The Accidental Siren (5 page)

(Forgive me as I ease into the labyrinth of
my mind and attempt to recall–vainly, in both meanings of the
word–my first encounter with Mara. Forgive any unnecessary
adjectives, for the girl I’m about to describe could personify the
minutia of every pleasant connotation of every overused, archaic or
pretentious adjective in our desperately lacking lexicon.)

She had a woman’s swagger at
twelve-and-a-half. Hair: strawberry-blonde, and I vaguely recall a
daisy in the crook of her ear. She was an inch taller than me, two
with the ponytail; smooth cheeks and darling brown eyes that
marbled in luscious contrast with her magnolia skin; cream, melting
to peach, melting to pink. She beamed like a cherub without the
baby fat; a tender neck; pristine lips that would never part for a
dirty word. Her body–of no interest to me at the time–was wrapped
from neck to toes with home-made footie pajamas, the kind they make
for toddlers,
but I didn’t laugh
; the girl filled that silly
one-piece ensemble as if it were couture.

Dear Jesus on that cross, what have you
done?

Ms. Grisham sneered at the lovely girl. “Why
is your hair up?”

“I’m sorry, Auntie.” She tugged the blue
ribbon and released fine, un-crimped strands of woven gold.

“What happened to your blush?”

“I thought it was time for bed.”

“Did you say hello to the boy?”

She turned her head a fraction of a degree.
“Hello,
boy
.”

(My knees became balls of play-dough and the
girl’s direct address reminded me that I was an active player in
this scene. I had been consumed in her appearance as if life was a
movie and she was an actress.
Dangit, James,
I thought.
SPEAK!)
“Hey,” I replied with a nerdy half wave.

The woman’s eyes darted between us as she
analyzed our interactions. The corner of her lip lifted. “Get the
boy a glass of water.”

The girl nodded, turned up her chin as she
passed me, and walked to the kitchen.

I knew it! My senses had betrayed me!
This girl was still a
girl
; aloof, snobby, and totally weird
like the rest of ‘em. My brain searched for her faults
because–despite the tingling in my heart, the hallelujah chorus in
my ears, and the fireworks in my head–
She. Was. A. Girl.
Prolly had that curly cursive that teachers adore; prolly never
laughed at fart jokes; prolly scoffed at kids who wanna make movies
with killer monsters and evil princes. She was probably just like
Livy, stewing with girlfriends in her bedroom, finding love in the
folds of a cootie-catcher, fretting about ridiculous things like
bad hair and pimples and boys and
S-E-X
.

I have no recollection of the time between
“get the boy some water” and the feeling of a moist plastic cup
between my fingers. I can only imagine how awkward I appeared to
Ms. Grisham, standing like a fat porcelain doll in her living room
while the pretty girl retrieved my drink.

The adorable little snob stood beside me. We
faced Ms. Grisham together. Thoughts of her haughtiness began to
subside and my heart swayed back toward infatuation. I really did
need to leave–Whit was probably furious–but I couldn’t move.

“What do you think of my niece?” asked the
woman.

I forced a gulp of water. “She’s very
pretty.”

“Did you hear her sing?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“And her voice?”

“Beautiful.”

“Will you think of her when you lay in bed
tonight?”

“I don’t know, Ma’am.”

“If you were of the appropriate age, would
you marry such a pretty girl?”

“I don’t know.”

“Mmm.” She looked to her niece. “And what do
you think of our guest?”

The girl barely gave me the courtesy of a
second glance. “His face is red and chubby,” she said. “He has
little hands.”

Ms. Grisham leaned forward and rested her
elbows on the arm of her chair. She flicked the wedding ring that
dangled against the torn photograph. “Do you think he’ll dream of
you tonight?”

“Probably.”

“Why?”

“Because boys are perverts.”

“Will you dream of him?”

“No.”

“Mmm.” The woman rolled the ring in her
fingers. “Go to bed. I’ll be up soon.”

The girl nodded. She turned away and didn’t
look back.

I was glad to see her leave, but at the same
time, I wanted to grab her hand and never let go.

“I’ll ask you again, Jaaames,” said the
woman. “What do you think of my niece?”

“I think she’s rotten.”

