I said, “Chess sounds great.”
“It’s a date.” Bobby laughed, because he laughed almost all the time, that’s how cheerful and full of energy he was, and then he walked off toward the baseball diamond where some kids were screaming at him to come over because it looked like they needed a pitcher. What a good egg Bobby was! So different from the other boys his age in the neighborhood. When I was grown up enough to go out on a real date, I was planning to take the bus over to the east side of town where Bobby was from. These west side boys, they could be trouble.
Mary Lane came up and knocked the red rubber ball out of my hand. “What was jerky Bobby talking to you about?”
Fast Susie was standing next to Mary Lane with her hands on her hips. Staring at Bobby’s back, which was very long since he was pretty tall, Fast Susie whistled, whoot woo, and said, “I wouldn’t throw that cat outta bed.”
“When did you get a cat?” I asked.
Fast Susie looked back at me and shook her head and said, “Boy, you are such a square, O’Malley,” and then she pulled me toward the yellow box. “Get it?” she said. “Square.” She pointed down at the box. “Square.” She pointed at me. “Get it?”
Fast Susie was always making fun of me like that because I didn’t get half of her jokes. Troo said that was because Fast Susie was très chic and I was not at all très chic. I would have to agree with her because I didn’t feel at all très chic, and I thought I would know if I did. I wondered where the heck Troo was coming up with all these new words. She was starting to sound an awful lot like a French librarian.
Fast Susie got into the server’s box. “Did you hear that Sara Heinemann’s mother sent her over to Delancey’s for some milk, and guess what?” She smacked the red ball right at me, her long black hair going every which way, the sun sliding off it like a newly waxed car.
“What?” I asked, and smacked it right back at her.
“Sara disappeared into thin air. Poof!” Fast Susie caught the ball and threw it up high and waited for it to come down before she said, “Remind you of anybody?”
She meant Dottie Kenfield, but I didn’t want to say that because then it made it seem true.
“When it got dark and Sara didn’t come home,” Fast Susie went on, “Mrs. Heinemann called the cops to start lookin’. They’ve been searching everywhere for her.”
Mary Lane musta been eating something yellow, cuz when she stuck her tongue out at me it looked like that iguana’s tongue up at the zoo. “Told ya,” she said.
Fast Susie said, “And ya know what that means, right?” She dropped the ball and walked over to Mary Lane and put her hands around her neck and started choking her. They all laughed. Not me. I knew better than anyone that Fast Susie was probably right. Sara Heinemann was probably dead. And they might never find her, because I would bet my bottom dollar that one of the cops that Mrs. Heinemann had called to go looking for her daughter’s choked body was Rasmussen. The murderer and molester himself.
After a long day of braiding lanyards with Barb, playing chess with Bobby and a wild all-playground game of red rover, we headed over to the Fazios’ for some of Nana’s excellent lasagna. During supper, Troo and Nana had a very big discussion about Doris Day movies and Nana got all silly over the actor Rock Hudson. After we’d helped Fast Susie dry the dishes, Troo and me left and didn’t say much on the walk home because I thought we both regretted having to leave that nice Italian kitchen with good smells and arms waving all over the place like they were directing downtown traffic.
We found the door to our house wide open, but when I called up the stairs, “Hello? Anybody home?” there wasn’t. Hall had definitely taken a long walk off a short pier. I figured it was because Mother was dying. But then that didn’t seem right either because Hall and Mother were fighting and taking the Lord’s name in vain all the time before she went into the hospital, so what did he care if she died.
Troo and me didn’t bother washing up because the last time we’d tried, the water came out all warm and orange. We just took off our clothes and laid down in our bed and listened to the creak creak creak of our neighbors’ porch swing. Mr. Kenfield sat out there by himself almost every summer night, just rocking and smoking. The sound and the smell always traveled up to our bedroom window and reminded me of loneliness. Especially that night, because me and Troo were all by ourselves and it felt so much like that was how it would be from now on.
Troo rolled onto her stomach and pulled up her T-shirt, letting me know she wanted me to rub her back, which was something I’d done every single night since I could remember. “Do you know why Fast Susie is called Fast Susie?” she asked.
I thought about that afternoon. “Because she is an excellent person to have on your team for red rover?”
“No,” Troo said and laughed. “It’s because she lets boys get some of the sex.”
Fast Susie was three years older than me. Thirteen. A teenager. Different things happened when you got that old. Gettin’ some of the sex must be one of them.
“Fast Susie goes to second base,” Troo said.
What the heck was she talking about? Everybody knew that Fast Susie didn’t like baseball and what did baseball have to do with the sex? “What do you mean Fast Susie goes to second base?”
For a minute, I got worried that talking about baseball like this would make Troo remember the day her and Daddy and Uncle Paulie didn’t make it home after the game. Right after the crash I tried to ask her what happened. How come Daddy smashed into the elm tree? Wasn’t he paying attention? But Troo wouldn’t talk to anybody for a long time after the accident and now if I tried to bring it up she’d just get mad or pretend she didn’t hear me.
“Going to second base is when you let a boy touch your titties, which is another word for bosoms,” Troo said.
“Ohhh…” I tried not to act too disgusted. To be more très chic. “Is there a going to first base?”
Troo stretched out next to me, long and lean. “Frenchie kissing is going to first base. That’s when a boy puts his tongue in your mouth.”
I would never, ever let somebody touch my titties when I grew them or do Frenchie kissing to my mouth.
“And third base?” I asked. Eddie Mathews was the third baseman for the Braves and Daddy’s absolute favorite. I really missed listening to the ball games on the radio with my Sky King. His beer in his hand, his gal Sal on his lap. I didn’t really understand baseball but Daddy, he was an adorer of baseball. And I was an adorer of Daddy. The farm porch at night always smelled of his hard day in the field and the yellow light on the radio shined on his excited face when Hank Aaron would hit a home run and Daddy would jump up out of his chair and his gal Sal fell onto the floor. Especially the summer he died. Because that summer the Braves were gonna be in the World Series, he said, and we would go and eat salted peanuts and hot dogs with mustard and pickle relish. Which were my absolute favorites.
“Third base is when a boy touches you down there.” Troo pointed to my undies.
I would never, ever let anybody touch me down there.
“So is a home run gettin’ some?” I asked, finally catching on.
“Yup, a home run is gettin’ some.”
When hell froze over.
Troo asked, “You know that Junie was molested, right?” She rolled over and ran her fingers down my neck like it was a piano.
I hadn’t known Junie like a friend. But I’d seen her at the playground sometimes and she seemed really nice and loved lanyard making as much as I did and was very good at it.
Troo said, “Do you even know what molested means?”
“No.” I stuck my face into my pillow, until I reached the Aqua Velva smell.