Extraordinary October (2 page)

2.

Our neighborhood was a “planned community” on the very eastern edge of Los Angeles. Every house was one of three designs in one of three color combinations. Every driveway led to the same two-car garage. The wide sidewalks, the appropriate landscaping, even the mailboxes were unexciting and humdrum on purpose, so that no one and nothing would stand out. Only we were different. Our house was Model Number Three, just the same as every other third house, but our yard was unusual. Unfortunately it wasn't because of the flowers or a vegetable garden. It was the 24 birdhouses, all different shapes and sizes and colors, strategically placed on poles. Our front lawn was like a forest, except the trees had no bark, no branches and no leaves, and they were painted colors to match the birdhouses on top. It was my job to mow the lawn through that obstacle course, and I have to admit I had sort of given up. We weren't supposed to water the grass because of the drought so it was mostly dead anyway. Dad didn't care. He loved birds. Interestingly, so did I. I don't know why I found the little feathered things so amazing, maybe it was our name Fetterhoff which is German for Feather-House, but my Dad and I used to trek deep into the woods with our binoculars and spend hours looking up. Of course, that was before he got too fat to trek. Now he built birdhouses and stared out the window and his cheeks were so plump, his blue eyes were barely visible.

Maybe that was why I didn't like the birdhouses—aside from the fact they looked ridiculous all over our lawn—they just reminded me of the guy my dad used to be.

“Sure you feel okay?” Dad asked as we pulled into the garage. “Betty, uh, the nurse, said maybe you have a virus.”

It didn't even register that he was on a first name basis with the nurse. “I'm fine,” I said as I got out of the car. “It seems to have passed.” I was half hoping he'd take me back to school, otherwise the day stretched ahead of me long and empty. Nothing to look forward to until the good TV started that night. Of course I had plenty of homework. Tons in fact. Second semester seniors should not have to write long papers about World War I or do pages of Trigonometry problems. School was so over for me.

I watched him struggle with the one step up from the garage into the house.

“Damn knees,” he panted.

“Dad,” I began.

“Don't.” He held up a hand. His fingers were so fat he couldn't wear his wedding ring anymore. “I talked to your mom this morning. I'm going to see someone.”

“A doctor? A nutritionist?”

“Hypnotist,” he said. “The best in the country. Helena Gold. People swear by her.”

I couldn't help but sigh. Sounded like baloney to me.

“Not Overeaters Anonymous?” I asked for the umpteenth time. “A.A. worked for the drinking.”

“I don't need more meetings, just a jumpstart.”

He needed to eat less and get up off his ass and move around, but he was waiting for a magic wand. I knew he'd never find it, I knew there was no such thing as magic. Hypnotism? Whatever. At least he was trying something new.

“Okay, great.” I acquiesced. “Will the hypnotist make you walk like a chicken?”

He laughed with me. “Your mom wants her to make me lose some weight and fall in love with housework.”

“Everybody's happy.”

“It's a win-win.” He waddled off toward the den: birdhouse central. He used to work in the garage, but standing up at his workbench got too difficult. Now he sat behind a card table with an old shower curtain spread over the floor. It was only bad when he started painting. The enamel really smelled. “Come see the latest,” he said. “It's an open-fronted nest box for the robins.” He paused. “And I'd like to talk more about that itch of yours.”

“It's gone.”

“Already? Really? I mean, good, but still—”

I knew he wanted company. “Let me put my stuff away.”

I took the stairs up to my room two at a time. It was odd how good I felt after feeling so terrible. Better than fine, better than not itching, I felt lighter, springier. I closed my door and turned to the full-length mirror on the back. I usually avoided my reflection, but I took a deep breath and studied my face. Same brown eyes. Same few freckles across my cheeks. Hair brown as always, but looking good at the moment, shiny, smooth. Perfect, I thought, when I'm home alone so no one can appreciate it. I didn't see any sign of illness. I pulled up my shirt and examined my stomach for little creepy-crawly things or rashes or anything weird, but everything looked normal. Same as always.

