Under the Watsons' Porch Read online

  It's a spitting rain but constant, with a little wind so the rainwater is blowing into our faces.

  “You don't think they'll stay home because of the rain?” Tommy's out of breath from carrying the board games and lemonade and cups and cookies and napkins.

  “They'll come,” I say. “Milo was ready to come with us, he's so excited.”

  But I can imagine that in other houses the kids are waking up to this damp, gray day, sliding down the steps in their pajamas, and heading for the television to watch cartoons.

  The lights are out upstairs in the Brittle house.

  “Do you see the twins?” Tommy asks, stopping to look up.

  I don't see anyone moving or any lights.

  “It's too early,” I say.

  “I hope,” Tommy replies.

  It's a little after ten. The snack is set up on a small table Tommy has brought from his house, blankets are spread on the ground, the beach chairs are open, and he and I are standing at the lattice door waiting.

  Behind us, the lollipops are blooming in four perfect lines of cellophane. Outside, the weather has picked up. It's raining in sheets.

  We don't speak but I know what Tommy is thinking.

  “Do you want me to go to the end of the driveway and check if anyone is coming?” I ask.

  “I'll come with you,” he says.

  And I follow him down the drive, stopping at the top of Lincoln Road where the brick wall runs into the Watsons' drive.

  Ahead of us, just about at our house, we see a line of yellow raincoats, eight or ten of them at least, walking up the street single file. Passing my house, they stop, and Milo trots down the front steps in his yellow raincoat joining someone—it must be Sean—and then they head up the street toward us like so many yellow ducklings.

  We don't stop to check if Anthony and Alexander are coming down their front steps. We run back up the driveway, ducking under the porch, shaking off the rain since we don't have raincoats.

  I look over at Tommy and smile. I can't help myself. He has a smile the size of a giant playground.

  16. Almost Famous

  It's Sunday morning. The bells of the Methodist church around the corner are ringing, and the bells of the Episcopal church on the main avenue are ringing. Up and down Lincoln Road, families are going to church or Sunday school. Some of the families on our block are walking home past my house after Catholic Mass.

  Tommy and I are sitting on my front porch drinking lemonade in wineglasses. Milo is with us. He can't keep his eyes off Tommy. In the pocket of his jeans are the five remaining lollipops for the rest of the week, mostly yellows. He is licking a yellow one now.

  “This is the best I've ever had in my life,” he tells us earnestly. “I guess that's what happens when you plant your own personal seeds.”

  “Exactly,” Tommy says. “It makes all the difference to have personal seeds.”

  Milo and I are not at church. There is a family reunion of aunts and uncles at Puss's house, and the terrible cousins, including us, aren't invited. So my parents have allowed us to skip Sunday school.

  I haven't said anything to Tommy yet about stealing, but I'm going to speak to him and I know what I'm going to say. Yesterday after the lollipop camp was over, I had to go shopping with my mother and Puss. Last night, I went to the movies with Mom. And now Milo is here, so I can't say anything yet. But I will.

  Sean and Cara and Ian O'Shaunessey are walking by our house with their parents, and Milo waves and runs down the steps to greet them, throwing his arm around Sean's neck.

  “I'm eating my Sunday lollipop,” he says to Sean. “Right, Tommy?”

  “Right, Milo,” Tommy replies.

  “I already ate mine,” Sean calls to Tommy and me. “A red one. I had a purple yesterday.”

  “You kids are amazing,” Ms. O'Shaunessey calls to Tommy and me. “Mine love the camp.”

  “I'm glad they do,” Tommy says.

  “Cara tells me it's magic.”

  Tommy gives me a look as if to ask if she actually knows about the lollipops.

  “Well…,” he begins.

  “Magic is magic,” she calls cheerfully, and turns away, walking up the street with Mr. O'Shaunessey, Ian, and Cara, followed by Milo with Sean. “I'm taking Milo home with us for lunch,” she calls back.

