irrational urge to defend Raphael but said nothing.

A few days later, Luke drove me to the marina. “I’ve got something for you.”

“What is it?”

“A surprise. It’s in the workshop.”

“What? An old Evinrude? A corroded swim ladder? A warped oar?” I asked, imagining all the junk typically strewn around the workshop.

“Nothing that fabulous. Come on.” We walked across the grounds to a blue building. “Ta-dah!” he sang as he swept a towel from the workbench. Beneath it lay a weatherworn plank—probably a piece of someone’s pier washed away in a storm. It was a jagged one-by-eight about two and a half feet long. On it Luke had painted a boxy figure that filled the entire board. “I can’t sew worth a flip,” he said.

“Sew?” I asked.

“Yeah. It’s a voodoo doll for you. Like you made back when Cassidy dumped me.” I looked at the plank. The figure was wild looking, but I realized immediately that it was supposed to be Raphael. It had bloodshot eyes, teeth like Godzilla, and hair made from crow feathers. A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle logo cut from a comic book was glued to the forearm like a tattoo. To top it off, Raphael’s fishing license (which he’d left at the marina) was staple-gunned across the figure’s chest. “I couldn’t find any of his hair,” Luke explained, alluding to the hair I’d stuffed into the Cassidy voodoo doll. “I figured the fishing license was just as good. Hell, it’s got his name and signature on it.” He handed me a hammer. A big twenty-ounce hammer. A practical hammer. A tool to get the job done. He pushed a box of assorted nails across the workbench. “Ammo…. Well, Janie, let him have it.”

“My pleasure.”

I practiced voodoo on that plank with the fervor of a zealot until I ran out of ammunition. Then I hugged Luke. “Thanks, bro. That was great. Next time, let’s use rusty nails.”

“Sure. And barbed wire.”

“Perfect. I could have had a successful career in the torture chambers of the Spanish Inquisition,” I said proudly.

I took my mutilated and abused Raphael voodoo plank home, where I ensconced him in a place of honor with the punked-out Barbie dolls and my collection of plastic Gothosaurs.