instantly thinking of it as Ryan’s room. It had a balcony of its own,
like the master bedroom. A private back door opened onto a mossy patio full of
ferns and dichondra, like a cool cave tucked beneath the house.
A flight of
spiral stairs penetrated the floor of Ryan’s room, leading down to a tiny,
wood-paneled room that smelled of new carpeting. Sliding glass doors opened
directly onto the edge of the wild brush canyon. A slender young eucalyptus
tree swayed beyond the glass.
“TV room,”
Edgar said.
“Library,”
said Scott.
“Who cares?
As long as I get the moon room.”
They hiked
back up to the second level. They had dropped their bags of avocados on the
landing. It was getting dark—especially in the house—and as they entered Mike’s
room, he could almost believe he was stepping outside. He couldn’t imagine
what it would be like to live in this room, to wake and sleep in such beauty
every day. It would be like inhabiting a painting. He could only imagine that
his own artwork would soar when he worked here. It would inspire him every day.
And imagine . . . if a girl ever saw it? She would have to love this room. They
would lie on the floor under that fat white moon, among the green hills, and do
everything imaginable.
Edgar said,
“Let’s stash a bag of avocados here for later, in case we sleep over.”
Suddenly
Mike wasn’t sure he wanted them here at all. He felt protective of the room, as
if it were already his private territory. He wondered if he would have to
battle Ryan for possession.
“But there’s
no furniture or anything,” he said.
“I’ve got
sleeping bags and blankets at my place,” said Edgar.
“I don’t
know. You heard my mom . . .”
“How’s she
gonna know? I mean, you can stay at my place if you want, but just look at
this. . . .”
“I’ll think
about it.” Mike stashed his bag of avocados in the big closet, which went far
back under the stairs. He felt he was marking the room as his own. With extreme
reluctance, he went out into the hall and shut the door on the nightscape.
It was dusk
now, the houses around them gray as the sky, most of the windows dark.
Edgar lived
less than a block away, up Shoreview Road. Mrs. Goncourt wasn’t home, so they
fixed sandwiches and went down to Edgar’s room. He had a sliding glass door of
his own, facing on the dark, weedy expanse of cactus and brush behind his
house. While they were eating, someone rapped on the glass. Mike looked up to
see two faces grinning in from the night, two guys carrying skateboards. “Hey!”
he said, sliding open the door. “You guys are just in time.”
“For what?”
said the first kid in, a skinny blond named Kurtis Tyre. Kurtis was another
student from the Alt-School. Mike had never spoken to him, though occasionally
he’d held his schoolbooks tight to his chest when Kurtis passed, in case the
kid tried to knock them out of his arms.
“We’re
figuring out what to do tonight,” Edgar said. “Hey, it’s Mad-Dog!”
Mad-Dog
Murphy, Kurtis Tyre’s inseparable companion, nodded a greeting and slid the
glass shut behind him. He was dark-haired and gap-toothed, with a crazed look
exaggerated by the way his eyes wandered off in different directions. Kurtis
propped his skateboard against the wall; Mad-Dog dropped his on the floor and
sat down on it, rolling back and forth in great agitation.
“You talked
to Hawk lately?” Kurtis asked, ignoring Mike and Scott.
“Saw him at
Saturday Sermon,” Edgar said. “Where were you?”
“Avoiding
him, man. Craig warned me he’s coming down on us for scratching ‘S.S.’ on dirty
cars. Says the cops are bugging him about it.”
“What’s
wrong with ‘S.S.’?” Edgar said.
Scott
chuckled deeply and everyone turned to look at him. “It’s a Nazi emblem,” he
said. “For the Schutzstaffel, the Black Shirts.”
“Really? I
thought it stood for Silver Skaters,” Edgar said.
“It does,”
Kurtis said, irritably. “What’s he
like the master bedroom. A private back door opened onto a mossy patio full of
ferns and dichondra, like a cool cave tucked beneath the house.
A flight of
spiral stairs penetrated the floor of Ryan’s room, leading down to a tiny,
wood-paneled room that smelled of new carpeting. Sliding glass doors opened
directly onto the edge of the wild brush canyon. A slender young eucalyptus
tree swayed beyond the glass.
“TV room,”
Edgar said.
“Library,”
said Scott.
“Who cares?
As long as I get the moon room.”
They hiked
back up to the second level. They had dropped their bags of avocados on the
landing. It was getting dark—especially in the house—and as they entered Mike’s
room, he could almost believe he was stepping outside. He couldn’t imagine
what it would be like to live in this room, to wake and sleep in such beauty
every day. It would be like inhabiting a painting. He could only imagine that
his own artwork would soar when he worked here. It would inspire him every day.
And imagine . . . if a girl ever saw it? She would have to love this room. They
would lie on the floor under that fat white moon, among the green hills, and do
everything imaginable.
Edgar said,
“Let’s stash a bag of avocados here for later, in case we sleep over.”
Suddenly
Mike wasn’t sure he wanted them here at all. He felt protective of the room, as
if it were already his private territory. He wondered if he would have to
battle Ryan for possession.
“But there’s
no furniture or anything,” he said.
“I’ve got
sleeping bags and blankets at my place,” said Edgar.
“I don’t
know. You heard my mom . . .”
“How’s she
gonna know? I mean, you can stay at my place if you want, but just look at
this. . . .”
“I’ll think
about it.” Mike stashed his bag of avocados in the big closet, which went far
back under the stairs. He felt he was marking the room as his own. With extreme
reluctance, he went out into the hall and shut the door on the nightscape.
It was dusk
now, the houses around them gray as the sky, most of the windows dark.
Edgar lived
less than a block away, up Shoreview Road. Mrs. Goncourt wasn’t home, so they
fixed sandwiches and went down to Edgar’s room. He had a sliding glass door of
his own, facing on the dark, weedy expanse of cactus and brush behind his
house. While they were eating, someone rapped on the glass. Mike looked up to
see two faces grinning in from the night, two guys carrying skateboards. “Hey!”
he said, sliding open the door. “You guys are just in time.”
“For what?”
said the first kid in, a skinny blond named Kurtis Tyre. Kurtis was another
student from the Alt-School. Mike had never spoken to him, though occasionally
he’d held his schoolbooks tight to his chest when Kurtis passed, in case the
kid tried to knock them out of his arms.
“We’re
figuring out what to do tonight,” Edgar said. “Hey, it’s Mad-Dog!”
Mad-Dog
Murphy, Kurtis Tyre’s inseparable companion, nodded a greeting and slid the
glass shut behind him. He was dark-haired and gap-toothed, with a crazed look
exaggerated by the way his eyes wandered off in different directions. Kurtis
propped his skateboard against the wall; Mad-Dog dropped his on the floor and
sat down on it, rolling back and forth in great agitation.
“You talked
to Hawk lately?” Kurtis asked, ignoring Mike and Scott.
“Saw him at
Saturday Sermon,” Edgar said. “Where were you?”
“Avoiding
him, man. Craig warned me he’s coming down on us for scratching ‘S.S.’ on dirty
cars. Says the cops are bugging him about it.”
“What’s
wrong with ‘S.S.’?” Edgar said.
Scott
chuckled deeply and everyone turned to look at him. “It’s a Nazi emblem,” he
said. “For the Schutzstaffel, the Black Shirts.”
“Really? I
thought it stood for Silver Skaters,” Edgar said.
“It does,”
Kurtis said, irritably. “What’s he
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