Dean’s attention is on the rearview mirror, watching a cop pull up behind us at the stop sign. “
He doesn’t sleep much,” he replies absently.
“
Like you. Johnny mentioned you’re always up at night,” I say—then bite my lip. Damn it, I wasn’t gonna bring him up for the rest of the night!
Dean doesn’t seem to notice my self-hate moment, even when I sl
ap myself in the face. I hit myself a lot.
The peaceful quiet that follows
is comfortable, until I decide to ruin it with a question that just suddenly pops into my head.
“That time
we talked at the rec…you know, that night?” I begin hesitantly. “Did Johnny ask you to check on me? Is that why you came?”
Dean turns his head to look at me before giving a brief nod. Then he focuses on the dark road ahead.
And that’s all I’m going to get out of him.
It’s really stupid—but I feel a tiny bit better. That Johnny would still care enough about me to make sure I’m okay. I can’t help but—
Ugh! Pathetic! I need to stop obsessing over Johnny Parker. He’s obviously not thinking about me now. I give my head a violent shake to clear it, and turn to Dean. “Let’s change the subject. So…what was life in military school like?”
His beautiful profile is in the shadows, so I can’t see his expression, but his
silence feels surprised. “Very regimented,” he finally says. “Not a lot of down time.”
“Where was it?” I ask curiously. “What’d you do for fun?”
“Pennsylvania. It was an all male academy in a small town with nothing there.” One side of Dean’s mouth crooks up into a smile. “I worked out a lot.”
“Well, you made friends there, right? Didn’t you hang out with them on the weekends, or something?”
“Some,” he answers, amusement starting to lace his tone at my slightly exasperated expression. “Where do you think I got the scars from?”
I try for details, but getting Dean to talk about himself is like trying to pull teeth from—something that doesn’t have teeth.
I decide to change the subject again, and we talk about everything from the smoke bomb incident, to where he’s going to college (he’s given verbal agreement to a scout from Louisiana)—to our days at Sally Brown Park. Which leads Dean to ask me why I’m not on any teams at school, since he remembers me playing sports just as well as any of the guys there.
“I don’t know. I’m not much of a joiner
, and I don’t have the time or discipline to practice,” I answer slowly. Not to mention, you can spend a lot of money on uniforms, equipment, and trips. “Also, I have this thing about organized sports. Something about everyone wearing the same uniform—and all that camaraderie. You know, like when you miss a goal, or strike out—and your teammates pat you on the back. And they’re like ‘good try,’ or ‘you’ll get ‘em next time.’ It freaks me out. It’s really weird.”
“That
is
really weird.”
“I know, okay? Why do you think I don’t tell anyone about it?”
“You told me,” he points out.
“Yeah, well, you don’t count.” I gesture at him in annoyance. “You already know about my bedroom.”
Dean laughs again, and it’s a low pleasant sound that I don’t find offensive, even though he’s laughing at me. I change the subject again by asking him if his uncle will be okay with me tagging along. He says his uncle won’t have a problem with me, but doesn’t elaborate. Through a very specific set of questions (of the yes and no variety), I find out Uncle Jimmy is actually his great uncle. Dean’s mother used to take him to see Jimmy every Saturday when Dean was little, and Dean reveals how Jimmy taught him things like how to whistle with two fingers, and make a paper airplane fly ridiculously far. Uncle Jimmy had served as a medic in Vietnam, and came home with both physical and mental trauma. He lives by himself in a beach house, and almost never leaves it. Dean still goes to see him every week to check up on him—
To which I go, “awww!” and that’s when he stops talking.
Awkward silence ensues until Dean goes through a Frizby’s drive-through. He orders three Big Dog burgers and a Heap O’ Fries, then asks me what I want. I could really go for some onion rings, so I make my request. When I try to give him some money, he gives me that look again. I stubbornly place the few dollars on his dashboard, and he immediately grabs it and sticks it back in my hand. Ugh, what’s the big deal?