  So now I'm alone with Tommy. My heart is beating, my mouth is dry, and I'm almost ready to change my mind and say nothing about the shoplifting when he starts the conversation.

  “I know you were mad that I took the lollipops,” he says.

  “I was,” I say. “And I was mad at myself, too, because I didn't say anything to you about it and just let it happen as if it were okay with me if you shoplift.”

  He shrugs.

  “I've taken stuff from stores before,” he says. “Stuff I need. And I've never been caught.”

  I don't say anything.

  “It isn't hard to do.”

  “But it's wrong,” I say. “It's stealing.”

  “It doesn't hurt anybody. Things that are wrong hurt people. I don't do those things,” Tommy says.

  I don't want to say too much. Not so much that Tommy decides to end our friendship.

  “It's wrong because you shouldn't get something for nothing,” he says.

  “I guess that's it,” I say.

  “I'm sorry,” he says. “I'm really sorry.”

  “Me too. I should have told you right away.”

  The Blocks are on a family bike ride, cycling past our house, and Sarah waves.

  “That's Ellie and Tommy,” she calls to her mother, who puts on the brakes and slows down and waves to us.

  “Great experiment, you guys,” she calls.

  “Thanks,” we say in unison, although I don't exactly know what experiment we're doing. The Lollipop Garden isn't exactly a science class.

  Tommy gives me a little jab in the arm.

  “Experiment!”

  In the distance, I see one of the Brittle twins run down his front steps and head for my house.

  “Which one is that?” Tommy asks.

  “Alexander,” I say.

  His face is bright red and bubbly as he runs up our front steps and stops dead in front of us.

  “What's up?” Tommy asks.

  “Anthony says you can't grow cellophane and sticks and I say he's wrong about that.”

  “Does he think you can grow candy?” I ask.

  “I guess he does,” Alexander says.

  “I can't explain the details,” Tommy says casually. “I know you put the seeds in the ground and the lollipops grow, and when they come out of the dirt, there's cellophane around the candy and sticks. I don't know how that happens but it does.”

  “So it's just by magic and that's that, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And if Anthony doesn't believe in it, then he can't come any longer to the Lollipop Garden.”

  “Well…,” Tommy begins.

  “I want you to call my parents and tell them Anthony can't come because he's ruining things.”

  “Maybe he'll change his mind.”

  “I don't think so,” Alexander says sadly. “He's too mean.”

  “Give him a chance,” I say. “In the beginning, I didn't believe lollipops could grow from seeds.”

  Alexander takes a yellow lollipop out of his pocket.

  “This is my Sunday one,” he says. “I hid Anthony's in the guinea pig cage.”

  “That's not such a great idea. Something could happen in the guinea pig cage,” Tommy says.

  “To the lollipop?”

  “Who knows? The guinea pig could eat the lollipop and then what?” Tommy says. “And you better go home now before your parents get worried.”

  My parents pull into the driveway and get out of the car just as Milo comes home from Sean's house. They come around the house and up the steps to the front porch. My heart is beating in my mouth for fear they'll object to Tommy's being here.

  “How was
dinner?” I ask.

  “Fascinating,” my father says. He always refers to dinner at Puss's house as fascinating, which even I know he doesn't mean. “Puss wanted to catch the aunts and uncles up on her intestinal problems and her arthritis and the woman she knows, Mrs. Peacock, who dropped dead in church last Sunday during the offertory hymn.”

  My mother giggles.

  “Well, I'm sorry we missed it,” I say.

  “We weren't invited,” Milo says, squiggling into the Adirondack chair with my father. “That's how come we got to miss Sunday school.”

  “So what are you guys up to?” my father asks.

  “Just stuff,” I say, glancing at Tommy, hoping he'll jump in with a plan.

  “I was hoping that Ellie and I could go to the movies,” Tommy says.

  He's leaning against the porch railing and seems for all the world to be as comfortable with us as if we were his family. I give him a quizzical look. I think he knows how my parents feel about him.

  “A new family comedy called Oatmeal is playing at the mall,” he says. “And I thought we could go to the five o'clock show.”

