Posted by Ross on 4/1/2002, 11:05 pm Around him prisoners flee the red-brick building on the hill, voices raised in celebration. School is out for the next forty-eight hours. But the brunette, oblivious to the sunshine, the warmth of the May afternoon, doesn't linger. Neither does she sway nor lilt; she clicks purposefully--*one, two, one two*--and Ross, conscious only of his sticky fingers digging in his jeans for Tic-Tacs, increases his pace. A Mustang blows by in the street, radio cranked. "You're No Good." He likes Linda Ronstadt, but she is intruding on his thoughts, drowning out the radio in his head, which is tuned to an easy-listening station and playing "My Eyes Adored You." A wimpy song. If his friends knew he liked it, he'd be in trouble. And knowing him, he'd end up blowing his cigarette money on something stupid--Zep's new album, maybe--just to prove a point. He's like that. The brunette allows the Mustang to pass, then dashes across the street, stocking-clad legs scissors dipped in India Ink. She skirts a group of hippy-types and regains her rhythm. *One,two! One,two!* She is in a hurry--even for her. Ross darts into the street--and leaps back in the nick of time. He stands in the gutter, breathless and staring. The T-Bird is stopped inches from his toes. Inside are four guys. T-shirts; tattoos. Refugees from *Welcome Back Kotter*. The sweat hog behind the wheel reaches around the windshield and flicks his cigarette toward Ross. It sails wide right, but he gets the point. "Faggot!" somebody says, as the T-Bird belches smoke and leaves him to choke on high-test and humiliation. Ross crunches his Tic-Tac. He looks both ways. He trots across the street and hurries along the sidewalk, overtaking the hippies, eyeing the brunette. "Rain." That's his name for her. She is deep water. Of this he is certain. The few times he has gathered his courage and looked in her eyes, he has been forced to look away. Too much going on behind those eyes; too much emotion in that face--a tidal wave of emotion. But he likes this about her. And he believes drowning beneath her whitecaps would prove heavenly. She runs a hand through her hair. Lengthens her stride. And then-- *Oh, my God! What a break*! --she is walking beside a blonde in Candies, capris. The pink comb in the blonde's back pocket matches her t-shirt. She laughs at something the brunette says, and the sound, musical, pleasing, drifts back to him like a candy kiss. Ross begins to run. "Hey! Annie!" The girls pause; glance over their shoulders. And stop, allowing him to catch up. Ross grins at his savior in capris. "Long time no see." Annie smiles. Deep dimples in her cheeks. He had forgotten that about her, had forgotten how she lowers her head when she smiles. Makes her eyes seem bigger, bluer, more compelling. "Behaving yourself?" "Uh . . ." The glossy mouth curls in a knowing smile. To the brunette she says, "I used to baby-sit him." "And she's a chain-smoking wreck to this day," Ross says, allowing himself an eyeful of the brunette. *Oh-oh. She's pissed*. At him? Why? Annie says, "No, sir. No chain smoking." Even now she's juggling books in her arms, digging in her purse. For Salem Super Longs. Back then, it was Kools. She would never give him one, no matter how hard he pleaded. "Just a puff." "No." "It's better than drugs." A favorite line of hers. Can she resist being quoted? Apparently. She shifts on the couch, eyes on TV. "Just once. C'mon." Nothing doing. "I'll go to bed on time," he insists. "I won't even bug you." But she is adamant. No smoking for the kid in the faded Superman pajamas. Not that night, anyway. He finds out, of course. On his own, not from her. But she is right: Smoking is better than drugs. "Just cause you can't afford it," Ross says now. He faces her, grateful for an excuse to look at something besides the Rain Woman and her patent leather shoes. They are sleek and sharp while his shins are bony and bruise easily. *Why does she hate him*? Is it because he's a freshman? She's not much older--a sophomore, maybe. And how does she know Annie, a senior? A Salem Super Long dangles from Annie's glossy lips, but the books are a problem. "Here." He relieves her of the books. As she digs in her purse, he glances at the brunette. "You look pretty young for grade twelve," he says. "Ten," she says, turning smoothly on her heel. She crosses her arms over her chest and stares at the back of a school bus trundling up the street. "We're neighbors." Annie tosses her honey-blonde hair; lights up with a baby-blue Bic. "Oh, I'm sorry! Ross this is