Under a Bear Moon (11 page)

She tapped the ball away from his clumsy grip, pivoted, and shot from where they stood. The ball dropped straight through the metal hoop without disturbing the cot-ton netting.

“Malone—4, Ursek—0,” Greg said ruefully.

Lynda beamed at him,” Come on, Greg,” she urged. “You're not trying.”

“Why should I try, when it's so much fun to lose?” But when Lynda passed the ball to him, he took a shot before she had a chance to steal it away. The ball caught on the rim and tipped in.

“There, I knew you could do it.”

This time, Greg passed the ball to her. She dribbled into position near the basket, but when she tried to shoot, he snared the ball out of the air, turned, and dropped it through the hoop.

“Good move!” she said, but she didn't give him time to repeat it.

Dribbling the ball, Lynda tried to dodge around Greg, but couldn't get past him. Wherever she headed, he was there first. Frustrated, Lynda tried to duck under his arm, and knocked into it on her way through.

“Hey, that was a foul,” Greg protested.

Instead of answering, she leapt up and scored another basket. Catching the rebound, she turned to him and grinned. “Maybe technically. But we're not playing technically. Here!”

Tossing him the ball, Lynda tried her best to guard the basket, but it was no good. Greg looked awkward and clumsy, but he moved with deceptive speed. Before long, he'd scored again. And again. After the third basket in a row, the sights and sounds of the gymnasium faded from Lynda's awareness, and she focused her attention on the game. She loved a challenge, and she'd just decided that Greg presented one.

Lynda threw herself into the game. She flew around the half court, nearly trampling the grammar school students who ventured too close.

Greg didn't seem to be trying. With casual indifference, he maintained control of the game. When he had the ball, she couldn't get it away. When she had the ball, he was an impenetrable barrier. Soon, she only made points on the rebound.

“You're better at this than you look,” Lynda panted before she passed him the ball after scoring. “You should go out for the team.”

Greg shrugged and dribbled into position.

This time Lynda moved in close, very close. Having decided that she couldn't jump high enough to keep him from shooting, she concentrated on stealing the ball while he maneuvered into position. She moved into his space until it was impossible for him to dribble the ball from one hand to the other. Wherever he turned, Lynda was there. When she saw an opening, she lunged for the ball. Her foot hit a stray hockey puck and slipped out from under her.

Her hand struck the ball, sending it flying into the locker room door. She stumbled into Greg, and they both went down. Lynda was glad she was on top. Greg was big enough to squash her.

“Now that was definitely a foul,” he rumbled beneath her.

Lynda looked up and saw his grin. “Are you all right?” she tried to ask, but all that came out was a strangled gasp.

Greg's grin faded and he wrapped his arms around her. “You're not hurt, are you?”

Lynda shook her head. She'd just had the air knocked out of her. She lay still trying to catch her breath. Greg made a great mattress, not soft, exactly, but wonderfully resilient. Every inch of her pressed against his body, her legs, her hips, her stomach, her chest. She became aware of how warm Greg was and how he smelled spicy and musky, but not at all sweaty. Lynda had never been so aware of a boy before, and she found herself reluctant to pull away, even after her breath came easily.

Mr. Peterson's shoes came into view. “You two okay? That was quite a fall.”

Lynda realized how she must look, lying on Greg, cradled in his arms. Struggling to her feet, she turned to the teacher. “We're fine, thanks,” she stammered.

“Just fine,” Greg squeaked.

Lynda turned and stared at him. She'd never heard his voice break before. To her surprise, his face looked as red as hers felt.

“Try to be more careful,” the teacher said, tempering his words with a grin.

“Hey, cool it down there,” he cried. He blew his whistle and strode away.

“I'd better get going,” Greg said in his normal voice.

“Me, too.”

They walked together to recover the ball.

Greg flipped the ball box open, and Lynda tossed in the ball. After the lid clanged shut, she turned to him. “Thanks for coming.”

He rubbed his head. “My pleasure, I think. Headed home?”

Lynda giggled. “Yeah. Mom's got a late meeting, so I promised to get dinner ready before my seven o'clock rehearsal.”

“See you later, then. Have a good rehearsal.” He waved and jogged out the door.

“Thanks.” She watched him leave the gym and turned toward the hockey game. “Hey, John-John! I'm going home. Want to come?”

