Strays (11 page)

“No hiding,” the girl said, her eyes still closed.

Kyle stopped in the shadow of the old cottonwood on the adjacent curb.  He held his breath and gripped the edge of his paper bags so the rolled newspapers inside would not creak against each other.

“You’re not breathing,” said the girl.  She dipped her chin forward and opened her eyes, almost black like fat drops of oil.  “I can hear you not breathing.  What’s your name?”

After a moment, he let the air escape his lungs and said: “Kyle.”

“Come over here, Kyle.”

Something made his feet shuffle forward in cautious steps, out of the shadow of the tree and into the glow of the street lamp.  Soon he was there in front of her, looking down into those heavy almost-black eyes with just a tint of deep lavender in them.  She was shorter than he was, of course, but so was most everyone.  Kyle had taken a growth spurt at an early age, and now, even as a senior in high school, it felt as if everyone was still trying to catch up.

“I’m Molly,” she said.  “You like my hair.”  It was not a question but a declaration.

“Yes,” he said.

“Saw it in a movie.  Wanted to do it the same way.”

“I figured.”

Molly smiled, and a thin hand fluttered up and touched one of his canvas carrier bags.  “What do you have in there?”

“Newspapers,” he said.  “I have a paper route.”

“Wow.  Up before the sun.”

Kyle nodded. 

“Sounds cool.”

“I like it,” he said.

“Can I do it with you?”

The air caught in his throat and he coughed to clear it.  “I’m sorry?”

“You know, can I do your route with you?  Walk with you and all?”

“Oh, that.”  He shifted the carrier bags on his shoulder to make himself more comfortable and thought about the thermos and that warm, empowering drink that he had so been looking forward to.  It figured.  If it wasn’t Seby ruining his happy hour, it was this girl now, this … this beautiful, elegant girl. 

There was worse company to keep, he supposed. 

“I guess you can,” he said.

“Cool,” she said.  “Where do we start?”

*   *   *   *

They did not talk of much on that route.  Molly didn’t talk much period, and yet it seemed as if she was always about to say something, the way she smiled at everything and took in deep breaths of the night air, followed by shorter ones the way people did just before they spoke.  She walked with a ridiculously cool saunter, each leg crossing in front of the other with each stride, almost like a runway model trying to give her hips the extra swing, except Molly’s hips didn’t swing so much.  There was something insolent about the gait, but not in a bad way.  She liked to keep her hands in her back pockets, and she tilted her head back a bit high as if tracking a jet trail in the starry sky, a pose that thrust those pretty little breasts of hers out against her t-shirt again.  It was funny and unusual and Kyle’s hands ached to touch her, although he was not sure how he would do such a thing.

Those rare times she did talk, it was usually to ask Kyle questions, casual and procedural at first like how long he had been delivering papers and what was the next house on the route.  Later, she asked about where he went to school and if he had any friends, and although that little retard Seby Lee
technically
counted as a friend, Kyle told Molly that he had no friends at all.

“That’s too bad,” Molly said.  “Well, you’ve got one now.”

Kyle tried to turn the conversation back to her but got very few answers.  He asked her where she was from (“Around”) and he asked her where she went to school (“Same as you”) and he asked why he never saw her in class (“I see you, and isn’t that enough?”).  When he got up the nerve to ask if she had a boyfriend, she gave him one of her many cryptic answers:

“You’re my friend now, and you’re a boy, so I guess I do.”

He wanted to tell her that this was not what he meant, but then he realized that there was no way to describe what he meant.  What was a boyfriend anyway?  Was it that and only that, a boy who was a friend?  Would a kiss make it official or even something more?  He had never really grasped the term, only dreamed about such things, and of course it was impossible to really explore these questions with a girl when Seby Lee was always—

“Who’s Seby Lee?”

“How’s that?”

“You were saying something about a guy named Seby Lee,” Molly said.

“Was I?”

“I don’t know, you were talking to yourself.”

Kyle bit his lip and grinned.  “Just a guy.  A freak of a guy in school that everybody hates, and somehow I got stuck being his best friend.”

“Why does everyone hate him?” Molly asked.

“Because they do.  He’s just a nothing, a loser.”

“So why are you his friend?”

Kyle paused at this.  It was a question he had never asked himself before.

“Everybody hates him,” Molly said.  “If that includes you, why do you call him your friend?”