“Do you feel a sickness in your chest?”

“Yes.” I meant it.

The corners of her smile crept through a murk
of liver marks. “Good. Enjoy your new camera.”

* * *

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

The locks bolted behind me. I released a bout
of vapor through my nostrils and hugged my loot to my chest. It was
only nine o’clock. Whit would be fine.

I looked left and searched the patch of trees
for the peeping toms. I stepped from the porch, rounded the corner
of the house, and saw my bike beside the lamppost, safe and
sound.

A paper football fluttered from the sky. It
landed with a delicate crunch in the dead grass at my feet, and
somewhere above me, a window slid shut. I stooped down to read the
words scrawled in blue highlighter:
“FOR THE BOY.”

Part of me longed for the night to be over,
to jump on my bike, process my adventure, and tell Whit all about
it from the safety of his basement bedroom. The other part wanted
to wait, to snatch the origami triangle and to revel in whatever
words the pretty girl intended for me–

The tackle came from the right. Pain ruptured
my side and the camera popped from my arms as I hit the ground. I
flailed my fists at my shadowed attacker. We tussled. He wailed his
fists into my shoulders. I tried to wiggle away, but he had me
trapped.

When he thought I was down for good, he
lunged for the note but I kicked out my foot at the perfect moment,
caught his ankle, and he tripped–elbows first–onto the pouch that
held my brand-new camera.
CRUNCH
.

My eyes stung but I held back the tears. I
stood. Before my adversary could scramble away, I dropped my fat
knee into his lower back and pinned him to the ground. His arm was
limp but his fingers clenched my note like a steel claw. “Let it
go,” I growled while working the full weight of my body into his
lower spine.
“Let. It. Go.”

“Uncle!” he cried and his fingers uncoiled
and released the paper football. I pushed his head to the grass and
crawled over his body, then I took the note, ripped the camera from
under his chest, and gathered the scattered rolls of film. Just as
I stepped toward my bike, the boy looked up from the dust and I saw
his face for the first time.

It was A.J.

His dirt-smeared mouth dropped when he saw my
face. He stood. He ran.

I dumped my soiled treasure in my bike’s
basket and peddled through the moonlit subdivision until I found a
safe place to breathe; a place where I could read the note; a place
where that house wasn’t watching me.

Savoring the suspense, I unhinged every
adorable fold of the letter. The number
“31”
was scrawled in
the bottom left corner. I was right: curly penmanship.

“
10:00. Back window.

Boys will be gone but watch the bushes.

My name is Mara.

Whats yours?”

* * *

The grass was wet but I didn’t care. I
plopped on my stomach beside the foundation of the Conrad home and
rapped on Whit’s tiny window.

My friend was in bed below me. He used a
broom handle to hit the latch and I stuck my head inside.

“Where the H.E. double–”

“You won’t believe me when I tell you. But I
can’t stay–”

“Mom came down twice! I had to say you were
in the bathroom! We’re in such deep shit if–”

“Big whoop! I’ll be back in no time!”

“Where you goin’?”

“I’ll tell ya later. Just cover for me a
little longer?”

Whit shook his head. “Didja at least get the
camera?”

I stuck the bag through the window and
dropped it on Whit’s chest, then I reached in my pocket and pulled
a ten from the wad of cash. “Got it for free. Might be broke
already, but I’ll check when I get back. I’ll hurry!” I pulled the
window shut before he could protest, then I hopped on my bike and
barreled back down the empty streets.

* * *

I hit the brakes and listened for any
indication of boys in trees before dismounting my ride. My calves
burned and I was sweating like a bacon-wrapped water chestnut.
Panting, I leaned the bike against the bushes and–

“Holy macaroni!” I snapped my hand back and
sucked my fingertip.
Blood.
I stooped down and peered
through the needles to find what bit me. The fancy bushes were
laced with barbed wire.

“
Psst!”

I looked up.

It was Mara
. She held her finger to
her lips.
“Shh.”

I nodded and mouthed,
“Okay!”

She disappeared into her room and I felt a
ping of sick in my throat. A white bed sheet flew from the window,
fanned out, and drifted to the side of the house. The girl was
holding the top corner. When I saw her, the sickness faded.

