The Accidental Siren (17 page)

Giving in to instinct, I abandoned my bowl
and spoon on the ledge and started down the concrete steps to the
driveway. A flicker of light caught my eye meandering through the
driveway foliage like the eyeshine of a one-eyed dog.

I reached the bottom step just as the castle
floodlight revealed the new arrival; it was a truck, a white Toyota
with a broken headlight, grizzly motor, and four different hubcaps.
Nobody noticed the truck as it joined the cluster of vehicles along
the drive, but when Danny Bompensaro emerged from the
passenger-side door, Whit and Ryan perked like the ears on a
threatened wolf.

Hank joined his nephew at the front of the
truck and ushered him toward my party.

I should have been the first to react, but I
was distracted by Danny’s stiff gait and the undefinable bundles in
both of his hands.

Ryan turned from his conversation with Mara
and positioned himself between the chatting girls and the
approaching menace. Whit joined him.

Mara saw Danny. Her neck tensed, her lips
narrowed, and she scanned the party until she found my eyes.

I gave her a single nod as if I had a plan. I
didn’t.

My father noticed the visitors, excused
himself from his circle of new friends, then joined Ryan and Whit
at the front lines with a welcoming smile and extended hand.

As Hank closed the gap to my father, I
finally made out the dark bundles in Danny’s hands. In his left was
Trent’s sword, point down with a line of holes where the nails had
been removed. A trashcan lid was pinched in the crook of his arm
along with fabric from a homemade costume. His right hand gripped a
bundle of yellow snapdragons, an hour from wilting, tied together
with a shoelace bow. He wore a Polo and khakis as if it were a
tuxedo.

“’Evenin’, folks,” said Hank and shook my
father’s hand.

“I’m David Parker, James’ Dad.”

“Harold Bompensaro.” Hank elbowed Danny’s
shoulder. “I’m responsible for this knuckle-head.”

Danny watched his shoes to avoid my gaze.
“I’m here for the movie, Mr. Parker.”

My old man didn’t know Danny Bompensaro from
Luke Skywalker. Nobody told him about the incident with Mara, nor
did he know that this was the villain who took my camera. “I
believe the moviemaking is over, tiger.” He rubbed the bully’s
hair, oblivious to the scar creeping an inch from his fingertips.
“But you’re welcome to grab some chili and hang out with the other
kids.”

Crap!
I mustered my courage and
stepped forward to join the ranks of men. I looked at Danny’s
costume and the trash-lid shield... I couldn’t tell my dad to make
him leave.

It was that moment–as Danny circumvented our
mini platoon and stepped toward the girls–that I realized Mara’s
fear was a transcendent reaction, emitting from her spirit like a
radio signal for those of us attuned to the proper station. We
didn’t need to see her expression to know Danny’s presence made her
ill, we could feel it–all of us–clear and persistent like the tip
of a rattlesnake’s tail.

Ryan stepped left and cut the bully off. Whit
and I approached from the rear like raptors on the hunt.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” Ryan
asked.

“I–”

“I’ve heard stories about you. You’re a
little punk.”

The other girls sensed the change in mood and
turned to face us. Mara was frozen, cat in her arms, eyes on Danny.
Livy slid an arm around her waist.

“I thought I could help,” said Danny.

Ryan puffed his chest. “What are the flowers
for?”

Danny’s eyes flicked between Mara and the
ground. “They’re snapdragons.”

Ryan scoffed. “She doesn’t want your dumb
present.”

“I wanna tell her I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

Whit inched closer and pressed his footrest
into Danny’s heel.

“For being an ass. For pushing her against
the tree and for scaring her.” He tried to sidestep Ryan–right,
left, then right again–but he was like a scrawny goblin facing a
armored knight. The veins constricted in his neck. His scar–only a
foot from my face–turned from light pink to boiling red. Suddenly,
he rammed his shoulder into Ryan’s chest. “Faggot!” he blurted “Let
me by!”

The other boys finally noticed the commotion,
left the planter, and formed a semi-circle between Danny and his
pretty victim (one of Ryan’s friends had the gall to place a hand
on her shoulder.) In the garage, the mothers remained cheerfully
unaware.

My empathy for the well-intentioned bully
evaporated at the word “faggot.” I balled my fist around the collar
of his Polo and jerked him back. “Go home, Danny.”

