Imperfect Spiral (6 page)

We live in a chummy neighborhood called Franklin Grove. It's in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. When we say “downtown,” we mean downtown D.C. But when we say “our town,” we mean Franklin Grove. It's not technically a town. There's no mayor. Local government is mostly taken care of by the county—Meigs County—which passes laws and has police and courts and all that. But Franklin Grove is very much a community, more than some of the other suburbs. People here tend to know their neighbors, and they also tend to know what's going on around the neighborhood. There's the community hall building,
which is like a community center, only more official. There are meetings held at the community hall by the Franklin Grove Board, which also gets to make such earth-shattering decisions as how often streets get plowed in the winter and whether you can cut a tree down in your front yard.

Kids in Franklin Grove run in packs during the summer, the center of their social universe being the community swimming pool. If you're in high school, and good-looking and buff, you might climb the pinnacle of the summer social order and get a job as a lifeguard. If not—maybe, like me, you do babysitting, maybe you work at the mall, maybe you cut lawns, maybe you go to summer school—you show up at the pool whenever you can. You join the swim team. The kids order pizza, play water polo, swim their practices, and otherwise hang out.

Sometimes I had to take Humphrey for swimming lessons. The lessons were in between the prime times for middle and high school kids—after the morning team practices and before the late-afternoon social hours. So it was pretty much me, a bunch of little kids, a few mothers, and the full-time nannies.

I've never been a big fan of the pool. I don't like the way my knees look—to call them knobby would be paying a compliment. The rest of my body would be utterly forgettable, except for the fact that it is so ridiculously long, which of course makes it noticeable, and not in a good way. My dark hair, when it's wet, forms more of a chin-length helmet than a slinky mane. It could be worse. But not a great look.

Anyway. I will not be filling up what remains of this summer with long afternoons at the Franklin Grove Swim Club. Not that I have anything else planned, other than going to some kind of counselor or therapist once a week. My parents “suggested” this yesterday, and by “suggested” I mean they told me I would be going.

“You understand it's not because we think there's anything wrong with you,” Mom said. “It's just—after what you've been through—”

“I get it, Mom,” I said.

“And I don't want you to think there's any pressure on you to deal with your—to deal with any other issue right now. This is about the trauma of the accident for you.”

“I get it, Mom,” I repeated.

I take a cup of coffee out to the porch. It doesn't seem possible that Humphrey is gone. I think about him lying in the street. Holding him, so quiet, not like Humphrey at all. That makes it real. Where did he go? I mean, he was laughing and being his usual self, and then—gone? To where? I've never been big on thinking about souls. And we Jews don't tend to spend a lot of time stressing about the afterlife or heaven or whatever. But this line between alive and dead, this on/off switch that was tripped on Friday night—was that it? Live boy. Dead boy. Would anybody else ever have the exact same laugh as he did?

“Humphrey, are you out there? Humphrey T. Danker?” It's quiet. There is no answer, and then the telephone rings.

“Hi, I'm calling for Danielle Snyder?” She makes her statement in the form of a question, as if she's a contestant on
Jeopardy!
—or a girl in high school.

“This is Danielle.”

“Hi. This is Diana Tang from the
Observer
?” The
Observer
is the weekly suburban newspaper, which covers a bunch of neighborhoods, not just Franklin Grove. Everyone gets it, since it's delivered for free.

“I wanted to talk to you about the accident last Friday involving you and little Humphrey Danker.”

Little Humphrey Danker. Little Humphrey and big, bad me.

Stop it. That is not what she said.

Should I talk to a reporter?

“I have just a few questions to start with,” Diana Tang presses on in the absence of any response from me. “We want to get your side of the story.”

There are sides to the story?

“Um—hello?” she says.

“Yeah, no, I'm here,” I say. “I don't think I should be talking to a reporter.”

“We don't have to use your name. I mean, we generally don't name minors who are involved in—incidents.”

In
incidents
? I thought they didn't name minors who were accused of crimes. When some girls from our school were arrested for breaking into the Halloween store that opened temporarily in the shopping center near school, the story was in the
Observer
, but their names were not. Only—the girls told
everyone at school what happened. So much for not naming names. But another time, when a boy was arrested for robbing a frozen yogurt shop, the
Observer
did publish his name. It turned out he hit the guy in the store with a bat, and he had done something like this before at a smoothie shop, so he was charged as an adult. And, apparently, when kids are charged as adults, the
Observer
no longer treats them as kids, and their names are fair game.

I'm not entirely sure I have the ins and outs of the
Observer
's rules down. And I'm not sure what they have to do with me. I'm not accused of a crime. And when kids aren't accused of crimes, the
Observer
throws their names around right and left—for winning science fairs, scoring goals, earning swimming medals, raising money to fight multiple sclerosis. They don't just print the kids' names; they
boldface
them.

Meanwhile, Diana Tang is waiting on the other end of the line.

“Well … what are some of the questions?” I ask.

“So,” Diana Tang begins, “were you able to see the cars clearly when you were walking with Humphrey, and do you think the drivers could see you?”

“Um—sure,” I say. “There was still some daylight.”

“Quarry Road has a lot of trees,” Diana Tang says. “So was it still light enough to see at eight o'clock at night?”

“It was closer to seven thirty,” I say. “And yes. It was light enough.”

“Some people have said streetlights would increase safety
on Quarry Road,” Diana Tang says. “Would streetlights have improved your ability to see the oncoming cars, or the drivers' ability to see you and Humphrey?”

“I don't know,” I say.

“If Quarry Road had a sidewalk, do you think that could have made the accident less likely?”

What? Does she think we were walking in the middle of the street? Quarry doesn't have a real sidewalk, but people walk on the side of the street. There's a line painted there; you walk on the outside of the line, or in the weedy strip next to that.

