Double-Dare O’Toole (6 page)

That should've cured him. But no. He let his father think he'd fallen in by accident. From his mother's face, he was sure she knew the truth. She tried to talk to him, asked him why he let himself be used by other kids.

“Please, Fex,” she begged, sitting on the edge of his bunk. “Promise me you won't do any of that daredevil stuff. Promise me. I worry about you.” But, no matter how hard she begged, he never really promised her because he knew he'd break that promise. Sooner or later he'd break it.

His father got very angry with him. He lectured Fex a long time about growing up, taking responsibility (that word again) for his own actions. When the police had brought Fex home after the bike riding incident on the parkway, his father had been home, raking leaves. The policeman explained what had happened. His father was very polite, said thank you to the policeman. “Come inside,” he'd said then to Fex, his face tight, grim. “I want to talk to you.”

He'd paced back and forth in the living room. “You know you might have been killed, don't you?” he'd said. His voice rose, gained strength and ferocity. “It was another of those dares, wasn't it, that made you do that damn fool thing?” Fex had never seen him so angry. He'd nodded, too scared to speak.

His father lectured him for what seemed like hours. His mother cried a lot. But when her tears dried, she was just as angry as his father. Later she calmed down. “You promised me you wouldn't do those things any more,” she'd said.

“I never promised, Mom,” he'd said. “I don't know what makes me do those crazy dumb things. I try not to. But every time I do.” Then she kissed him, and he felt her cheek wet against his. He felt terrible, but that night he'd had a vivid dream. All his dreams were vivid, but this one took the cake. He was swinging on a trapeze without a net because someone had double-dared him. He looked down and heard the roar of the crowd, saw their faces turned up to watch him. When he started a spectacular triple somersault, they rose to their feet and screamed with excitement. He looked down and saw there was no net. Then he woke up. He never found out if he made it, but boy, it had been exciting!

The next morning his father had said, “I will say only one more thing on the subject and then we'll let it rest.” Fex hoped that this was so but knew it wasn't. Through tight lips, his father said, “Only fools accept dares to do things that might result in injury or death. Remember that the next time someone double-dares you, Fex. Remember that.”

And he'd tried. He really had tried.

11

Saturday opened like a huge sunflower, all yellow and green. It was a day to spend carefully, like hard-earned money. Which was what none of them had.

Audrey and Fex were cold stone broke. They stood on the corner, discussing plans.

Then, in her cool way, Audrey said, “Let's go see Angie.”

Angie was there, as usual. Behind the cash register, guarding the money, keeping a wary eye out for shoplifters.

“How's it going?” Fex said to her. “How ya doing?”

She considered this. “You know what the definition of a bore is, right? It's somebody who, when you ask 'em how they're doing, they tell you. So I'm gonna tell you. My feet hurt, the mortgage is due, my mother-in-law is coming to live with us, and the cat just had kittens. Outside of that, everything's hunky-dory.” She threw back her head and laughed. Her glasses flew off. “Uh-oh,” she said, bending down to pick them up. Miraculously, they hadn't broken.

“What're you gonna do?” Angie said. She dusted off her glasses and put them back on.

Once, long ago, Angie had left Fex in charge of the store while she ran across the street to the bakery. She liked the doughnuts they made there better than the ones she sold, she said. Fex had crossed his arms on his chest and stood his vigil, ready to fight anyone who tried to rob the joint. No one had, no one had even come in to buy anything, but how did he know that? He'd felt like the Incredible Hulk standing there, muscles bulging, prepared for the worst.

In payment Angie had given him a free Coke and a bag of Fritos. Nothing he'd eaten before or since had ever tasted sweeter.

“How's your husband?” Fex asked Angie. He'd forgotten to ask the other day when they'd had their obsession talk.

“Legs aren't what they used to be,” Angie said. “He runs out of steam early on. Hits the sack about nine, ten o'clock. Doesn't even go bowling any more. And him a young man still, sixty-four in July.” She shook her head. “But he's alive. You count your blessings, right?”

They nodded in agreement. The door opened and Mr. Soderstrom came in, trailed by Charlie.