He looked up and shook his head. Waving, Lynda turned and entered the locker room. Grabbing her jacket, she tried to think about the play, her history assignment, the dinner she would prepare, anything but the way Greg's body felt against hers. But even later that night while she walked to rehearsal, all she could think about was Greg, and how she'd felt, held against him on the gymnasium floor.

THE REHEARSAL went an hour longer than expected. Stepping through the auditorium door, Lynda gazed at the deserted campus. The only illumination came from the scattered street lights and the auditorium windows. No headlights broke the pattern of pale circles lining the pitch black street. A wintry breeze whined through the bare trees and evergreen shrubs surrounding the school as if reminding her that spring was still two weeks away. She turned to Richard, who had followed her out the door. “I changed my mind. I'd love a ride home.”

He smiled. “Great.”

Lynda looked up. Even the sky, usually a rosy pink due to Chicago's unique street lights, seemed darkly threatening. There was no sign of the full moon that had graced her walk to school. Lynda shivered, suddenly chilled.

Richard walked up to her and casually draped his arm around shoulders. “Gloomy, isn't it?”

“Sure is.”

Richard was tall enough for Lynda to fit comfortably under his arm, and she felt warmer, standing so close to him. She tilted her head. His eyes looked black in the gloom, but his smile glittered with reflected street lights. Her stomach fluttered. Quickly looking down, she stepped away.

Richard shrugged. “The BMW's over in the west parking lot.”

Turning, he walked down the sidewalk toward the parking lot. Lynda followed. Blinding headlights appeared on the street before they got there and threw long, distorted shadows behind them. A moment later, an ancient Volvo shuddered to a stop.

“Lynda, I thought the rehearsal ended at nine,” a familiar voice boomed from the open window.

“Greg!” Lynda ran up to the car. “It should've been done an hour ago, but you know how rehearsals go. We just finished.”

The interior light clicked on, and she saw his father behind the steering wheel. “Hello, Mr. Ursek. Have you met Richard Hammer? He's in the play with me.”

Mr. Ursek nodded a greeting while Richard stepped beside Lynda and took her arm. “Come on, Lynda, it's getting late. I'd better drive you home.”

Greg's grin missed his eyes. “There's no need to go out of your way. My father and I are driving past her house, anyway. Lynda can catch a ride with us.” He turned to Lynda, and his face eased into a real smile.

“Please allow me to drive you home, my dear,” his father added. “It is much too late for young people to be out unescorted. Richard, I would be happy to drive you home, as well. You could pick up your vehicle tomorrow.”

Richard stepped back from the Volvo. “No, thanks. Come on, Lynda. Do you want that lift, or not?”

Lynda looked at the decrepit car. She liked riding in Richard's elegant convertible and enjoyed the envious looks other kids gave her when she got into it with Richard. She was tempted to decline Mr. Ursek's offer, but Greg's hopeful expression stopped her. “Thanks anyway, Richard. But I don't want to put you out. I'll go with Mr. Ursek.”

“Fine,” he grumbled. “See you tomorrow.”

Lynda waved and slipped into the back seat. The light was too dim for her to see Richard's expression, or how his hands clenched at his sides.

HE AWOKE suddenly. While tantalizing fragments of a dream evaporated, he rubbed his eyes, sat up, and checked the clock. Its glowing 4:00 A.M. was the only light in the room. Feeling the moon's pull through thick black curtains, he slipped from underneath the blankets and walked to the window. Pushing the curtains aside, he gazed at the night.

The moon rode high and full in the sky. Its radiance evaded the trees’ budding leaves and brushed the alley with silver. The moonlight caressed his face, and he felt himself change, felt the world shift. His senses expanded until the scents and sounds of the vernal night surrounded him. Turning, he left the trappings of humanity to dance under the full moon's light.

LYNDA KICKED a loose chunk of sidewalk into the gutter and just missed the toe of Greg's shoe. An unseasonably warm breeze rustled through the trees lining the street and tousled her hair. Tiny leaves, almost too small to see, formed a haze around each branch. The setting sun brushed them with gold and sent elongated shadows racing ahead of the two friends. Walking home from “Charlie Brown's” first technical rehearsal, she couldn't decide which irritated her more, Greg's resignation or having spent a beautiful spring day in a stuffy theater.

