Thwonk (15 page)

Jonathan put the last of his arrows in his quiver, lowered his head, and pushed off into the air like a proud, graceful bird.

“
Jonathan!
”

I leapt up to grab him, to hold him and make him stay, but it was too late. I shouted that I wasn’t looking for the world here, just a few minor personality adjustments!

I flailed at the air. “
You can’t leave me now!
”

But he did.

His tiny wings sped to a blur. Jonathan Livingston Cupid soared above the locust trees, zoomed through a cloud, and was history.

It was a full-page ad, that’s the first thing you noticed about it. It had singing cupids and happy hearts and flying birds with petals in their beaks. It said,
PETER TERRIS LOVES A.J. MCCREARY FOREVER
in enormous letters—the
FOREVER
was in script to give it more foreverness. It lay there on page twenty-three of the
Oracle
Valentine edition like dog doo on a newly mowed lawn. It was directly across from Tucker Crawford’s article on being alone, which should give Tucker an eternal yuk. Pearly
Shoemaker said it had cost Peter megabucks to run it. Never in all her years of high-school journalism had she seen such adoration. Pearly couldn’t believe I hadn’t laid eyes on the ad until now, since the whole school had and was talking about nothing else. Pearly said the
Oracle
was a premier hit—everyone had bought a copy, everyone was overcome by my searing cover shot, everyone said that like Donna, deep down they were wholly, unalterably
confused.

Pearly placed a well-manicured nail on my book bag. “You have spoken to your generation, A.J. And in the very same issue you have captured what every female dreams of seeing—total devotion in print!”

I folded the total devotion so I wouldn’t have to look at it.

“Of course,” she continued, “I think your finest work has been for the paper, A.J. I can see your entire photography exhibit in the Student Center glorifying your grandest
Oracle
moments.”

I said I couldn’t think about that now.

“Don’t forget the Science Week cover shot, A.J., of Rodney Harris covered with frog carcasses. That’s one of my favorites.”

I stood at my locker wearing a ski cap and dark glasses. I was hoping I would not be recognized, hoping I could make it to English Lit without Peter organizing a
twenty-one-gun salute and a Rose Bowl parade in my honor.

“There you are!” Peter cried, sneaking up from behind.

I pulled my ski cap over my eyes.

“I’ve been so worried,” he blurted out. “I couldn’t find you…”

“
I’m here!
” I shrieked. “
I’m fine!
”

He walked me to English Lit; he swept me to Art History. Peter Terris was everywhere I looked. I tried to ignore him—this was tough, since he was six four. I kept hoping he’d pull out of it; I kept praying this was just a passing squall.

His eyes got foggier.

His voice got louder.

His stare got creepier.

“
Don’t you blink?
” I shrieked. “
Your eyeballs could dry up! You could be blind before we graduate!
”

“I think you’re beautiful, A.J.!” Peter shouted, looking pathetic.

It was all my fault.

I buried my head in my sleeve so he couldn’t hear my muffled “Aaaaarrrrggggg!” as three sophomore girls walked by with cameras slung over their shoulders.

I looked at Big Ben, who had done so much for America by being stalwart and saying what he felt no matter what the consequences, who now held a large red
Valentine in his hand with a grinning, potbellied cupid, courtesy of the King of Hearts Dance Committee.

Was no American, dead or alive, immune from this holiday?

I was slumped in the family room, curled into the fetal position on the old corduroy couch, where I could get good and depressed better than anywhere. My body sagged. I was a monster. A total beast. I had turned Peter into a lovesick bore and he would never, ever be free from my extreme charms.

Stieglitz licked my hand as terror swept through my soul.

Jonathan would
not
up and leave me in a potential nightmare!

Would he?

Then a jolt of clear-eyed reality hit me.

I shot straight up.

“
Wait a minute!
” I shouted, “
Magic is never one-sided!
”

Stieglitz barked in agreement.

There was
always
a way to weasel out; everyone knew that. True, it was usually a weird way, like giving your firstborn child to a gnarled dwarf, but heroines under stress promise all kinds of things.

Alice got out of Wonderland, didn’t she?

Sleeping Beauty woke up.