“Fex.” Mr. Soderstrom bowed in his direction, his vast beard fanning out over his shirtfront. “Just the fellow I was looking for. Could you manage to look after this young man”—his huge hand rested lightly on Charlie's head, the thick fingers hanging down on Charlie's forehead like some weird sort of hat—“next Saturday? Company wedding. Fancy dress affair. Mrs. S. says we must go.”

“Sure, be glad to,” Fex said.

“Hi, Fex.” Charlie played it smooth, acting as if he came to the general store every day of his life.

“Hi, Charlie.” Fex played it just as cool.

Mr. Soderstrom was almost entirely bald except for his luxuriant beard, which, Fex had noticed, collected all sorts of things: tobacco, cookie crumbs, bits and pieces of potato chips, of which he was fond. If some small creature ever got caught inside Mr. Soderstrom's beard, Fex thought, it could probably survive for a long time, eating the stuff that collected there. He could almost see the small face peering out, nose twitching, as it caught the thousands of crumbs that daily filtered through. He imagined Mr. Soderstrom kissing Mrs. S.—as he called his wife—and having the creature pop out, sending her screaming, the daylights scared out of her. She'd never kiss him again without checking his beard first.

“Peat moss,” Mr. Soderstrom muttered. “You have peat moss?”

“Twenty-five-pound bags,” Angie said. “In the back. Four-fifty per.”

Mr. Soderstrom reared back as if she'd struck him. “Four-fifty!” he roared.

Angie shrugged. “Everything's gone up,” she said.

Sighing loudly, talking to himself, Mr. Soderstrom lugged a bag of peat moss to the cash register.

Angie rang it up. “Add the gum to your bill?” she asked.

“Gum? Gum? I didn't buy any gum!”

Angie pointed to Charlie, who had filched a pack of Wrigley's spearmint and was passing out sticks like Santa Claus handing out presents.

“The kid's lightfingered,” Mr. Soderstrom grumbled. “Takes after my wife's brother.” Then he felt the need to repeat himself. “My wife's brother!” he roared, in case anyone had missed it.

After the noise had died down, Angie pointed to Charlie and said, “I hardly recognized him, he got so big.”

“They grow up too fast,” Mr. Soderstrom said gloomily. He'd confided to Fex that he had two teenaged children from his first marriage. “Like 'em better when they're young,” he'd said. “If I could, I'd freeze this fellow right where he is now. Four's a wonderful age. He thinks I'm great, I think he's great. They grow up, they start finding fault with the old man.”

He shouldered the bag of peat moss. “Oh, they grow up too fast,” he repeated, shaking his head ruefully.

“Want some help?” Fex asked.

“Oh, I'm not over the hill yet, my boy!” he cried. “Not by a long shot. Come on, Charlie. Get a move on. See you Saturday, Fex. Mrs. S. will let you know what time.”

“So long,” Charlie said, deftly slipping another pack of Wrigley's spearmint into his pocket.

Angie lifted her shoulders.

“What're you gonna do?” she said.

12

Dinner that night was sweet-and-sour pork. Fex gorged himself. Jerry leaned on his elbow when his father wasn't looking, pushing bits of pineapple around his plate, as if they were racing cars and the plate the track.

“May I please be excused?” Pete said. When his manners were good, it was a sign of big things. Pete was going to a dance at the high school.

“Who's your date?” Mrs. O'Toole asked.

“Date?” Pete mouthed the word as if it were distasteful to him.
“Date?
You must be kidding, Mom. Nobody has dates for a dance.”

“In my day,” said Mr. O'Toole, “it was considered standard practice to ask a young lady to a dance. Otherwise you'd have to dance by yourself, and that might cause talk. Whom do you dance with if you don't bring a date?”

“We mess around, see what we can dig up when we get there,” Pete said. “The girls come in a crowd, we come in a crowd. Some kids disco. The rest sort of mill around, you know?”

“No,” said Mr. O'Toole. “I'm not sure I do.”

“I thought you liked that nice Butler girl,” Mrs. O'Toole said. “She seemed sweet the one time I met her. Why not ask her?”

Pete rolled his eyes and said nothing.

“Be home by eleven,” Mr. O'Toole said.

“Dad!” Pete smacked his forehead with enough force to knock himself to the floor. “Dad, the dance isn't over until eleven. Make it twelve? Please?” He shot a pleading glance at his mother, which she ignored.