She held up her finger and mouthed,
“Just
a minute!”
then tied the corner onto something below the sill.
The sheet thinned into a homemade rope and the tip brushed the
booby-trapped bush.

I shook my head, pointed to the rope and
whispered loudly, “I can’t climb that!”

She rolled her eyes and hoisted a picnic
basket over her shoulder. In one swift motion she grabbed the rope,
hurdled the window frame, and shimmied down the siding like Mary
Jane with Spiderman’s powers. I winced as she neared the bushes,
but she planted her feet against the wall with deft timing, pushed
off, and landed on the ground unscathed.

Whoa.

“So?” she said.

“So what?”

“I told you my name, silly. What’s
yours?”

“Oh. James.”

Mara grinned. She had dimples. She wasn’t
wearing the footie pajamas, but light-blue jeans and a purple
sweatshirt. Her hair was back in a ponytail. I wanted to hug.

“Afraid of heights?” she asked and looked to
the trees. Her neck was a sweet caress. Shadows from the batting
moths turned her skin to lace.

“Nope,” I said. “I love climbing trees.”

She grabbed my hand. That simple touch
unleashed a potent current as if our bodies were opposite ends of a
battery. As we ran to the woods hand-in-hand, the kinetic charge
struck a pair of contradictory chords: an barrage of self-doubt and
a feeling of unconditional acceptance. I felt the earth tremble
beneath my trampling girth, but the sense of inadequacy was matched
by an unspoken understanding that
Mara didn’t care about my
weight
. I watched the effortless curves of her jeans as she ran
and became acutely aware of my pepperoni nipples chaffing against
my tee. My pits and back and butt were drenched... her body
probably didn’t know what a sweat gland was. But despite my sudden
desire to fix my despicable body,
I knew she liked me
anyway.

Mara stopped beneath the tree with the
tallest column of rungs. Basket in hand, she started to climb.
“Watch for rusty nails,” she called back.

“Okie-dokie,” I replied.
Okie-dokie?
Uhg.

She giggled.

A wooden platform was wedged between three
branches where the trunk split. It was barely large enough for the
two of us, but our knees would have to touch in order to fit, so I
didn’t mind the squeeze.

The basket was open when I reached the top.
Mara removed a flashlight, a box of Ritz crackers, and a circle of
brie, then placed them on the particleboard between us.

“Cheese and crackers,” she said. “It’s all I
could find.”

“Looks good. I’m starvin’.”

“Meee too.” She un-crinkled the crackers and
took out a knife.

“It’s awesome up here,” I marveled, then
glanced up and noticed that our ceiling was a cluster of dead
twigs. The nearby trees still created a lush ring of leaves, but
the branches on
our
tree were bare. I followed the black
curve of the sickly trunk, then grabbed Mara’s flashlight and
switched it on. The beam made a circle on the tree’s rugged skin
and illuminated the letters “M” and “L” cut repeatedly into the
bark. I traced the beam from the base of our platform up to the
highest twig... thousands of jagged initials spiraled the trunk and
choked the tree in an onslaught of
“M.L.M.L.M.L.M.L.”

“My middle name is Lynn...” she said, her
eyes turned down as she spread cheese on a Ritz.

I turned off the flashlight, accepted the
snack, and tried to ignore the eerie presence of our strangled
sanctuary.

* * *

“Why did you invite me here?” I asked. “Those
things you said...”

Mara gave me the first cracker. “I felt bad,”
she replied. “I wanted to tell you that I didn’t mean it.”

I nibbled the snack politely. “Then why–”

“It’s what she wanted.”

“Your aunt is weird. She sounded normal on
the–”

“She’s not my real aunt.”

“Grandma?”

“She just wants me to call her that.”

“Why? Who is she?”

“We sleep in the same room.” Mara nodded to
the window, then popped a cheese-covered cracker in her mouth.

“She’s in there now? How did you sneak
out?”

“I found a walkman on the ground a few months
ago. It had a tape of me singing, so I kept it. When I play it
while Aunty sleeps, she doesn’t wake up. Sometimes I leave it on
her pillow and sneak downstairs to watch
I Love Lucy
on Nick
at Nite.”