A Patchwork Planet by Anne Tyler Page A

an entirely different race, a different species, more at home in the world. More blessed.
    What I sometimes told myself: I’ll be that way too, as soon as my real life begins.
    But I can’t explain exactly what I meant by “real life.”
    I slid behind the wheel, slammed my door shut, watched in my rearview mirror as Jeff backed toward the street. When I moved to start my engine, though, I heard a honk behind me. I checked in the mirror and found a sleek black Lexus just turning into the driveway and blocking Jeff’s exit.
    Len Parrish, after all.
    I opened my door and climbed out. Jeff was rolling forward again with the Lexus following, barely tucking its tail in off the street before it had to stop short behind our two cars. “Hold it!” I called, waving both arms, but Len went ahead and doused his lights. I walked over to the Lexus. “Don’t park! I have to leave!”
    He lowered his window. “Nice to see you too, Gaitlin.”
    “You’re blocking me in! I’m going. You’ll have to let me by.”
    Instead he got out of his car. A good-looking guy, wide-shouldered and athletic, in a fitted black overcoat. He wore a broad, lazy grin, and he asked me, “How’s the birthday boy?”
    “Fine, but—”
    “Jeff!” he said, because my brother had come to join us.
    “Hello, Len,” Jeff said. The two of them shook hands. (I just stood there.)
    “Guess I’m a little late,” Len said.
    “Well, Mom’s saved a piece of cake for you,” Jeff told him.
    “Come back inside and help me eat it, Barnaby,” Len said.
    “I can’t,” I said. “I have to be going.”
    “Aw, now. What’s the rush?”
    Here’s what’s funny: Len Parrish went along with me on every teenage stunt I ever pulled. He was with me the night I got caught, in fact, but he wasn’t caught himself, and I never breathed a word to the police. After the helicopter buzzed us, I tried to jump from the Amberlys’ sunporch roof to the limb of a maple tree. Made a little error in judgment; I’d had a puff or two of pot. Landed in the pyracantha bush below. No injuries but a few scratches, thanks again to the pot, which kept me loose-limbed as a trained paratrooper all the way down. The police got so diverted, they failed to notice Len and the Muller boys slipping out the Amberlys’ back door.
    I didn’t blame Len in the least. I’d have done the same, in his place. But it irked me that my mother thought he was such a winner. Him in his expensive coat and velvety suede gloves. He pulled off one of the gloves now to stroke the hood of my car. In the dark, my car looked black, although it was a shade called Riverside Red. “Grit,” he said. He withdrew his hand and rubbed his fingers together.
    “You want to move your vehicle, Len?”
    “What you need is a garage,” he said. “Rent one or something. Take better care of this baby.”
    “I’ll go see to it this instant,” I told him. “Just let me out of the driveway.”
    “At least you ought to wash her every now and then.”
    I slid in behind the wheel and shut the door. Jeff returned to his car, and Len at last ambled toward the Lexus, while I watched in my mirror. The minute the driveway was clear, I shifted into reverse and backed out.
    Len should try this himself, if he thought Corvettes were that great. It just so happened mine was made in 1963, the year they had a split rear window. Stupidest idea in automotive history.
    I was happy enough to be leaving that I returned Len’s wave very cheerfully, before I took off toward home. Now he and Mom could have their little love feast together. Shake their heads about I-don’t-know-what-Barnaby-will-come-to. Cut themselves another slice of cake.
    I thought of my rooftop fall again. It was possible I could have escaped, if the tippy toe of my sneaker hadn’t caught on some kind of metal bracket that was sticking up from the gutter. I remembered exactly how it felt—the barely perceptible hitch as my toe and the bracket connected. I recalled