I wouldn’t give up without a fight!

I had to find Jonathan!

I threw on my black bomber jacket as Stieglitz, trusty canine sidekick, leapt to my side.

“
Find Jonathan, boy!
”

Stieglitz sat down, confused.

“Stieglitz, this is life and death!”

Stieglitz lay down and hid his head.

“
Oh, never mind!
”

I checked the house first, since cupids were sneaky and into concealment. I looked in closets, coat pockets, I checked behind the couch, under the chair cushions.

“Jonathan,” I said sweetly, “I’m not angry anymore, little guy. You can come out now.
You’ve made your point!
”

I checked Jonathan’s favorite places—the ceiling fan, my bookcase. “Ally, ally oxen free!” I cried.

No cupid.

I searched my studio, ransacked my bedroom.

“Jonathan,” I crooned, “I will be delighted to work with you now. We can be a happy, productive team!”

I charged outside with Stieglitz. I peered behind trees and whistled. I shook bare winter bushes as Mrs. Borderbuck, our next-door neighbor, watched me suspiciously from her kitchen window.

“Jonathan,” I chirped, “where are you?”

My ears strained for the sound of cupid wings.

I flung the garage door up and jumped into the
Volvo. “Okay, Jonathan! Then we start at the beginning!”

I rammed the Volvo into first gear and sped to the Nickleby Novelty Company, where the nightmare had begun.

“May I help you, hon?” asked the receptionist at the Nickleby Novelty Company, popping her gum. Behind her desk was a wall display of Nickleby’s products: whoopee cushions, disappearing candles, rubber bugs, all the necessities of the fun life.

“I’m looking for a cupid,” I said in my best
Dragnet
voice.

“Yeah, sweetie”—she rolled her eyes—“aren’t we all?”

“A used cupid,” I said.

“Everything’s new here, doll,” she explained, looking behind her. “The only cupid we got’s that one.” She pointed to a pink rubber cupid. “You put water in it,” she explained. “It squirts out there.” She made a face. “Some people, huh?”

“He was stuffed, ma’am. He rolled out of one of your boxes.”

She eyed me strangely. “Haven’t ever seen a stuffed one here,” she said, “and I been here thirteen years. We got stuffed angels though.” She held a puffy angel up and pressed its stomach; it burped. “We got stuffed lips
and stuffed snakes; that’s it. We’re getting out of stuffed and doing more rubber.”

“That’s wise,” I said, backing out the door.

I drove to the Crestport Beach and checked the Snack Shack for arrow pricks; it was clean. I stood on the
DONNA IS CONFUSED
rock and held up a sign that read
CAN WE TALK
?

I crashed to my knees on the cold, icy beach: “Jonathan…,” I cried, “
I need you!
”

I checked the answering machine back home; Jonathan hadn’t called.

I left my parents a note saying that I was grappling with the bleak vicissitudes of life, I would not be home for dinner, and that they shouldn’t worry. I then did the only thing left for a thinking teenager to do: I squared my shoulders and hit the mall.

I stormed through every store that could carry cupids. Sold out, I was told.

“They were here last week!” I screeched at a poor salesperson. “Glaring at people with little beady eyes!” The salesperson shrugged and said maybe cupids were becoming a craze.

“God help us,” I said.

I bought fifteen Valentines with cupids on them, hid in a stall in the women’s lounge, and attempted contact.

“
All right
,” I snarled, glaring at each dumpy illustration, “
which one of you guys knows Jonathan?
”

They were silent, but I wasn’t fooled. They were listening.

I snarled. “
Just tell Jonathan that A. J. McCreary’s in town and I’m looking for him!
”

I burst from the stall to find a woman and small child staring at me like I was naked.

“Don’t look at her, Ashley!” the woman demanded.

Ashley covered her face and was swept to safety; the woman looked over her shoulder to make sure I hadn’t grown neck hair. I checked myself in the mirror; nothing mangy had happened. Yet.

I bought a ten-dollar white chocolate cupid at Camille’s Confections: “
Talk to me!
” I shrieked at it.

The cupid said nothing. I tried to return it, since ten bucks is ten bucks.

“He’s not what I expected,” I said to the confection woman.