She suppressed the urge to aim her next kick at Greg's shin. “No, I do not understand. Why can't you come to the party?”

Greg sighed. “My parents are paranoid. They think I'll get mugged or beaten up by a bunch of gang-bangers.” He paused to sniff the air, apparently savoring the smell of other people's dinners. Lunch had been hours ago, and they'd all been too busy to grab a snack.

“It'd have to be an awfully big bunch,” Lynda muttered, not bothering to stop and wait for him.

Greg hurried to catch up. “What did you say?”

“Get real, Greg. There has to be more to it than that. Look at you. If a gang stumbled across you in the dark, they'd be the ones running. You look—I don't know—dangerous. I'd probably be safer walking with you to the party than I would be driving by myself.”

Greg stopped. “You're not thinking of walking there, are you?”

Aiming for another rock and missing, Lynda swallowed a swear word and kept walking. “I might have to. Mom's Audi is in the shop again, and I don't know if it'll be ready by Saturday. No matter what, I am going to the party.” She turned and glared at him. “Come on, Greg, I want to get home in time for dinner.”

Greg trotted after her. “I don't like the idea of you going to Richard's party alone.”

“Then come with me,” she said, exasperated. “If you don't want to ask your parents, let me. Maybe I can talk them into it.”

Greg grinned. “If anyone could talk Dad into letting me go, it'd be you. But Dad's made up his mind. I know it's hard to understand, but—” He faltered as if unsure how to explain.

“You could at least ask.”

“I will. But I know what the answer will be.”

They didn't say anything for the next two blocks.

In front of her house, Lynda stopped and turned to Greg. “They're going to have to let you go someday.”

Anger and frustration darkened his eyes. “Yeah, but when?”

Lynda stared at him a moment, then reached up and quickly kissed his cheek. “For luck when you ask your parents.”

His hand rose to the spot and lingered there while she ran up the stairs and darted into the house.

Bernard Ursek lowered his newspaper and addressed his pacing son. “It is out of the question.”

Greg paused in front of the bay window's drawn curtain, his hands clasped behind him.

“Even though the forecast is favorable, you know your aunt will be addressing the Committee on Comparative Folklore that Friday. Both she and your cousin will fly in from Cambridge and spend the weekend with us. It is your duty to help entertain our guests.”

Greg grimaced at the thought of the skinny little kid he'd last seen four years ago. With her skinned knees, sunburned nose and snide expression, she'd born a striking resemblance to Dennis the Menace. “But they're not guests, Dad. We're talking about Aunt June and Meg-the-Dreg.”

“You will speak of your cousin Megan with respect,” his father bellowed, half rising from the couch.

Greg raised his hands, placatingly. “Just kidding.” He sat on the couch beside his father. “Look Dad, all I want are a few hours Saturday to take Lynda to a party. I don't want her to walk home by herself.”

“Lynda is too sensible to do anything so foolish,” his father replied. “Perhaps you can go out with her a suitable evening next month, but Saturday is out of the question.” He returned to his newspaper.

Greg stared at the paper a moment, then exploded off the couch. Storming to his room, he slammed his door hard enough to rattle the windows. In the living room, his father turned the page and continued to read.

“WE'LL MISS you at the party,” Richard said. He lay his hand on Lynda's shoulder. “Don't worry about my Lucy here. I'll see she gets home all right.”

Startled, Greg turned to face the smiling actor. The noisy activity of the lunchroom had masked Richard's approach. He stifled a groan. Explaining to Lynda that he had to miss the party was bad enough; he didn't need Hammer's gloating on top of it.

“Hi, Richard,” Lynda said. She turned back to Greg. “Maybe we can do pizza together between the two Saturday performances. You know, like we did last semester?”

“I can't.” Lynda looked so disappointed, Greg wanted to run home and tell his father what he could do with his “duty.” Instead, he tried to explain. “Mom's sister and her family are visiting from Cambridge this weekend, and Dad made me promise to entertain my bratty cousin. I'm sorry, Lynda. At least I'll see the play at school tomorrow. I wouldn't miss it for anything.”

“As long as it's okay with Daddy,” Richard muttered just loud enough for Greg to hear.