“I don't think so,” I say. “We were way over on the side, where everyone walks.”

“Have you ever felt in danger walking on the side of Quarry Road?”

“No.”

“Danielle, did you ever take those babysitting classes offered by the Red Cross?”

“No.”

“Hmm. Do you know any kids who have taken the classes?”

“I don't know.”

I really shouldn't have answered the phone. I thought maybe it was Adrian or Becca, but they would call my cell, not the house number.

“I have to go,” I say to Diana Tang, interrupting her next question.

“I have only a few more questions,” she says.

“Sorry.” I hang up.

GUILT-RIDDEN TEEN HANGS UP ON REPORTER

NEGLIGENT GIRL IGNORES DANGERS

“Everyone” walks in street, she asserts

TEENAGER TO RED CROSS: DROP DEAD

I could spend the rest of the day imagining nightmare headlines for a nightmare article. But I don't. School starts in three weeks and since I have nothing better to do, I might as well tackle my summer reading list. Of course, the idea is that you read these books in a leisurely, book-loving way over the twelve weeks of summer vacation. Not that I'm a reliable spokesperson for the high school zeitgeist, but nobody does that. I like to
read, but during the summer I want to read what I want to read, which isn't
Brave New World, Fahrenheit 451
, or
As I Lay Dying
.

But now I don't want to read what I want to read. So, I figure, I might as well read what I don't want to read. I'll take the bus to the library, check out the books, and add misery on top of my misery by reading about dystopias and death. Why not?

Actually, it feels good to be outside, walking, with a destination. It's only been a few days, but I feel as if I've been curled up for months in the fetal position under my bed. Well, I
have
been curled up in the fetal position, on top of my bed. My legs and arms, even my head, feel stiff. Walking loosens my tight muscles, my rigid jaw, my one-note (NO! NO! NO!) brain.

It feels so good that I decide to walk to the library, which is a little bit farther than the mall. It'll be a very long walk, but that's just what I want. Purposefully perambulating. In a few minutes, I'm on Quarry Road, passing the bus stop. And in a few minutes more, I'm upon the scene of the crime. What was I thinking? All roads lead to this site—I almost never have a reason to go the other direction on Quarry Road. Of course I would end up here.

It looks a mess because of all the roadside memorial paraphernalia that people have strewn about. I count five teddy bears. Six sad little bouquets. (Whose job is it to remove the dead flowers at a roadside memorial?) Three plastic action figures, but not figures corresponding to any hero or villain who's currently popular. Some kids must have dug into their boxes of discarded toys. One heart-shaped pillow. A bunch of
cards, already yellowing and curling, and a large sign:
WE LOVE YOU, HUMPHREY
.

Okay. It's true that Humphrey was too young and too sheltered to be really known by the neighbors or their kids. But my heart turns in on itself at this stuff. Teddy bears? The kid didn't have a single one. Action figures? He wasn't allowed to watch the television shows the figures were based on, and so he didn't know that he was supposed to care about them.

My God, doesn't anyone know that Humphrey's ambition in life was to throw a perfect spiral? That he loved aliens, specifically aliens of the Bumble-Boo persuasion? Or that, in the stuffed animal department, he passed over teddy bears in favor of turtles and frogs? His parents must know this, but I'm assuming they don't have anything to do with this collection of junk.

I keep walking, and soon I'm at the entrance to the park.
Our
park. I could walk on. I do have a destination. But I'm drawn in.

Here are the Bumble-Boos on the planet of Thrumble-Boo. Here's the spaceship. The playground is deserted, as usual. I cross the field to the scrubby area where a few old picnic tables and an ancient grill have failed to entice anyone to have a cookout for as long as I can remember. I sit up on one of the tabletops and look around. This park is such an ugly duckling. Yet I've always liked it. I don't remember riding on the springy bumblebees—excuse me, Bumble-Boos—but we have photos to prove that I once did, when I was Humphrey's age and younger. I do remember spinning around on the roundabout, with Adrian providing most of the propulsion. I feel protective toward this
park. And now, to me, it's more of a memorial to Humphrey than the collection on Quarry Road.

Over on the basketball court a guy is shooting hoops, alone. See, that's another good thing about a run-down park. Not many people come here, so you can get the court to yourself, if that's what you want. Or, like with Humphrey and me, you can make the playground your own private planet with your own private aliens without interference from other, ordinary human beings.

It appears I have spoken too soon. I'm about to have interference.

“Hey.” It's the boy from the basketball court. He probably wants to see who's invading his private domain.

“Hey,” I say back.

“I've seen you here,” he says. “I couldn't tell it was you right away. But I've seen you here. You play catch with that kid.”

He saw me? I guess I did notice some guys playing basketball when Humphrey and I were here. But barely. Hey, I was very busy. I was babysitting. Much too attentive to my responsibilities to notice some high school guys sweating on a court all the way across the field, even if one of them was unusually nice-looking.

“He's too young to throw a regular football,” he says.

“I didn't know you could be too young to throw a ball,” I say.

“I mean, they make smaller footballs for younger kids,” he says. “They can get their hands around them better. So they
can get the grip right and actually throw the way a football's supposed to be thrown.”

“Excuse me,” I say. “It's the only football we had.”

“Yeah, no. I'm not blaming you. Just saying. It's not like there's anything wrong with using a regulation football.”

How relieved I am not to be blamed for using the wrong football. All that's left is forgiveness for walking at dusk, dropping the football, and having no control over the child I'm supposed to protect.

“They sell the youth footballs at the mall,” he says. “At that toy store there.”

“I won't really be needing one,” I say. “Anymore.”

He looks at me with deep brown eyes, dark lashes—and then I see my words registering.

“Oh, jeez,” he says. “He's the boy. The one who got hit by—that car.”

“Right,” I say.