As the weeks roll on, John gets friendlier with Dad and Harriet. They love his pot, and John likes dropping off party treats. “He’s a nice guy,” Dad tells me, and he doesn’t say that about many people. I figure John, like everyone, feels sorry for Dad because of his disability and wants to help a veteran feel better. It’s patriotic.
John still vies for my notice, and although I am friendly, I won’t allow myself to be pulled into his intensity again. On a day when he stops by Harriet’s to “shoot the shit” and drop off some weed, he asks to see if Terry and I can help out with cleaning and painting one of the empty cottages.
“It’s okay with me,” Dad says. “Ask them.” He points to me and then in the direction of Terry’s cottage.
“It’s cool with me,” I answer quickly, excited to be making more money. School is starting in a few days, and I need to buy some clothes.
“Yeah?” John smiles, then pulls back shyly, looks down at his feet, and mumbles, “Well, we’ll need to get some supplies and, uh, I have an appointment tomorrow.”
“Go get them now,” Dad offers, suddenly sounding helpful. “Dawn can go with you.”
A lump sticks in my throat. “Okay. Bitchin’,” John says, checking his watch. “Can you go now?”
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
John and I head back through the courtyard, and I suddenly feel nervous and shy. I can’t help looking over toward his cottage, wondering if Sharon is watching from a window somewhere. We silently load up in the van, acting formal and stiff. John hands me a piece of paper and tells me to write down a list of things we will need for the job. My tension eases as we make the list, taking turns calling out the next thing to buy; we make it a challenge, a game, and we laugh. A quick look flashes between us that says, Hey, we work pretty good together.
More relaxed than we’ve ever been together before, we finish our errand and head back home. Looking over at John in the driver’s seat, I notice how handsome he looks while driving. It is a comfortable, warm feeling. His dark blond curls fall around his face in a rugged sort of way. The blue of his eyes shines bright against his mildly tanned skin, and he moves with an air of fierce confidence that makes me feel safe. John plugs in his eight-track tape of Jim Croce and starts singing, “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.” I giggle at his dramatic, loud voice, and he looks at me, smiles, puffs himself up, and sings even louder. Giggles turn to laughter, and I give in and try to sing with him off-key. John tries hard to keep a serious face but can’t, and we both break down into bursts of hysteria.
Back on Acacia, we wipe the tears from our eyes as we unload the van. I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time, I think.
John waves at me and walks away, booming, “Good night. See ya early tomorrow.”
I smile back at him.
“And tell your sister to come to work,” he calls back.
The icy tension between us has been broken, and in my heart my protective walls have been lowered. I begin to genuinely like him. I am seeing how naturally kind and funny he really is, and I completely and purposely reject the person I saw on the posters in Harriet’s closet. After all, he doesn’t seem like that kind of guy—from what I can tell.
The next week, the day after Labor Day, is the start of school. Early on the first day, a knock comes at the door. Sliding out from under the covers of the sofa bed, and wearing only a tank top and underwear, I sleepily answer. I see that it is John and, without thinking, open the door. “Yeah?” I say, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and pushing my long, dark hair away from my face.
John stands frozen, staring at me through the screen without a word.
“Yeah?” It takes a minute before I realize he can see my silhouette. When I do, I quickly step behind the door.
“You up?” John asks, slowly shaking his tangled curls. Then he snaps out of his daze. Nostrils flared, he looks at me hard. “Time for school,” he says and turns to walk away.
“Thanks,” I call out as he disappears, wondering why he seems abrupt and angry. Maybe he’s grumpy when he gets up, I think, blowing it off. But then I wonder, Why is he getting me up, anyway?
CHAPTER FIVE
California
School begins in early September of 1976 for Terry and me. This is my first year in high school. The tenth grade at Glendale High. Wow! I think, searching out the front office, registration papers in hand. The halls are crowded with hundreds of students trying to find their classrooms. After registering, I roam the bustling corridors in search of my first period class. In my assigned room, I settle into a large, crowded group of many different-colored faces. There are all kinds of nationalities here. I’m happy to see that no one race outnumbers the other. When the teacher addresses us as sophomores, I get excited. I’m a sophomore, I think, then immediately stress. I hope I’ll fit in okay.
California public school schedules call for an early start and early finish. I walk home alone, holding my newly issued books. While passing some students hanging out at the snack shop, I assess the scene and sense with relief, They don’t look like gang members to me. They do have some nice cars, though. I keep a wary eye on them anyway.
It is a two-mile walk back to Harriet’s cottage. Dad dropped us off in the morning, showing us the best way back to Acacia. I take in all the landmarks as I turn from Verdugo Road to Adams, passing Maple and Garfield to finally turn onto Acacia Avenue, where the cottages are third from the corner. Turning in to the courtyard, I can hear Terry and a guy’s voice come through the open window of her cottage. How did she get home before me? I wonder. Terry started at a different school than I did this morning, Roosevelt Junior High, the ninth grade. Just as it had been in Carol City, the freshman year is held in junior high here.
I walk up to the steps and give a quick, sharp courtesy knock, open the door, and walk right in. “Hey, what are you…?” My voice trails off. John is sitting on the couch, looking up and smiling. It is just he and Terry in the living room, and the two of them suspiciously stop talking as soon as I enter. “Oh, hi.” I nod at John and give Terry a stare to demand to know whether she is hiding something.
“Well, I, uh, gotta go,” John says and hurriedly closes his briefcase. “You and Juan let me know… about what we talked about. I’ll be around. You in time for school this morning?” he asks me as he heads out.
“Uh, yeah. I was. Thanks.” I watch his tall figure rapidly exit.
“Good. See ya.” Instantly he is gone.
“What is that about?” I ask Terry. “Something fishy’s going on.”
“He wants to know if Juan and I want to see some of the California sights. Maybe go camping this weekend at some beach. Like Malibu or something.”
“Well, are you?”
“Don’t know. Gotta ask Juan when he gets home from work.” She doesn’t sound very enthusiastic.
“I want to go too.” I find myself a little hurt that he didn’t ask me.
“Oh, I’m sure you can go,” Terry says with thick sarcasm.
“What do you mean by that?”
“He’s over here a lot, Dawn, and he is always asking about you.”