Vesperae." "Vesperae?" The word is out of his mouth before he can stop himself. So he plunges ahead. "Sounds like somebody from one of The Islands." Annie hollers laughter; Vesperae glowers. Jesus, he is blowing this! "No offense," he says. But she has fallen into step with Annie, and he is forced to trot to catch up. "I mean it. It's just an unusual name." Vesperae says nothing. And Annie--no help--drags on her Super Long. On the other side of the street, a car approaches. "Laughter In the Rain" is playing and Annie, arms reaching for the sky, sways to the music. Her Candies scratch the cement, but her voice is easy on his nerves. ". . . walking hand in hand with the one I love." She is breathy but on-key. But if she wasn't, if her voice proved bad enough to shatter the windshield of the passing car, it wouldn't matter. Annie's admirers at Ignatius Donnelly High School number in the hundreds. For her--for Super Teen '75--they would materialize in a heartbeat. Dozens of them. They would pool their money and pay to have the windshield replaced. Yes, they would. For Annie, everyone dangles like a Super Long. Almost everyone. Ross looks at Vesperae. "What kind of music do you like?" She doesn't hesitate. "Dylan. Arguably *the* voice of The Revolution." Ross doesn't know about revolutions--except for those in his mind that occur whenever she's around and his world begins to revolve with alarming speed--*thwap, thwap*--until he is spinning like a washing machine on the rinse cycle. But he reads. And he knows what critics at *Rolling Stone* think of Dylan. "Blood on the tracks," he says, "is great. Dylan sounds unsure of himself. A good sign." Vesperae appraises him anew, and he racks his memory for a song title. "Rainy Day Women," he says. "Killer cut." "It's good, but not his best." The voice of authority. He knows about her; that her record collection is large and varied, that she seeks meaning in music and applies it to the world around her. He has lounged on a stone table in the outdoor food court at school, a short distance from her, and listened to her discourse about the importance of *Blue* and *Court and Spark*, while girls dressed in clothes that brand them *artsy-fartsy* hang on her every word. She is a forceful speaker, all the time looking as if she is the spirit of romantic wanderlust that percolates through Joni Mitchell's work, and she is small and grave and beautiful; her hair shimmers in the sunlight; her eyelashes are black crescents. "You should be a journalist," he says, willing to reveal what he shouldn't know about her. "I mean, you can string some words together." "I'm going to practice medicine," she says. Medicine? So that's why he's never seen her with a cigarette. She sits surrounded by smokers in the outdoor food court--when she doesn't have to--and yet she wants to be a doctor. Odd. Annie exhales a stream of Super Smoke and says, "My health teacher hates that I smoke. But I--" She giggles and studies her Candies. "Yeah," Ross says, disinterested. He turns to Vesperae-- And stops. Something in her face. But what? It's gone now, anyway. But it was there, just for a moment. Annie is grinding her cigarette beneath her shoe, and Ross has an idea. But does he have the nerve? Invisible fingers tap out "Laughter In the Rain" on his funny bone and he almost blows it by laughing. But he doesn't. Instead, he waits. For Annie to look at him. (What did he see in Vesperae's eyes?--no matter, he'll consider it later) Stepping forward, he touches Annie's honey-blond hair with his knuckles. Softly. Ever so softly. Her eyes widen. "Fly," he says, and drops his hand. Annie's brow knits. A moment passes. Then she gasps, flushes, and turns away--all in an instant. Ross cackles, and moves out, his cowboy boots scraping the cement. He knows they've fallen in behind him, and he allows himself a small thrust of pride. Annie is used to being hit-on; she'll get over it. Vesperae, on the other hand, might not. One thing is certain: Monday at school will be interesting. On Monday, he'll join her in the outdoor food court and one of two things will happen: She'll kick his ass around the perimiter of the food court nineteen times with her pointy shoes, or she'll talk to him. Either outcome will suffice. Because things have changed: She is aware of his presence on this earth.
It's her. On the sidewalk ahead of him. Draped in the finest rags money can buy. He grooves on the gold chain around her neck, and the sight of it carries him forward on legs that suddenly feel weak.
She is slowing. Smoothing her skirt with her hands. Why?