  My father looks at my mother. “Meg?”

  “I don't see any reason why not,” she says. “If you change out of those appalling shorts, El.”

  “How come?” I ask. I'm wearing my yellow cargo shorts.

  “They're dirty, for one.”

  “I like those navy blue pants you had on last Sunday, the ones with buttons down both sides,” my father says.

  “Those are a good choice,” my mother says.

  I hate the navy pants. They make me look like pudding, but I put them on anyway with a white T-shirt with “hell-o!” written in red script on the front. I grab a sweater and run down the steps. Milo is waiting at the bottom.

  “Have fun, guys,” Milo says, waving sadly. “I haven't gotten to see Oatmeal yet.”

  “Yes you have, Milo,” I say. “At least twice.”

  “But I forget it already.”

  I'm not about to take Milo with us, so I wave goodbye and hop down the front steps, and off I go with Tommy Bowers, walking down the street side by side. I can hardly believe my good luck.

  “I'm glad you told me the truth,” I say when we're beyond my parents' hearing.

  “About what?”

  “Shoplifting.”

  “I won't do it again,” he says.

  “How can you be sure?” I ask.

  “I don't need to do it anymore,” he says.

  And I believe him.

  17. Kiss Me on Second Avenue

  We turn right at the bottom of our steps and head down the hill toward Vanderbilt Avenue, where the mall is located. I've never walked to the mall but I've been here a million times to the movie theater, which has four screens showing on the weekend. One screen shows a children's movie, one shows foreign films with English subtitles, and the other two are just regular films. We go as a family most Sunday evenings and sometimes have popcorn instead of dinner, and then if it isn't too late, we stop for ice cream sundaes with whipped cream afterward. Usually the O'Shaunesseys are there when we are and we sit with them. I'm hoping the O'Shaunesseys have plans to stay at home tonight, but as we cross the avenue I see their van pull into the parking lot at the mall. You can't miss their van, which is bright red with “o'shaunessey” in black letters written on the back as if they think of themselves as a rock band.

  “They're probably seeing Oatmeal, too,” I say.

  “That's okay,” Tommy says. “We don't need to talk to the O'Shaunesseys because we're not seeing Oatmeal.”

  I catch my breath. I should have known that we weren't going to see a children's movie. It's just like Tommy to say one thing and plan to do another.

  “I've already seen Oatmeal,” he says.

  “Me too,” I say. “Once with Milo and once with my mom and once with P.J. for her birthday.”

  “We're going to see Kiss Me on Second Avenue.”

  “Good,” I say, and though I've never heard of this movie, I can tell from its name that it's rated R or PG-13 and I'm probably too young to get a ticket. I can't tell if I'm about to be sick or if I'm so excited my stomach has turned suddenly into a dance club.

  “Don't worry. I've done this a lot,” Tommy says.

  “R-rated movies?”

  “Many times. By myself. It's a piece of cake.”

  I follow him into a yogurt shop and order a vanilla cone with chocolate jimmies to share.

  “And you're not worried about buying a ticket and lying about your age?” I ask, holding up the cone so he can have a lick.

  “What can happen?”

  “Trouble.”

  Tommy shakes his head. “I buy the ticket. If they ask me how old I am, I say, ‘Old? Seexteen zees month. Identification? I don't know theees word “identification,”’ 'I say.” He runs his fingers through his long hair. “And then the guy selling the tickets shakes his head and says, ‘Forget it, man,’ and in I go.”

  It's not that my parents are strict about movies. I've been to plenty of R movies with them and they don't worry that my mind will be warped or my little heart destroyed. What I'm worried about now as we walk into the Loew's Toledo and head over to the popcorn and the ticket booth is the O'Shaunesseys. I'm sure they're here with all their kids and probably the cousins since the cousins usually come to the movies, and I'm sure they're planning to see Oatmeal. If Ms. O'Shaunessey happens to see me walk into Kiss Me on Second Avenue, she'll call Mom. That's the kind of mother she is. She believes it's her duty to let every parent and teacher know exactly what other children, not her own, are doing wrong. All in a very upbeat voice, with a big smile and a clap on the back. But, as my father says, she's a little too interested in a ticket to heaven for his taste.