Uncle Jimmy’s
big gray ratty looking house on the beach is straight out of a slasher movie. It’s huge and misshapen, and the whole thing seems to lean a little to the right. Maybe in the daytime, the house is simply old and unkempt, but in the shadows of the dark, it’s a looming monster, waiting for its next victim. Dean gets out, grabbing the Frizby’s bag, and a small white box from the backseat. He waits for me to get out before he starts walking up the narrow crooked drive.
The yard is overwhelmed by waist high weeds, and I have serious doubts about walking through that mess to reach the front door.
Who knows what could be living in there. I follow as closely behind Dean as politely possible—but when I feel something big scurry across my foot, screw politeness, I grab the back of his shirt in a viselike grip. Dean glances at me over his shoulder, but doesn’t say a word.
By the time we make our way to the sagging front porch, I decide the house has character, and I like it. I could get used to the roar of the crashing waves, and the salty sea breeze ruffling the air. Under the glow of the yellow porch light, I notice
the splinters of wood sticking up like unruly strands of gray hair. What lives in the jagged little holes peppering the front door? I hope Dean doesn’t knock, and disturb…them.
He rings the doorbell. I can’t hear it go off in the house, but I assume he’d know if it works. We wait for a good three minutes until the door finally creaks open, and we are greeted by a thin elderly
man in a faded t-shirt and jeans. An ancient ball cap sits over longish gray curls, and a delicate face dominated by translucent green eyes that seem to shine in the dim light.
Dean
introduces us, and Uncle Jimmy gives me a nod and shy smile in acknowledgement. I immediately like him, and his quiet easygoing demeanor. While Dean hands over the Frizby’s bag, as well as the white box, I take the opportunity to glance around at my surroundings.
Okay, so there’s a definitely a musty, unwashed smell
in here, but it’s no big deal if I breathe through my mouth. Everything in the house is old, faded—typical bachelor décor, and by that, I mean only the most basic of furniture probably bought before I was born.
But I barely notice the faded
couch and the huge boxy television balanced on a couple of crates. There are birds everywhere. Not the real kind, but carved ones of every size, shape, and color. There are little sparrows—so lifelike with curious expressions in their eyes, perched on the coffee table; a glossy black raven with wings outstretched in midflight on a bookcase…a brightly colored parrot peeks through the cobwebbed leaves of a fake plant. About a hundred more decorate the living room and kitchen, turning the drab surroundings into something kind of magical and a little creepy.
Though Jimmy seems shy and quiet, he talks to me easily enough. He calls Dean, “Buddy,” and I assume it’s a special nickname until he starts calling me that, too. I find out that he hand carved all the birds himself, and
we end up talking shop. I tell him about my carousel horses, and we discuss carving tools and technique. His work is infinitely superior to mine, with such fine detail that I want to touch the bird feathers to see if they feel as silky as they look.
“Do you sell them?” I ask, running a light hand over a bright blue robin with its head cocked to the side.
Jimmy shakes his head, sticking a finger under his cap to scratch an itch. “No, I could never part with any of these little guys,” he admits softly.
“That’s how I feel!” I blurt out. “I name all of mine, and sometimes I talk—”
I stop abruptly, having just remembered that Dean is there. I shoot him a self-conscious look. He’s half-sitting on an ornately carved wooden chest, arms crossed, and with an amused half-smile on his face. I’d been so busy talking to Jimmy that I forgot all about his presence. It’s just that—it’s so nice talking to someone who shares my obsessive behavior. I bet I could tell Jimmy that I’ve made little clothes for some of my favorite horses, and he wouldn’t bat an eye. Not that I’ve done that, I’m just giving an example.
Jimmy has ferrets! He brings out t
wo slinky silver creatures named Holy and Moly. They are so adorable and playful that I immediately want one for myself. Moly claws its way up Dean’s leg to perch on his shoulder and chitter in his ear. Dean doesn’t look thrilled, but seems resigned to having the ferret there. It’s so cute, I can’t resist taking a pic with my phone. I swear, I’m not gonna post it online, or anything.