He dropped the shield, flowers, costume and
sword, then planted his palms in my chest and pushed. “Shut it,
Fatty!
”

Maybe it was my newfound confidence that
secured my feet to the paver-brick drive; maybe it was my need to
match Ryan’s heroics. Whatever the reason, I didn’t budge.

Dad turned around.

Hank stepped forward. “What the hell is goin’
on?”

Danny’s head was a pimple about to burst.
“They’re bein’ jerks, Hank! I tried to–”

“You stupid boy. Yer gonna ruin this night,
too?” He wrapped his fingers around Danny’s neck. “Yer gonna
embarrass us in front of these nice folks?”

Dad adjusted the bridge of his bifocals and
scratched the back of his neck. “I think we just have a
misunderstanding–”

Before he could diffuse the situation, the
front door opened and slammed. It was A.J., standing on the patio
in his usual camouflage duds.

“Age?” Danny said, nearly a whisper.

A.J. locked eyes with his friend, then
grabbed the door handle and jiggled it, but it had locked behind
him.

Danny glared at A.J., then at me. The moment
of silence summoned Mrs. Greenfield and Mrs. Conrad to the opening
of the garage.

Suddenly, Danny lunged toward the patio,
forgetting he was still caught in his uncle’s grip. Instead of
charging A.J., he writhed before us like a hooked gar. “Fuck you,
Age! Stupid fucking traitor!”

“That’s it.” Hank tightened his grip and
yanked Danny toward the truck. He looked to Dad. “I assure you
folks I’m gonna teach this kid some respect. Sorry ‘bout the
intrusion. Enjoy yer evenin’.”

Danny sneered at my father. “Screw you, old
man,” he said and reeled again. “Screw your son and his little
bitch of a girl!” He looked to Mara. He pointed at the smeared
petals and broken stems. “I picked those for you! I was tryin’ to
be nice!” Hank covered his nephews mouth, but Danny spat and
screamed between his fingers. “Fuck your stupid movie! Fuck your
stupid friends and fuck your stupid cat!”

And then it was over. Danny was secured in
the cab of the truck. Forward, reverse, forward, reverse; the brake
lights washed our faces with crimson.

Mom joined the women at the garage door.

Livy ran to Ryan and touched his cheek.

My father sighed.

Trapped in the center was our wingless angel.
We empathized her pain and shared the sting of utter abashment. We
longed to hold her, to comfort her, to banish the hurt and defend
her honor... but we were stuck. A dark revelation kept us frozen in
the drive; the slow realization that our empathy for Mara was a
paradox where the problem’s solution was the problem itself. To
give her comfort was to be like Danny; our words of encouragement
would be nothing but a trampled bushel of flowers.

Mrs. Greenfield succeeded where the men
failed. She hugged Mara, then ushered her on a stroll of the castle
grounds. For thirty minutes they walked and talked while the
parents picked up and the boys reenacted highlights from the epic
confrontation.

“I’ve never heard such language on a
twelve-year-old,” said Mrs. Bullard as she wiped sauce from the
chili pot.

“It’s the music they listen to,” replied
Whit’s Mom. “Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins; they’re to blame for kids
like Danny.”

* * *

11:45 PM.

Testosterone clung to the lead pores of my
bedroom walls. Boys were draped over every available surface like
chimps in a tree. Doritos, popcorn and cookie crumbs littered my
bedsheets and peppered the berber with crunchy specks.

Whit and A.J. sat beside me in the corner of
the room. Together, we admired the lounging jocks. One of the boys
rushed to Ryan, sat on his lap, farted, and laughed.

Whit broke the seal on a packet of Tic-Tacs,
tipped back his head, and dumped a mouthful.

“Can I get one of them mints?” A.J. asked
from the edge of my bed.

Whit didn’t respond, but picked up an empty
Coke can from the nightstand and balanced it on A.J.’s head. He
formed his fingers into a gun and aimed it at the reformed-bully’s
face.
“Ka-pow,”
he said and pulled the trigger.

I grabbed the can and crushed it. “Whit isn’t
as forgiving as Mara,” I said. “You’ve been Danny’s stooge for a
long time.”

Whit rolled the heap of mints in his mouth.
“That kid’s a primordial ass.”

“He’s gonna kill me,” A.J. said.

“You know what I’ve been thinkin’?” I asked.
“I think Danny’s no different than Bobby or Jake. He likes Mara but
he doesn’t know why, so he pokes her and calls her names.”

