piece of construction paper taped around it, from the same
stack of orange we got for my world studies project on Malaysia--I recognize the
shade. She'd used a big fat marker to write on the side, please help is printed
carefully in huge letters. I'm sure she's just scammed the neighbors into giving
her money for an Xbox that she's wanted for years, and I consider going to
Severin's room to ask for some assistance in saving Bex's life before we share
this with our mother. I hear his voice coming through the wall, his
talking-to-a-girl voice, which is lighter and more laughy and animated than it
ever is talking to us. He won't be any help. But then I see the smaller writing
on the coffee can. tsunami victims . She's even spelled it right, and Bex is a
lousy speller. That's what twenty-four-hour coverage'll get you.
"What, exactly, have you been doing
today?"
"I rode my bike to Albertsons. They let me
borrow a card table, and I sat there and collected donations."
"Wow, Bex. Wow." I can't think of what to say.
I have a few
51
fleeting worries about her just getting money
from people. Like, is it that easy? Did you need some kind of permission for
that sort of thing? But I refrain from interrogating her. She looks so serious.
"Now, would you shut up?" she says. "I'm trying to count."
Mom had the kind of car that should have been
embarrassed going into Melanie's neighborhood. The Datsun was that shade of
yellow they don't make anymore, some color that went out of fashion and that's
bound to be back twenty years from now when the car's a thin layer of metal in a
garbage heap. Her windshield had acne, pockmarks from when she drove behind a
dump truck and got flecked with pebbles. It had a tape deck, back from when tape
decks were a big deal, and it didn't have cup holders, from the days when people
went places without a perpetual liquid pacifier. It had been through a whole
forest of those Christmas tree air fresheners, since Freud peed in the backseat
about a thousand years ago when he was ticked off about something, who remembers
what. It still smelled slightly tangy in there, but you had to know what you
were smelling for.
Anyway, it's a Car o' Shame as it curves up the
hillside to Skyview, where Melanie lives. I picture all the other cars of the
neighborhood peeking out from their garages and getting nervous and thinking
because it's yellow and is an old Datsun, it's there to commit a
crime.
I pass the faux mansions with their trimmed
hedges and pots of snowman-like topiary that seem to be a requirement for
residence here. The yards are the gardens of Mom's crunchy-geraniumed
dreams--flowers, watered. Lawns, mowed. These are the kinds of houses where the
furnace filters are changed on schedule, the gutters are clean. Garages are not
made into bedrooms, but are
52
nearly empty, sometimes carpeted; tidy caverns
that hold cars with rain-sensor windshields and don't-you-dare-eat-in-here
leather. These are houses where whole rooms exist just for display. It's the
land of living rooms no one lives in.
I push Melanie's doorbell, which rings in
chimes. I listen to the mini-concert that sounds large and hollow, like church
bells. It makes me want to do it again, so I do. Melanie comes running to the
door. I can't see her through the leaded glass windows, but I hear the thwap,
thwap of her feet.
"For God's sake, Indigo, quit ringing the
doorbell. My dad's trying to watch the game." Allen was always trying to watch the game, no matter what time of the day and no matter what season. I
always wondered about "the game." Was there one game? Did everyone know what
"the game" was? Who knows what he was really doing. He was probably buying skin
cream off the Home Shopping Network.
"If I park on the street, will one of your
neighbors call the police?" I ask.
"Go to hell," she says. Typical Melanie
greeting.
You wouldn't match Melanie and me up, and if we
hadn't gotten stuck together
stack of orange we got for my world studies project on Malaysia--I recognize the
shade. She'd used a big fat marker to write on the side, please help is printed
carefully in huge letters. I'm sure she's just scammed the neighbors into giving
her money for an Xbox that she's wanted for years, and I consider going to
Severin's room to ask for some assistance in saving Bex's life before we share
this with our mother. I hear his voice coming through the wall, his
talking-to-a-girl voice, which is lighter and more laughy and animated than it
ever is talking to us. He won't be any help. But then I see the smaller writing
on the coffee can. tsunami victims . She's even spelled it right, and Bex is a
lousy speller. That's what twenty-four-hour coverage'll get you.
"What, exactly, have you been doing
today?"
"I rode my bike to Albertsons. They let me
borrow a card table, and I sat there and collected donations."
"Wow, Bex. Wow." I can't think of what to say.
I have a few
51
fleeting worries about her just getting money
from people. Like, is it that easy? Did you need some kind of permission for
that sort of thing? But I refrain from interrogating her. She looks so serious.
"Now, would you shut up?" she says. "I'm trying to count."
Mom had the kind of car that should have been
embarrassed going into Melanie's neighborhood. The Datsun was that shade of
yellow they don't make anymore, some color that went out of fashion and that's
bound to be back twenty years from now when the car's a thin layer of metal in a
garbage heap. Her windshield had acne, pockmarks from when she drove behind a
dump truck and got flecked with pebbles. It had a tape deck, back from when tape
decks were a big deal, and it didn't have cup holders, from the days when people
went places without a perpetual liquid pacifier. It had been through a whole
forest of those Christmas tree air fresheners, since Freud peed in the backseat
about a thousand years ago when he was ticked off about something, who remembers
what. It still smelled slightly tangy in there, but you had to know what you
were smelling for.
Anyway, it's a Car o' Shame as it curves up the
hillside to Skyview, where Melanie lives. I picture all the other cars of the
neighborhood peeking out from their garages and getting nervous and thinking
because it's yellow and is an old Datsun, it's there to commit a
crime.
I pass the faux mansions with their trimmed
hedges and pots of snowman-like topiary that seem to be a requirement for
residence here. The yards are the gardens of Mom's crunchy-geraniumed
dreams--flowers, watered. Lawns, mowed. These are the kinds of houses where the
furnace filters are changed on schedule, the gutters are clean. Garages are not
made into bedrooms, but are
52
nearly empty, sometimes carpeted; tidy caverns
that hold cars with rain-sensor windshields and don't-you-dare-eat-in-here
leather. These are houses where whole rooms exist just for display. It's the
land of living rooms no one lives in.
I push Melanie's doorbell, which rings in
chimes. I listen to the mini-concert that sounds large and hollow, like church
bells. It makes me want to do it again, so I do. Melanie comes running to the
door. I can't see her through the leaded glass windows, but I hear the thwap,
thwap of her feet.
"For God's sake, Indigo, quit ringing the
doorbell. My dad's trying to watch the game." Allen was always trying to watch the game, no matter what time of the day and no matter what season. I
always wondered about "the game." Was there one game? Did everyone know what
"the game" was? Who knows what he was really doing. He was probably buying skin
cream off the Home Shopping Network.
"If I park on the street, will one of your
neighbors call the police?" I ask.
"Go to hell," she says. Typical Melanie
greeting.
You wouldn't match Melanie and me up, and if we
hadn't gotten stuck together
Similar Books