About an hour into the visit, Jimmy starts to become visibly tired.
He seems to be babying his left arm, keeping it awkwardly against his body. Dean notices, too, and glances at his watch.
“We have to go, Jimmy,” he says
, nodding at me. “I’ll come back next week, yeah? I’ll bring the vermillion. I’m sure they’ll have it in stock by then.”
“Sounds good, buddy,” Jimmy acknowledges with a tired smile and a faraway look in his clear green eyes. “Thanks a lot.”
“It was really nice to meet you, Jimmy,” I say. Holy and Moly are both cuddled on my lap, so I carefully get up, cradling them in my arms. “Thanks for having me.”
“Anytime, budd
y. I can take those guys off you.”
“Oh, no, I got them. I can put them back in their cage,” I offer, already walking toward the small alcove next to the dusty fireplace.
I deposit the two ferrets in their little sling in the cage, and they immediately wind themselves around each other, and close their eyes. The picture of sleepy contentment after a hard day of play. Who knew ferrets were such cool pets? And they only smell a little.
We say our goodbyes to Jimmy after Dean promises to bring me back. When we’
re back in the Pontiac, and he fires up the powerful engine, I turn to him with a genuine smile.
“Your uncle is pretty awesome. Thanks for letting me come.”
Dean returns my smile, his light-filled eyes gleaming in the dark. “Anytime.”
I feel flushed with contentment
, pleased with Dean and how my evening turned out. It’s kind of crazy how much time we’ve been spending together lately, but I’m really enjoying his company. Sure, he’s not the easiest person to get to know, but I kinda like that about him.
Still smiling, I text Heather to make sure she’s okay. She immediately texts me back, letting me know she’s safe and sound at home—and adds about fifty smiley faces. Guess her night went well.
I’m sure she’ll tell me all about it tomorrow.
I
fall asleep on the ride back to my house, and the next thing I know, we’re pulling up in front of my house. I stretch luxuriously in my seat, raising my arms above my head so that they touch the ceiling of the car. Mid-stretch, I glance over at Dean to find him watching me with an unreadable expression on his face. Self-conscious—my yawn-y faces are not cute—I quickly lower my arms, and reach for the door handle.
“Thanks, Dean. I’ll see you Monday—and don’t forget, we have o
ur English presentation!”
“Looking forward to it.” Was that sarcasm? So hard to tell with him. He starts to get out. “I’ll walk you to your door.”
“No, that’s okay,” I say, having just spotted my mom’s car in the driveway. “My mom’s home. Thanks, though.”
I slip out of the car without waiting for a response, and hurry down the path to my front porch. It’s after two, and I wonder if Mom will be upset that I’m home so late? What’s she doing home, anyway?
She’s in the kitchen, sitting at the table with her laptop in front of her. She looks up when I come skidding in, already making excuses.
“I know it’s late…” I begin. “I was just with a friend, visiting his uncle, who lives in Sunlit City—”
But Mom holds up a hand in halting gesture. “I thought about being mad,” she says with a shrug. “But then I realized—you’re almost eighteen, and in a few months you’ll be off to college. You need to start being responsible for yourself, and I have to trust that you’ll make intelligent decisions. I just ask that you show some respect while you’re under my roof, and not come in stumbling drunk at five in the morning.”
I gape at her as she calmly goes back to typing on her laptop. The clicking of the keyboard is the only sound in the kitchen for a couple of minutes. I’m speechless.
Finally, I find my voice. Leaning against the counter for support, I try for a mature tone. “That seems fair,” I squeak. I clear my throat. “Just to let you know, I don’t intend on getting drunk in the foreseeable future. Or doing anything similarly stupid.”
“I know you won’t,” she says in a smugly absent tone.
Like she doesn’t doubt I’m a good little virgin who would faint at the thought of underage drinking.
I mash my lips together. “What are you doing home?” I ask, deciding to go with a safe topic.