“I don’t,” Kyle said.  “Not really.” 

“But you hang out with him.”  She had stopped and was looking at him, those big blood-drop eyes blinking under the street lamps.

“Yeah,” Kyle said.  “I guess.  I mean, I don’t try to.  He’s just always around like …”  He thought a moment and then: “You ever see
Basket Case
on cable?”

“
Basket Case
?”

“It’s this weird movie.  On cable, Cinemax or something.  Only comes on late at night.”  He left out the part about how he had to sneak downstairs to watch it.

Molly shook her head.  “I don’t see movies.”

“It's about a guy named Duane who has a Siamese twin named Belial.  Belial’s like this ugly lump of flesh with a face and two hands, and when Duane’s a teenager, his father has the doctors separate them, and then the doctors throw Belial into the garbage.”

“It sounds awful,” Molly said. 

“It is,” he admitted.  “But then Duane digs in the garbage and rescues Belial and …”

“So you’re Duane,” Molly said.  “And your friend Seby Lee is this lump of flesh with a face.”

“He’s a bit more than that,” Kyle admitted.

“Did you rescue him from the garbage?”

Kyle considered this.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I kind of did.”

“And you regret that?”

Kyle did not answer but pulled a newspaper from his bag and gave it a good heave at the small one-story ranch just ten feet off the curb.  The paper landed right at the edge of the porch, just above the top step, and slid up to the edge of the door, right where the customer could see it the moment he stepped out that morning.

“Not bad,” said Molly.  “You do that every time?”

“I’ve been doing just that for six years,” Kyle said. 

“Prove it,” Molly chided.  “Do it just like that for the next three houses.”

And Kyle did just that.

*   *   *   *

They parted ways on Amurcork Street, a few blocks from Kyle’s house.  By now the paper bag was empty, and Kyle had his hand deep in the bag, holding the thermos so it would not slosh about.  They stood on the corner just across from a local church that Kyle always thought looked like a KOA Campground office, and Molly cast those inky eyes up at him again.

“This was fun,” she said.  “Can we do it again tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“Same time?”

“Maybe a bit earlier.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I just …”
I have someone I need to avoid,
Kyle thought,
that little clown Seby Lee I was telling you about, and if he shows up, whatever you and me have going on here will take a nosedive.
  “I’m just trying to get an earlier start on things,” he said.

“Cool,” Molly said.  “I’ll be waiting, same place.”

“Same place.”

She blinked her eyes, and continued to look at him.  The sun was just coming up off beyond Gortner Park, waking up downtown and making her face glow as if reflecting a campfire.  After a moment, she placed one of those delicate hands on Kyle’s shoulder, pressed herself up on her tiptoes, and kissed him lightly on his cheek.  Every nerve in Kyle’s body went on full alert, and he could feel the blood flushing his face.

“You’re shaking a bit,” Molly said.  “Cold?”

“Maybe that’s it.”

“See you tomorrow then.”  She thrust her hands in her back pockets and began that crazy swagger down the street.  “By the way,” she hollered back to him.  “Be nice to Seby Lee.  You may need all the friends you can get someday.”

Kyle watched her as she walked to the intersection at Taylor, crossed the street, and headed north, disappearing behind the green corner house that stood with its back stoop facing the street.  He watched awhile longer after she was gone, reaching into his bag to withdraw his thermos.

Be nice to Seby, she had said.  Well, of course he would.  Hadn’t he been nice to the little freak all along?

Unscrewing the thermos cap, he poured about three fingers of the clear, bitter liquid into the little blue cup attached to the top.  He sealed the thermos, lifted the cup to his lips, and sipped.  It burned in his throat, and it was good, and after he took it down in two gulps, he felt a little bit more the hero as he made the last two blocks to his home.

His Father’s Proposal

Kyle looked for Molly all that day in school.  He thought about going to the front office to inquire about her class schedule, but he knew that no one would give it to him.  For awhile, he considered asking his classmates about her, but of course that would inspire mocks and insults from the likes of folk like Bran the Man and DC. 
Molly?
they would jeer. 
Oh yeah, she’s hot, Winthrop, hottest girl in school, and she’d laugh right in your stupid ugly face the moment you tried to talk to her.

