The Neighbors (9 page)

Throwing his door open, he paced the cracked sidewalk in front of the house, his fingers shoved through his hair. The locusts hummed in the trees, their incessant buzz somehow making the summer heat more brutal. Back and forth along that pavement, he tried to figure out what the hell he was going to do, somehow convinced that remaining outside would help him think. Turning his attention to Mick’s house, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was honestly better than living at home. Both places were suddenly neck-and-neck on Andrew’s scale of disgust. If home was where the heart was, home was neither here nor there. If home was where you
wanted
to be, Drew’s home was next door beneath the shade of a front porch; it was behind a white picket fence, not in front of a patchy, sunburned lawn.

His hands fell to his sides, leaving his hair in stressed-out disarray. He exhaled a sigh and stalked across the crunchy lawn.

Halfway to the house, he heard his name.

“Andy?”

He glanced over his shoulder at the pride of Magnolia Lane. Harlow stood in the front yard, her wide-brimmed sun hat and Jackie O glasses obscuring her face. One arm loaded with cut roses, the other extended over her head in a wave, she looked like a Hollywood starlet—the kind you’d see in a fancy spread about the next big actress: Harlow Ward, home from the studio, pruning her rosebushes and hiring local boys to move heavy furniture.

“You all right, honey?” Her voice chimed in the breeze like a songbird’s chirp.

He didn’t answer. How hadn’t he seen her when he parked? She was damn near impossible to miss. It seemed as though she’d appeared out of thin air, but he hardly cared. She was exactly what he needed—a reminder that he had made the right decision, that moving here wasn’t a mistake.

“You look upset,” she said. “Is there something wrong?”

He determined then and there that Harlow wasn’t real. She was a figment of his imagination, the personification of the perfect woman circa 1959. Most neighbors didn’t bother to speak to each other anymore, but Harlow—he wouldn’t have been surprised if she had been standing there with a sheet of her freshly baked cookies, those gardening gloves replaced by oven mitts. It was nice to know that someone cared enough to ask if he was OK; it was even nicer to know that the person doing the caring was Harlow, and he was the object of her affection.

“Everything’s fine,” he said.

“Oh good.” She crouched down, tucked her flowers into an oversize basket, and straightened her hat before speaking again. “Come have lunch.”

Drew cracked a smile. She was relentless. “I just ate,” he confessed.

“Oh?” She slid her sunglasses down her nose, giving him a look. “Let me guess, McDonald’s?”

He gave her a guilty look, then exhaled a helpless laugh when she shook her head at him with a sly grin of her own.

“Fine,” she said. “Some other time, then.”

She turned away only to pause a moment later, glancing back to him before stepping back to the picket fence between them. She plucked a rose from her basket and laid it across the length of the top rail. And then she turned again, disappearing inside without a word.

R
ed Ward had been working his afternoon shift at the Pizza Pit just a block from Kansas City College when Harlow Beaumont stepped into his life, and she caught his attention right along with everyone else’s. Even flanked by her two foxy friends—a trio of Charlie’s Angels if there ever was one—Harlow stole the spotlight. She entered the place the way Bridget Bardot stepped onto a movie set—sizzling as she walked, her long blonde hair blown back by an invisible wind machine. With Creedence Clearwater pouring from the Pizza Pit’s speakers, she was a fantasy; a pair of bright orange hot pants paired with a white turtleneck; waves of liquid gold spilling over her shoulders, held in place by a white crocheted beret; legs for days.

Red had always been the silent type. He gathered empty plates and plastic cups off the table he had been busing when the girls stepped into the joint before moving to the table directly behind Harlow and her friends. Sneaking a glance at the books she’d placed on the table—theology, not a subject he would have guessed—he took stock of everything he could without being noticed—anything to get next to a girl like her. But Red’s attention to detail didn’t turn him into an international spy. One of
the girls noticed him staring and turned up her nose, motioning to her friends with a nod of her head, then confronted the busboy who was taking a little too much interest in their group.