I wasn't ugly. My parents always told me I was beautiful, but I knew I wasn't. I was absolutely ordinarily kind of pretty. Everything fit together on my face and sometimes, with make up and when I was really happy, I had a little glow. I was 5'5”, average height and weight. Some days I wanted to lose five pounds, but living with my dad kept my own sweet tooth under control. Mom said we were both healthier because of his condition. She's a stick woman, really skinny. My dad said when he and my mom walked down the street together they looked like the number 10. Ha ha ha.

I could hear Dad down in the kitchen at that moment, rummaging for something to eat. I shuddered remembering the night of my tenth birthday party. I couldn't sleep, so I came downstairs and saw my dad eating my leftover birthday cake right out of the big bakery box. I hid behind the door and watched him read the newspaper and eat bite after bite. He ate the whole thing and it was a lot. I was shocked. He was overweight then, but he wasn't enormous. I know it's a sickness and he can't control himself so we just don't have the stuff in the house anymore. I never wanted another birthday cake.

My cell phone rang. That was a surprise; almost no one ever called me. I had to dig it out of my backpack, way down in the bottom under the papers, old lunch bags, pencils, and crap. Had to be a grown up. Maybe Mom. Anyone else would text me.

“Hello?”

“October Fetterhoff?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Walker Smith. We saw each other at school today—in the hallway.”

I almost choked on my own saliva. Blue-eyes? He was calling me?

“Oh yeah,” I managed. “I was scratching.”

Stupid! I kicked the side of my bed. As if he needed reminding.

“Yes. Are you okay?”

“Perfect. Thanks. Right as rain.” Ugh. Now I was sounding like some fake British girl out of a Disney movie.

“Great. Well. I'm a psychology major at Hayden College and I'm going to be doing an experiment at your school and I
wondered if you'd like to participate.”

“Really?”

“It won't take much of your time.”

He wanted me! But would I have to wear a hospital gown, or be filmed sleeping? I didn't want him to see me drooling. “What kind of experiment?” I asked.

“It's about the effects of college placement on the late adolescent.”

“I haven't been placed yet.” My applications were all in, but I wouldn't hear for a month.

“Exactly. I have a list of questions about your thoughts about the process, your hopes and aspirations and any fears you might have. Honestly, you're the first I've tried this on. You'll be my guinea pig.”

Great, first I was a bear, then a pig. “When would this start?”

“We could start today,” he said and when I didn't answer right away, he continued, “You'll be glad you did. Trust me.”

“Today. Okay. That'd be like, way cool.” I groaned again. Seemed I could not speak like a normal person. “I guess I shouldn't meet you at school since I went home sick.”

He laughed a deep, warm, manly chuckle. My toes curled against the rug. Those eyes. That laugh. I hoped the experiment would take forever.

“How about Henderson Park?” he asked.

“Sure.” We agreed on a time and a particular bench by the swing set. I hung up. I wasn't itching, but I had a weird, jittery feeling. A good one. The thought that I was going to sit and answer questions for Blue-Eyes, Walker, was—well, the most exciting thing that had happened to me in a long, long time. Pathetic, but true.

The big question was what to wear. My new jeans were in the laundry. I didn't think I could get them washed and dried in time. I forced myself to look in the mirror again. Old favorite jeans: check. I'd worn them a day or two, but they weren't too baggy. Gray 80's band T-shirt: sort of check. It was okay, not great. I held up my new summer blouse, an early birthday gift to myself, that I hadn't worn yet. It was pretty, kind of revealing, but if I changed it might appear as if I was trying to impress him, or worse, seduce him. Not that I knew how. I looked outside. It was getting cloudy. I decided to put on my favorite sweater, a soft, black V-neck. A girl wasn't supposed to freeze to death for a psych experiment, was she? I looked good—for me. But what to tell my dad? It would have to be the truth—minus Walker being the most beautiful man I'd ever met. I needed the car if I was going to Henderson Park.

The doorbell rang. I started down the stairs to answer it and was surprised to see my dad had beaten me there. He opened the door to a young red-haired woman who had to be six feet tall. She was incredible looking. Her face almost didn't look real, or as if she'd had plastic surgery to look like a Disney princess. Her skin was flawless and a creamy coffee color with a faint blush on her high cheekbones, her green eyes very large and framed in long dark lashes, her eyebrows a perfect arc and her lips shaped like Cupid's bow. I thought she might hypnotize my dad just by her perfection. Oddly for someone in her twenties, she wore a long dress with wide, flapping sleeves plus layers and layers of scarves and flowing material—all in shades of rust and orange. She floated in the door.