Kyle never found her at school, but sure enough, Thursday morning she was waiting for him on the corner of Oak and Taylor, this time wearing a black windbreaker to match her jeans, eyes, and hair.  Her hair was down now, abundant and honeyed like that hot country singer Dad liked who sang “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue.”  They walked the route again, and he learned about as much from her that morning that he had the previous.  Still, he could look at her and smell her and most of all
feel
her as she copped that crazy-sexy walk beside him.

She was waiting for him on Friday morning as well, and again on Saturday.  Each morning, she left him two blocks from his house with her gentle kiss on his cheek, and Kyle would watch her swagger away, and he would long for her and pull out his thermos to fill the cup and prepare for the rest of the day, which would in no way be as sweet as this precious hour had just been. 

On Saturday, right after Molly kissed him, she said:  “There.  You can go to your thermos now.”

“You know about that?” he asked.

“I know a lot about you.”

“How?”

“Just go to your thermos.  I don’t like it much.  But it’s your life.” 

She turned on the heel of her the soft flats she wore that day and began to stroll away but stopped a couple paces short.  She did not turn, and Kyle stared at the surge of black hair falling down her back, longing to run his fingers through it.  Hell, she probably knew that about him too.

“I won’t be here tomorrow,” she said. 

“Why not?”

“I just won’t be here.”  She did not turn to face him.

“Will I see you on Monday?”

“We’ll see.” 

And she continued her runway stroll down Amurcork as Kyle watched, waiting for her to turn and disappear behind the green house on the corner.

On Sunday, Molly kept true to her word and did not show, but when Kyle stepped out onto the front porch at 4:30 that morning (early start because of the size of the paper), Seby Lee was there waiting for him, sitting on the front step.

“Hey, Kay-Dub,” he said.

“Hey, Seby.”

“Sorry I haven’t been here to help you,” Seby said.  “My stepdad caught me sneaking out a few nights ago, so now I can only come on Sundays, when he’s sleeping off Saturday night.”

“Swell,” Kyle grumbled, and then Molly’s voice—

Be nice to Seby Lee …

—came to him, accompanied by another—

Have you asked him for it?

—voice, the one he had heard in his head Wednesday morning just before the cat showed up.

“That’s fine,” Kyle said, gnawing his lower lip.  “I really don’t need help during the week, just on Sunday.”

“Cool,” Seby said.  “But I can come during the week too if you want.  I’ll try to sneak out and—”

“No!” Kyle said sharply, and then bit back his tone. 

Have you asked him for it?

“Listen, man,” he said.  “I don’t want you getting in deeper with your old man.  I can handle the week by myself.”

“You sure?” Seby asked.  “Because I'm here, buddy, any time you want.”

“I kind of like doing the route alone during the week,” Kyle told him.  “I need that hour, you know?  To be alone, collect my thoughts, go over my homework and stuff in my head.  Just get ready for the day.”

“Hey,” said Seby.  “No one gets that more than me.  Man, I don’t get enough alone time myself.  Your wish is my command, good buddy.”

“I appreciate that,” said Kyle.  “Now, let’s go get these papers folded.”

And that was how Kyle’s Sunday began.

On Monday morning, for the first time in two years, Kyle did his route without the thermos, although he longed for it something awful at first.  But then he got to the corner of Taylor and Oak, and Molly was there, arms crossed, resting her weight on one leg with the other thrust out like a weird yoga pose.  She was smiling, and when Kyle drew near she placed both hands on his shoulders, pushed herself up on her tiptoes, and kissed him full on the mouth.

“There,” she said.  “I had a feeling you were waiting for that.”

*   *   *   *

“But see here,” said Dad as he carved into his New York strip.  It was June 17, the day Kyle had been waiting for most of his natural life.  “There has to be something you want to do, Kyle.  Surely something.”

Kyle poked at his own steak, a bone-in rib eye marinated in teriyaki, and shrugged.  It was his favorite entrée at CK’s, his favorite steakhouse in Wichita, and it had been a tradition with all three boys that Dad would take them for their favorite dinners on their birthdays.  Eddie had always preferred the Cajun place up on Rock Road; Tony had been big on Mexican or seafood, depending on what mood he was in each year.  Mom always came too, of course, continuing to dote on her boys as if they were still in grade school, but on this particular birthday Dad had brought Kyle alone, using the traditional meal as a pretense for one of those father-son talks.