“Hey,” she said with a mouth full of gum, its sugary pink scent drifting across the table, breaching the distance between them as she sat there, fluffing her bleached-blonde hair. She wasn’t the kind of girl Red went for—loud, gaudy; Harlow’s looks were far from tame, but there was a mystery to her, like she was hiding some big secret, and Red wanted to be the guy who figured out what that secret was.

“Hey,
you
,” the bottle-blonde continued, peering Red’s way.

He stopped what he was doing, which was little more than straightening the salt and pepper shakers, and offered Harlow’s gum-snapping friend an innocent glance.
Who, me?

“Yeah, you,” she said. “I saw you looking over here, hotshot. You wanna take a picture?”

The girls giggled—all of them except for Harlow, who, rather than joining her friends in their needled chuckling, merely stared at Red with a half grin.

Red looked down nervously, continuing to straighten the table, trying to look busy and uninterested. But his heart was hammering against his ribs. Harlow was the prettiest girl he’d ever set eyes on. He wanted to talk to her, but courage was failing him.

“Did you see something you liked?” the girl continued. “Wanna get with me, huh?”

“Maybe he wants to come disco with us,” the second Angel, a redhead, suggested. Her hair was a halo of fire, teased and curly. She leered at him when Red glanced her way, batting her green-eyeshadowed eyes at him.

“You want to come disco with us, baby?” the sunshine blonde asked. “Or are you too busy making pizza all night long? Wanna roll my dough?”

“Make love, not pizza,” the fiery one quipped.

Again, they burst into laughter. The stunner between them cracked a knowing grin.

Red watched the girls eat from a distance, keeping away from them, not wanting to scare them away—though there was a fat chance of that happening with those two. When the loud ones rose from their table, rowdy and laughing, the quiet looker remained seated.

“What’s the matter with you, ’Lo? Aren’t you coming?” the blonde asked, shoving another wad of Bubble Yum into her mouth.

Harlow shook her head, offering them a shrug.

The girls blinked at one another before exhaling a communal groan.

“Him?”
the blonde asked.

“Oh God,” the redhead countered. “Spaz-city.”

“He probably smells like pepperoni,” the first joked.

“Yeah, his
sausage
does.”

Another uproar of laughter. Harlow chuckled but didn’t budge.

“Don’t blame us when you get the clap from that dirty bird,” the golden-haired one chided.

“He’s a
busboy
,” the redhead reminded her.

“I’ll catch you later,” Harlow told them.

“Whatever.” The blonde sighed with a roll of her eyes, genuinely annoyed to be leaving the third Angel behind. “Just don’t get preggo by the Italian Stallion.”

“Yeah.” The fiery one smirked. “Explain
that
to your pops. ‘But, Daddy, he was a busboy,’” she teased, fluttering her lashes, her hand pressed to her chest.

“At least he’s got a job,” Harlow said.

Her friends finally relented, waving their hands dismissively and exiting in a cacophony of chatter. Harlow remained at the now empty table, one long leg crossed over the other, a pair of woven platform shoes lending an extra inch to her long legs.

His way clear, Red dared to approach her table. Harlow offered him a smile.

“Hey,” she said. “Sorry about my friends. They’re total airheads, you know.” She shrugged again, excusing the others’ lack of class.

“You want another Coke?” Red asked, motioning to her near-empty glass. “No charge.”

“No charge?” Harlow raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, sure, I’ll take another. What are you, the owner or something?”

“The owner of what? This place?” Red nearly blushed at the suggestion. He’d only be so lucky, owning his own business in a big city.

“Sure,” she said, reaching for her purse. “Handing out free pop the way you are. You’re either the owner or you’ve got a lot of soda money.”

“Or I’m just buying a pretty girl a soda,” he said, deciding to take the risk. “Something wrong with that?”

“I guess not.”

