Winter Loon(13)

Ruby enrolled me at the local high school and forced me back, though I told her it was a waste of time since I would only have to leave again once my father returned. I knew how to be the new kid. Stay quiet. Watch where you’re going in the hall. Spot the boss and either be his friend or steer clear. Don’t raise your hand. Sit near the door to be first out of the classroom. Don’t eat at the table where most of the kids wear glasses. Better to eat in a bathroom stall than to risk eating alone. Watch out for friendly girls until you know which ones you can trust.

Boys in Loma called the pretty girls “foxes,” and one pretty girl in particular, Kathryn Rook, took a shine to me. I’d never had much chance to get into trouble with girls up to that point. We never stayed in one place long enough, plus I’d always been kind of a grubby kid. My pants never fit me quite right—they were either too short or too big around. I remember a girl who held her nose when I walked into a classroom. I was in maybe the third or fourth grade. Once I started growing taller, started taking after my father, I became more aware of myself and made an effort to keep clean and to wear clothes that fit. By that winter, my legs were long and my shoulders were square but meatless. My wavy hair had grown out, which made it swoop over my ears at odd angles. Though I would sometimes see my father in the shadows when I looked in a mirror, mostly, as I came into my own, I deemed myself not half-bad.

This Kathryn was blond and curvier than the other girls, plump even, though it looked good on her. Her top lip curled under when she smiled, which made her look a little more like a rabbit than a fox. In science class she sat behind me, and I could feel her eyes stroking my back. She sat on the other side of the aisle in study hall, her left palm resting on her cheekbone or temple so her head was cocked just right to stare at me. I’d try to stretch out and look uninterested, but the restless part of me wanted to know what was on her mind. Despite my wariness of the girl, I found myself looking back.

She caught me at my locker, planting herself like a point guard, so when I turned around with my bag lunch, I couldn’t get away. She bothered to introduce herself, though we both knew I knew her name. A girl like Kathryn had a way of making herself known. She was always smiling, never alone. Never a hair out of place, lips always glossed. Her clothes were neat, and before she ever spoke a word to me, I imagined her underpants matched her bra.

“You’re new. My dad says you’re living with your grandparents over there on Willow Lane. He said . . .” Her confidence seemed to falter as she searched for the right words. “He said your mom, well, that she maybe died. Is that true?”

I looked for a way to squeeze past her, but she shifted her hips to tell me I needed to answer. I cleared my throat and nodded. Maybe a month or more had passed, but the cold was fresh on my skin. I rubbed my arm for warmth.

“Well, I’m sure sorry about that, Wes. It is Wes, isn’t it? My dad says he knew your mother. That they went to high school together. He works at the bank, you know.” She took a step closer to me, and I had nowhere to go except against the locker. I closed the door and leaned back. “No,” she said. “Of course you wouldn’t know that. The bank, they own your grandparents’ house. You guys pay rent to my father. Well, to the bank, not him. But he is in charge of that sort of thing. Anyway, I’m sorry. Listen to me rambling on.” She rolled away and hooked her thumbs in the back pockets of her jeans, then twisted her whole body in the direction of the cafeteria. “Any time, you can eat with us, okay, Wes? Ballot, right? Not Furniss, like your grandparents?”

“Right.”

She said my name twice, first and last—Wes Ballot, Wes Ballot—like she was pulling a dress down her hips, as if my name needed to fit over her teeth. “I like that.” She made a two-step turn and bounded off to catch up with a group of girls who’d been watching from a safe distance.



SHE MADE IT EASY TO fall in with her. When she asked if I wanted to go to the movies with her and her friends, I told her plain I didn’t have money. She paid my way. I tagged along with them to the Canoe Café and ate plates of greasy french fries dipped in ketchup. She indulged her sweet tooth with cola and chocolate syrup mixed together, dipping her finger in the froth and licking it off, which seemed to be for my benefit. The seat in the booth next to her she saved for me, pushing her friends to the other side. Her warm thigh would press against mine, and she would laugh and grab my arm or rest her head on my shoulder for the shortest time. It embarrassed me that her touches reminded me of my mother’s, especially since I was stirred by her. I ached for closeness, for the pressure of a body against mine. It could have been anyone. But it wasn’t. It was this girl, clean and pretty. Her clothes were new, her makeup careful. From her talk, I knew she was fatter than she would have liked, but I liked it plenty. That’s what she was to me—plenty. I wanted what she had and what she offered. I didn’t think much about what she wanted from me.

On the day I worked up the nerve to put my arm along the back of the bench, behind her yellow hair, to reach across in front of her to dip my fry in her ketchup, her friends stiffened, and I thought I’d made a mistake, had gone too far. I sat back, took my arm away. A broad man in a watch-plaid overcoat was looking straight at us through the plate glass window. His head was round and his top lip was cinched up. He put his hand on his brow to block the afternoon glare. Kathryn smiled at him and waved, her straight fingers bowing over and over at him. The man backtracked toward the café door. Kathryn slid out of the booth and grabbed my hand to pull me out with her. She didn’t let go when I stood up next to her. “Here comes your landlord, Wes. Look alive.”