Strays by Ron Koertge

day of my life.
    In Megan’s room there’s a plasma TV and all those mirrors that Wanda mentioned before. On one of them, right at eye-level, where she can see it from her StairMaster, is a note in Magic Marker: GET THAT BIG ASS OF YOURS UP THOSE STEPS .
    Wanda tells me, “Nice, huh?”
    “Not so much, actually.”
    We’re on our way back outdoors when she stops me in the door of the music room. There’s the biggest piano I’ve ever seen.
    “Does anybody play that thing?” I ask.
    “Megan took lessons when she was little.”
    “My father would say, ‘All that money just so some spoiled brat can play ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.’”
    Wanda leans against the doorjamb and crosses her arms. “My dad was a carpenter. And he had this bumper sticker inside his toolbox that said, EVERY TIME I HEAR THE WORD
CULTURE,
I REACH FOR MY PISTOL . Not that he actually had a pistol.”
    “Do you miss your parents?” I blurt.
    “I’m too pissed off to miss them.”
    “I can’t hear their voices anymore, you know? I don’t remember what my own parents sounded like.”
    She puts one hand behind my head, sort of on my neck. I stand very still.
    “I don’t know where that came from,” I tell her. “I’m sorry.”
    Then she leans in and kisses me on the forehead. “Orphans in the storm,” she says.
    By the pool, Megan and Astin are still making out except now they’re wrapped around each other on one chaise.
    “Seriously,” says Wanda, looking for a place to put her wedge of cheesecake, “can you two do that somewhere else?”
    Megan gets to her feet and tugs at her bikini. Astin gropes for a towel. Then he chases her toward the house.
    “Oh, Ted!”
    When I turn, Megan is standing in the doorway.
    “Ted, rinse all those plates, will you? And stack them. Maria will do the rest in the morning.”
    Wanda says, “Don’t pay any attention to her.”
    “It’s okay.”
    “No, it’s not. She can order me around — we’re friends. But you’re a guest.”
    “Really, it’s no big deal.”
    “Well, don’t do it now. If I put on a CD, will you dance with me?”
    Oh, man. “I’m not very good.”
    “Who is?” She gets to her feet. “You want a little drink? Her mom’s got some two-thousand-year-old brandy.”
    “Okay, I guess.”
    While Wanda is inside, I rehearse the box step I taught myself by reading a book. I’m hoping she wants to slow dance because that’s all I know how to do.
    Sure enough, something lazy and bluesy comes from the outdoor speakers. Wanda walks toward me with a glass in each hand and her arms spread wide, like I’m home at last. I know it doesn’t mean much, but it’s a good feeling anyway.
    I take my drink, pretend to sip it, and watch her take a mouthful and lick her lips.
    “Doo-wop,” she says linking her hands behind my neck. Mine settle at her waist. Wanda’s forehead touches mine, like we’re aliens saying hello. She sings under her breath, something about the still of the night.
    Luckily I can see my feet and they’re still moving. Mostly, though, she just sways. She’s totally relaxed. I can smell the liquor on her breath, heavy and rich. I try and remember this in case it never happens again.
    When the song ends, she yawns. “Do you think sleep really will knit up the ragged sleeve of care?”
    “Probably. Are you sleepy?”
    She puts one hand to my cheek. “Just a little.”
    I lead her toward the chaises. “Go ahead. Take a little nap.”
    “Will you sleep too?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “If I snore, poke me.”
    “All right.”
    She reaches across the three or four inches that separate us. “Hold my hand, Teddy.”
    A hummingbird fools around in the bougainvillea. On the other side of the wall, a car or two goes by. Wanda’s breath evens out. Her mouth opens a little.
    I remember what Astin said: “It’s just a day at the pool with a couple of girls.”
    How cool is that?
    I watch her sleep for a while, then wander into the house to use the bathroom.