“I get off my shift in ten minutes,” he confided, sure that if he didn’t make his move he’d never see this stunner again; and then he’d spend the rest of his life wondering
what if
.

“Do you?” Harlow smiled impishly at his confession, pulling a pack of Lucky Strikes from her bag. “You got a light?”

Red patted down his pockets, then motioned to the kitchen. “In my jacket...”

“Forget it,” she muttered around the filter, digging through her purse for matches.

“Want to grab a drink?” he asked. “After my shift?”

Harlow gave him a look past her lashes, thick with mascara.

“Oh, I don’t
drink
,” she told him. “Daddy’s a pastor.”

“Yeah?” Red asked. “Is that why you’re studying that stuff?” He nodded to her school books, and Harlow rolled her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said. “Something like that.”

“You think he’s watching?”

“He’s always watching.”

“How’s that?” Red asked, plucking her empty glass off the table.

“Through God’s eyes, baby.” She winked, lighting her smoke. “I imagine I’m going to be struck down any minute now.”

The headlights of the TransAm cut through the darkness, casting weird shadows across the face of the house. Drew had nursed the day’s wounds by watching talk shows and reality TV all afternoon when he should have been applying for work at gas stations and truck stops, but the bitter blow of countless nos had temporarily grounded him.

Mickey dragged himself through the door, and though he’d been gone the entire day, his appearance offered no clue where he had been. There was no uniform to suggest a day of work, no duffel bag or water bottle to suggest time spent at the gym.

“Hey,” Drew greeted him from the couch.

Mick offered his roommate a nod of the head, attempted to force a smile, but his expression was unreadable.

“Where were you?” Drew asked.

“Out,” Mickey replied.

“Just out?” Drew raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, driving around,” Mick said. “I’ll be right back.” Turning down the hall, he wandered to his room.

Drew pulled a face, squinting at the television.

Mickey resurfaced from his room a few minutes later, making a beeline for the fridge. He fished out two cans of beer, cracked one open while tossing the other at Drew. Taking a gulp midstride, Mick shuffled over to the couch and fell into his own personal divot.

Drew peered at the cold can of beer in his hands, then looked at his housemate, breaking the silence: “Can I get access to the network here? The password, I mean.”

“The what?”

Drew leaned forward, snatching his cell phone off the coffee table. “The network,” he repeated, pulling up the settings screen. “I’ve got, like, no service here. Can I log into the wi-fi?” He pointed the phone at Mickey, a network titled “my neighbors suck” highlighted on the screen. “That’s you, I’m assuming.”

Mickey gulped his beer and peered at the television before offering an unenthusiastic nod.

“Well, can I have the password? Unless you have a computer I can use.”

“For what?”

“Job hunting,” Drew confessed. “I went to, like, nine different places today and wanted to kill myself afterward. Nobody’s hiring.”

“Then how’s the Internet going to help?”

Andrew lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I have to keep looking, right? Unless you’re about to bless me with a lifetime of free rent.”

“What’s wrong with the classifieds?” Mickey asked, throwing his head back to finish off his beer. Andrew stared at him in childlike fascination while Mick crushed the can in his hand.

“Seriously?” Drew asked.

It was Mickey’s turn to scope his roomie out. “Seriously what?”

“You’re going to make me go buy a newspaper?” Andrew shook his head, looking back to the TV.

They both sat silently for a long while. Drew chewed his bottom lip. Mick’s refusal to let him access the network was a breach of etiquette; if there was a roommate code, this was certainly a violation of it.

A minute later, Mickey spoke up, as if sensing what Drew was thinking.

“I forgot it.”

Andrew shook his head.

“The password,” Mickey clarified. “I forgot it. I got hacked and I made it complicated, and I didn’t write the goddamn thing down. Gotta call the cable company,” he said. “It takes, like, an hour to talk to anyone.”

Drew furrowed his eyebrows at his phone.

“I’ll do it later,” Mickey murmured.