No sense in tempting fate . . . or whoever it was. Except he didn’t exist any more. Besides, I should be earning more and spending less.
Friday night Steve and I went out and did all the things he hates most, and I had a great time because there were people everywhere we went. Herds of them. Droves of them. We went to the football rally, and it poured rain so hard they couldn’t even get the bonfire lit.
Still, the rah-rah girls got up on the wet stage and did their pompom numbers, and the football team did their thing, completely suited up and bursting through big hoops of soggy paper. “Do we let a little rain dampen our spirits?” “NO!” the crowd roared. “Does our team play their best in the mud?” “YES!” the crowd roared. I tried to shelter Steve with half my slicker, but he only stood there, looking red-nosed and rat-drowned.
Then we went to Friendly’s, and everybody was there, smoking up a storm, building pyramids of soda spoons, leaving nickel tips in the bottoms of sundae glasses. The jukebox throbbed “Why Can’t We Be Friends?” by War.
Alison and Phil were there, in a booth on the other side of the counter, and she and I sent our old upbeat signals back and forth through the smoke from a variety of weeds. I’d already decided not to hold it against her—that running off to leave me in Miss Venable’s incompetent hands. When you’ve got a problem your friends can’t face, you become a . . . leper. Maybe I’d only dragged Alison in because I was jealous of her too perfect life style. Subconscious motivation. Case closed.
When we got home, Steve kissed me good night. A nice, chaste kiss, nearly missing my lips entirely. Or did I turn away at the last second? We seemed to be back at the beginning again, without the thrill of discovery. I hung my wet slicker on a hanger out in the hall where it would drip on the tiles. Then I walked serenely past the phone and up the stairs to bed.
* * *
But on Saturday night it all fell apart. Mrs. Montgomery and the coach hadn’t been gone fifteen minutes, and the world seemed to be tearing at the seams. The house creaked and moaned on a windless night. The mantel clock throbbed like “The Tell-Tale Heart.” Even the fireplace tools seemed to rattle in their brass stand. I stood in the archway looking out to the hall where I could see that yes, yes, yes, I’d put the chain on the door, and no, no, no, the phone wasn’t about to ring.
I waited another hour with the two dreaming Montgomery kids fast asleep right above my head, in my care. But something was wrong with the mantel clock. It was ticking its heart out, and yet only ten minutes had passed. Not an hour. Ten minutes.
I flew at the phone. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? If I kept talking on the phone, it couldn’t ring. You couldn’t just leave it off the hook, it squawked. I dialed Steve’s number, and Mrs. Pastorini answered. I stuttered, but she seemed willing to wait. Steve was out, gone all the way to Norwalk with his dad to take delivery on a shipment of pipe, probably wouldn’t be back before midnight. Did I want him to call me, even that late?
No. Yes. “Yes, Mrs. Pastorini, as soon as he—no, would you ask him to come over to Mrs. Montgomery’s as soon as he gets home, no matter when?”
That would have taken courage if I’d been thinking. Asking a boy’s mother to tell him to come to the house where you’re baby-sitting. But Mrs. Pastorini only said she’d give him the message. And as I hung up, she said, “Bye now, honey,” which is probably what she always said at the end of a phone call.
I eased the receiver back on the cradle, and the minute—no, the second I took my hand away, the phone rang. It was almost supernatural. When the receiver was next to my ear again, it was still warm.
And there at the other end was the most terrifying voice I’d ever heard. Sometimes I still hear it, just as I’m going to sleep or in a room that’s
Friday night Steve and I went out and did all the things he hates most, and I had a great time because there were people everywhere we went. Herds of them. Droves of them. We went to the football rally, and it poured rain so hard they couldn’t even get the bonfire lit.
Still, the rah-rah girls got up on the wet stage and did their pompom numbers, and the football team did their thing, completely suited up and bursting through big hoops of soggy paper. “Do we let a little rain dampen our spirits?” “NO!” the crowd roared. “Does our team play their best in the mud?” “YES!” the crowd roared. I tried to shelter Steve with half my slicker, but he only stood there, looking red-nosed and rat-drowned.
Then we went to Friendly’s, and everybody was there, smoking up a storm, building pyramids of soda spoons, leaving nickel tips in the bottoms of sundae glasses. The jukebox throbbed “Why Can’t We Be Friends?” by War.
Alison and Phil were there, in a booth on the other side of the counter, and she and I sent our old upbeat signals back and forth through the smoke from a variety of weeds. I’d already decided not to hold it against her—that running off to leave me in Miss Venable’s incompetent hands. When you’ve got a problem your friends can’t face, you become a . . . leper. Maybe I’d only dragged Alison in because I was jealous of her too perfect life style. Subconscious motivation. Case closed.
When we got home, Steve kissed me good night. A nice, chaste kiss, nearly missing my lips entirely. Or did I turn away at the last second? We seemed to be back at the beginning again, without the thrill of discovery. I hung my wet slicker on a hanger out in the hall where it would drip on the tiles. Then I walked serenely past the phone and up the stairs to bed.
* * *
But on Saturday night it all fell apart. Mrs. Montgomery and the coach hadn’t been gone fifteen minutes, and the world seemed to be tearing at the seams. The house creaked and moaned on a windless night. The mantel clock throbbed like “The Tell-Tale Heart.” Even the fireplace tools seemed to rattle in their brass stand. I stood in the archway looking out to the hall where I could see that yes, yes, yes, I’d put the chain on the door, and no, no, no, the phone wasn’t about to ring.
I waited another hour with the two dreaming Montgomery kids fast asleep right above my head, in my care. But something was wrong with the mantel clock. It was ticking its heart out, and yet only ten minutes had passed. Not an hour. Ten minutes.
I flew at the phone. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? If I kept talking on the phone, it couldn’t ring. You couldn’t just leave it off the hook, it squawked. I dialed Steve’s number, and Mrs. Pastorini answered. I stuttered, but she seemed willing to wait. Steve was out, gone all the way to Norwalk with his dad to take delivery on a shipment of pipe, probably wouldn’t be back before midnight. Did I want him to call me, even that late?
No. Yes. “Yes, Mrs. Pastorini, as soon as he—no, would you ask him to come over to Mrs. Montgomery’s as soon as he gets home, no matter when?”
That would have taken courage if I’d been thinking. Asking a boy’s mother to tell him to come to the house where you’re baby-sitting. But Mrs. Pastorini only said she’d give him the message. And as I hung up, she said, “Bye now, honey,” which is probably what she always said at the end of a phone call.
I eased the receiver back on the cradle, and the minute—no, the second I took my hand away, the phone rang. It was almost supernatural. When the receiver was next to my ear again, it was still warm.
And there at the other end was the most terrifying voice I’d ever heard. Sometimes I still hear it, just as I’m going to sleep or in a room that’s
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