“I'll compromise. Eleven-thirty. That'll give you ample time. Especially as you don't have to see a date to her front door.”

“You boobed that one,” Fex said under his breath.

Later, he leaned on the bathroom door, watching Pete lavish his father's after-shave on his face, then do the same with hair tonic, coating each strand of hair with great care.

“How come you didn't ask a girl to the dance?” Fex asked.

“You think I'm taking some girl out and have us sit in the back seat while the old man drives us to the door?” Pete squeezed toothpaste on his brush. He was going all-out tonight. “I know guys who do that. Once. Only once. They sweat buckets. The girl's making conversation with the old man, and the guy sits there like some super nerd. No dates for me until I get my license. Then I get behind the wheel and spin over to the chick's house and load her inside and take off. Once you got wheels, your sex life begins,” he finished, leering.

Fex figured if he kept his mouth shut, he might learn something. “Oh, yeah,” he said noncommittally.

“You know about sex, baby brother? The birds and the bees?” Pete admired his muscles in the mirror. “You ever make out with a girl?” he said.

“I'm not even twelve yet!” Fex protested. “Whadya want?”

“By the time I was your age”—Pete's hands were suspended over his coiffure—“I was an old hand at making out. Some guys got it, some don't.”

“Who'd you make out with?” Fex said.

“A gentleman never tells.”

“Do girls like to make out? Did she like it, the girl you made out with?”

Pete rolled back his lips and studied his gums in the mirror. “Girls, sonny, girls,” he said at last. “You better believe they did. All of 'em,” he said, leering again. “But you need practice. You don't just all of a sudden lunge at a chick and say, ‘This is it, babe.' She might deck you. You gotta be subtle.”

Fex held his breath, afraid the sound of his breathing might stop the flow of Pete's advice.

Who do I practice on? he asked himself. Just who?

“Practice makes perfect,” Pete continued. “You put the moves on a girl, you better know where it's at. For instance.” He stared hard at Fex. “You know how to French kiss?”

“French kiss? I don't even know how to American kiss,” Fex answered.

“O.K. for you, wise guy. Think you're funny, think it's a big joke,” Pete said angrily. Fex hadn't meant to be funny.

“I speak from experience, remember. The best teacher, right?” Pete put on his blue sweater, his face flushed. “You gotta know the ropes before you can swing, kid. Take it from one who knows. You gotta know the ropes before you can swing.”

He whipped off his blue sweater and changed to his tan one. It's lucky he only has two sweaters, Fex thought, watching, or he'd never make the dance at all.

“But where do I start? I mean, how do I start?”

Pete frowned. “Maybe she'll do the starting. Maybe she'll put the moves on you. If she's hot for your bod, that's probably what'll happen. Women's lib, you know.” Looking very wise, Pete changed back into the blue sweater.

“It's all in the timing,” he said, pushing up his sleeves. “If her folks hang around, the little brother wants you to assemble his model airplane, you've had it. But if they go off to play bridge, watch the tube, then you've got it made.”

“I do?”

“Sure.” Satisfied at last with his appearance, Pete made for the door. He left a strong odor of hair tonic, toothpaste, and after-shave in his wake.

“That's when you blow in her ear. Put your hand on her leg and blow in her ear. Then see what happens. Well, I'm off. Don't wait up.” And he was gone.

Fex sat where he was, pulling himself together. He heard the front door slam, heard Pete whistling as he went down the walk. Then, moving as quietly as a burglar out for the flat silver, Fex went downstairs. His mother and father and Jerry were still in the kitchen. He could hear them talking and laughing. He went to the dictionary to look up French kiss. It said, “See soul kiss.” He looked up soul kiss. If it said, “See French kiss,” he'd have to throw in the towel. But luck was with him. The dictionary defined soul kiss as “An open-mouth kiss in which the tongue of one partner is manipulated in the mouth of the other.” Fortunately, “manipulate” was spelled exactly the way it sounded. It meant, “To handle, manage, or use with skill,” the dictionary said. As he understood it, that meant you put your tongue in the girl's mouth and then used it with skill. Sort of like a Water Pik, Fex told himself, making a face. Gross. Really gross. Forget it. I'm not getting into any of that stuff.