Keeping The Moon(3)

When the train pulled into the Colby station five hours later, the only person waiting was a guy with shoulder-length brown hair, a

tie-dyed T-shirt, cutoff army shorts, and Birkenstocks. He had about a million of those Deadhead hippie bracelets on his wrist, and

he was wearing sunglasses with blue frames.

I was the only one who got off in Colby.

I stood on the platform, squinting. It was really sunny and hot, even though the ocean was supposed to be close by.

“Nicole?” the guy said, and when I looked up he took a few steps toward me. His shorts were splattered with white paint and I was

sure he’d smell of patchouli or pot if I bothered to sniff hard, which I chose not to.

“Colie,” I said.

“Right.” He smiled. I couldn’t see his eyes. “Mira sent me to pick you up. I’m Norman.”

Mira was my aunt. She was stuck with me for the summer.

“Those yours?” he said, pointing at the bags, which the porter had piled further down the platform. I nodded and he started after

them, with a slow, lazy walk that was already irritating me.

I was immediately mortified to see the entire Kiki line right there next to my stuff. The Kiki Buttmaster, a carton of Kiki-Eats,

the dozen new FlyKiki videos and inspirational tapes, plus a few more boxes of vitamins and fitness wear with my mother’s smiling

face plastered across them.

“Wow,” Norman said. He picked up the Buttmaster, turning it in his hands. “What’s this for?”

“I’ll get that,” I said, grabbing it from him. For the entire trip down I’d imagined myself in Colby as mysterious, different;

the dark stranger, answering no one’s questions. This image was significantly harder to maintain while lugging a Buttmaster in

front of the only boy I’d seen in the last year who didn’t automatically assume I was a slut.

“Car’s over here,” he said, and I followed him to a battered old Ford station wagon parked in the empty lot. He put my bags in

the back and held the door as I threw in the Buttmaster, which landed with a clunk on the floor. We had to make a second trip for

the rest of the Kikicrap.

“So how was the train ride?” he asked. The car smelled like old leaves and was full of junk, except for the front, which had

obviously been cleared out just recently. In the backseat were four mannequins, all of them headless. One was missing an arm,

another a hand, but they were lined up neatly, as if they’d piled in for the ride.

“Fine,” I said, wondering what kind of weirdo Mira had sent for me. I got in and slammed the door, then caught a glimpse of

myself in the side mirror. In all the confusion I had forgotten about my hair. It was so black that for a second I didn’t

recognize myself.

Norman started up the car with a little coaxing, and we pulled out into the empty intersection.

“So,” he said, “did it hurt?”

“Did what hurt?”

He looked over at me and touched the right corner of his upper lip. “That,” he said. “Did it hurt, or what?”

I ran my tongue along the inside of my lip, feeling the small metal hoop there. I’d had it done only months earlier, but it felt

like it had always been part of me, my touchstone. “No,” I said.

“Wow,” he said. The light turned green; we chugged slowly forward. “Looks like it would.”

“It didn’t.” I said it flatly, so he wouldn’t ask again.

We didn’t talk as we drove. Norman’s car was downright strange; besides our headless fellow passengers there were about twenty

tiny plastic animals glued to the dashboard, lined up carefully, and a huge pair of fuzzy red dice bouncing from the rearview

mirror.

“Nice car,” I said under my breath. He had to be some kind of art freak.

“Thanks,” he replied cheerfully, reaching up to adjust a red giraffe by the air vent. He obviously thought I was serious. “It’s

a work in progress.”

We turned on to a dirt road and passed a few houses with glimpses of water just beyond. We went all the way to the very end,

finally turning in to park right in front of a big white house. Around the porch, I could see the beach and the sound. There were

little boats out there, bobbing.

Norman honked the horn twice and cut the engine. “She’s expecting you,” he said. He got out and went around to the back door,

unloading my stuff and piling it on the front steps. He put the Buttmaster on the very top, arranging it just so. I couldn’t tell

if he was being a smartass or what.

“Thanks,” I said under my breath, deciding he was.

Mira s porch was the old southern kind: wide and long, running the entire length of the house, and I noticed two things about it

right away. First, an old bicycle leaning against a front window. It had Cadillac-style fins over the back wheel and was spray-

painted bright red, with a few rust spots showing through. In the metal basket on the front was a pair of sunglasses with big black

frames.

The second thing I noticed was a small sign posted over the doorbell, an index card that read, in simple block letters, bell. For

the truly moronic, there was an arrow as well.