“Hello, Neal,” she said warmly.

She took my father's two hands in hers and looked at him for a long, long moment. He stared back at her without moving, his mouth hanging open. Yup. It was just as I feared. A gorgeous woman had never looked at him that way and he was stunned. Finally I'd had enough and I cleared my throat.

My dad shook his head. “Hey, Pumpkin.” He looked kind of embarrassed. As well he should have.

I walked over to the two of them. It was my turn for her eagle eye; she stared at me like she was trying to see through my skin to my bones. It wasn't comfortable. I stepped out of her line of sight and half behind my dad.

“This is my daughter,” Dad began and for the first time ever in my life, he blushed as he continued, “October.”

“What a beautiful name,” she said and turned to me. “Pleased to meet you.” She tried to grab my hand in hers, but I moved back and sort of waved. For some reason, I didn't want her to touch me.

Dad said, “This is Madame Helena Gold.”

“You're the hypnotist?” I said. “You make house calls?”

“I go wherever I am needed.” Madame Gold gave a little flutter and her sleeves and dress swirled around her. “How are you feeling, October?”

Did I imagine it or was she asking as if she knew something? “I feel great,” I said.

“I hope we can be good friends.”

She tried to look me in the eye and I avoided her. Maybe she was only twenty-five or six, but I still didn't want to be her friend. I turned to Dad. He was staring at her. “Dad.” I snapped my fingers by his ear. “Yo, Dad. Can I take the car?”

“Please stay,” Madame Gold said before he could answer. “I would love to get to know you better.”

“Don't you have a lot of hypnotizing to do?”

“My method includes the entire family,” she said. “We all have many influences, the surrounding energies are so important.”

“Well. I wish I could stick around and watch you work,” I said. “Too bad I've got to get to the library.” Adults always backed down for homework. “Big research paper due.”

But she knew I was lying, I could see it on her face that she could see it on my face. Her green eyes narrowed. “Neal?” she turned to my dad.

“You should stay awhile,” he said to me. “You can go to the library later.”

She had already hooked him. He was enthralled, captivated, under her spell, and she hadn't even made him count backwards from 100 or anything.

“Okay,” I said. “Fine. But I'm meeting…someone at two o'clock.”

“What for?” Dad asked.

“I can't be late. He's a college psych student. I'm part of an experiment.”

I could swear Madame Gold gave a little gasp.

An hour later—a long, long, long hour later—I had to admit whatever Madame Gold was doing was working on my dad. He was mesmerized. I sat with the two of them as long as I could stand it while she talked about the wind and the clouds and the primal forces and that some people are lambs and some people are wolves and some people are raccoons. I'd never heard such a load in my life, but when I brought out tea and the secret stash of cookies my mom kept just for an occasion like this, my dad didn't eat one. He didn't even look at the bag; he barely drank his tea. He just sat in his chair listening to her. On the other hand, I was starving and managed to devour at least half the plate. Of course by this time it was one o'clock and I hadn't eaten anything since some yogurt for breakfast.

It was rude, but finally I asked, “How much is this gonna cost? I mean you've been here for forever.”

“How sweet of you to be concerned.” I could tell she didn't think it was sweet at all. “Your father and I have it all worked out.”

I nodded and helped myself to another cookie. Maybe my dad would lose 100 pounds and I'd gain fifty. I was beginning to feel sick and kind of dizzy. First the itch. Then I felt so good. Now, all of a sudden, I felt lousy. My head hurt and my palms—just my palms—were red and itchy. I was hot in my black sweater. I wanted to look good for Blue-Eyes, but I was beginning to wonder if I was well enough to go at all. Madame Gold just kept talking. Something about how obviously my father was a bird, a small beautiful bird. No wonder he built all those birdhouses. I looked over at her and she wavered and undulated as if she were underwater. I knew I had a fever. I was coming down with something bad. Maybe my flesh-eating disease was taking its next step. Hadn't Nurse Raynor said it could be viral?