“Yeah, ‘cept the twins don’t carry a pellet
gun and scream obscenities.” Whit watched as two of Ryan’s buddies
stood face to face for a game of ram sham bo. “Think they like us?”
he asked.

One boy spread his legs and clenched his
face. The other pulled his foot back, grinned, then wailed his bare
toes into his buddy’s crotch.

Whit popped another Tic-Tac. “Told ya Mara
would get us friends.”

Ryan abandoned his buddies, took two giant
leaps across my bed, and plopped between Whit and A.J. “Give me a
mint,” he said and Whit obliged immediately. He held the mint
between his front teeth as he scanned our faces. “Who wants to make
twenty bucks?”

“Me!” A.J. said.

Ryan put his arm around the kid’s skinny
back. “The money’s yours, little dude. But you gotta do me a
favor.”

A.J. was skeptical. He responded nervously,
as if the wrong words might scare away the offer. “Whatcha need me
to do?”

“During the game tonight, dare me to kiss
Mara.”

* * *

11:55 PM.

Half the boys were left trading baseball
cards between plastic sheaths on my bedroom floor; half the girls
were asleep on the ballroom couch. My parents, I hoped, were in
their bed, unaware of the faction of kids preparing for a game of
Truth or Dare in the castle walls.

Evil forces were at work as the girls chose
their seats among the boys. I found myself squished between Livy
and A.J. with Mara on the opposite side of the circle snuggled
between Ryan and Whit. My sister fared no better; her crush was
sitting knee-to-knee with Haley and the most beautiful girl in the
world.

Mara’s pjs were a far cry from the footie
pajamas she wore the night we met; socks, a pair of purple Sophies,
a tie-died tank with swirling shades of teal. If she was still
shaken by Danny’s violent and public advances, she didn’t show it
now.

As always, Mickey Mouse provided our
light.

Ryan raised his hands as high as the ceiling
allowed. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “these are the
rules!”

“Hey, Blue Eyes,” Whit interrupted. “Who made
you king of Truth or Dare?”

Ryan was about to retort when Livy piped up,
“Wait!” She jumped to her knees and scavenged the storage bin she
had been using as a backrest. She removed a cardboard Burger King
crown, then leaned across the circle and wiggled it on Ryan’s head.
“There!”

“Thank you, minion,” he said and cleared his
throat. “There’s only one rule tonight: what happens in these
walls, stays in these walls.”

Livy raised a hand.

“Yes, minion?”

“And no kissing relatives.” She patted my
knee. “No offense, little brother.”

I scrunched my face. “Gross.”

“Haley, darling,” Ryan said. “You start.”

I couldn’t imagine Haley Jenson playing Truth
or Dare. She was a bashful girl who communicated with blinking
doe-eyes instead of moving lips. Her hair was cute in blonde braids
from a makeover session and her eyes asked,
“What am I doing
here?”
I didn’t know what debauchery our game had in store, but
I feared the corruption of Haley’s bunny-like personality.

“Umm...” she began, then her eyes fell on me.
“I pick James.”

“Ooooo!” went the spectators.

I rolled my eyes and looked at the blushing
girl. “Truth,” I said.

Ryan cupped his mouth. “Booooring!”

Haley spoke so softly that I had to lean
forward to hear the question. “What’s your favorite hair color on a
girl?” she asked.

I looked at Mara’s tangled locks. Apparently,
she was the only girl who didn’t receive a makeover. “Blonde,” I
said. “Definitely blonde.”

(Days later, my sister would explain that my
rapid and direct response brightened Haley’s evening, as she too
had blonde hair.)

Ryan was next. “I chooose...” He scanned our
faces as if he hadn’t known for weeks who he was going to pick.
“Mara!”

“Me?” she asked.

“Truth or dare?” he asked.

“Truth!” she said.

“Hmm...” he said, then pretended to think.
“What turns you on?”

This game was a bad idea. Mara was twelve; a
fact that no one seemed to comprehend but me. Girls aren’t supposed
play dirty games in secret corridors until high school, and Ryan
Brosh–the closest thing to an authority figure in that cave–was
taking advantage of her innocence and disregarding the two vital
years between them, first with this question, later with a
kiss.

“What do you mean?” Mara asked. “I like
animals...”

“Well... what can a boy do to get you
excited?”

She pursed her lips to the side. The longer
she considered her answer, the more I wanted to vomit on Ryan’s
face.