  The poster for Kiss Me on Second Avenue says R and not for a moment am I going to be able to pass for seventeen even in my navy trousers and white T-shirt.

  “We can't do this,” I say. “I thought it was PG-13.”

  Tommy smiles with this patient expression as if it takes all of the energy he has to spend an afternoon with me.

  “Don't worry. Just stand beside me and you'll see what's up.”

  I do stand beside him but I'm too worried to talk, all the while looking around for one of the O'Shaunesseys or even my parents. It would be just like my mom to say to my dad, “Let's just go to the movies and meet up with Ellie.” And my dad would say sure. He seldom argues.

  When it's our turn, Tommy asks for two tickets to Oatmeal.

  “Oatmeal?” I ask as we leave the line and head for the popcorn.

  Tommy raises his eyebrows, rolls his eyes.

  “Just watch,” he says. “Don't say anything. Do what I do.”

  We get popcorn and ginger ale in cups large enough to sleep in. We go over to the poster for Kiss Me on Second Avenue and read the reviews. The review I read, a long one with four stars, says the story is a love affair, heartbreaking and sweet, that takes place in the midst of gang violence, sex scenes, and frontal nudity.

  My breath is suddenly thin, my mouth is dry, and I'm wondering what Tommy has in mind. I know Oatmeal is not what he's planning to see, but I can't imagine how we're going to see this heartbreaking love affair with sex scenes and nudity without getting caught.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the O'Shaunesseys. They're in front of us, now giving their tickets to the person at the entrance, now walking down the corridor. We follow, several people behind. I see Cara and Ian and Sean slip into theater three, where Oatmeal is playing. I grab Tommy by the elbow and whisper to him to wait, and we lean flat against the wall letting the crowds stream by us.

  Then we hurry down the corridor past the foreign film at theater one, past the feature film called Space Walk, past Oatmeal in theater three, and past Ms. O'Shaunessey standing outside the theater talking to a tall, skinny woman older than Puss.

  “Where're we going?” I whisper.

  “Just follow. Look like it's perfectly no
rmal.”

  No one is at the door to theater four with Kiss Me on Second Avenue. Tommy walks in, takes a seat halfway down and on the aisle, and I follow, climbing over his legs, slipping down in my seat so just the top of my head shows above it.

  I look over at Tommy and he's smiling as the previews begin and the lights dim, smiling so the dimples in his cheek are little craters next to his lips.

  He turns and looks at me.

  “I'm very honored you are here with me, Eleanor Tremont,” he says, and I smile, too, a giggle slipping up from someplace in my chest. I put my feet on the seat, press my face into my knees, and bury the laughter in my arms.

  “Honored to be with you, too,” I say.

  18. Discovered

  My mother is sitting on my bed when I run up the steps after the movie and burst into my bedroom.

  “Hi,” I say. “What's up?”

  That's what my father says when he comes home or calls on the phone, and I say it now because I know something is up. My mother is not in good humor and I don't want to know what it's about.

  “I had a great time,” I say, hoping to deflect her question, certain that she's waiting to talk to me because she's discovered some trouble. So, I decide to do the talking. Yakkity yak, blah, blah, blah, this and that. My mom just sits there looking at me.

  I step out of my trousers and hang them up, which I wouldn't do under normal circumstances, circumstances in which my mother is not sitting on my bed waiting to ask me a question I don't want to hear. It's only eight o'clock but I'm thinking it might be a good idea to seem very tired, to put on my pajamas and hurry downstairs for Sunday night TV, which we sometimes watch together.

  I catch a glimpse of my mother out of the corner of my eye. She's wearing shorts and an oversized T-shirt, probably gym clothes, which means she's just gotten back from working out. Her bare feet are crossed at the ankles and she has something or seems to have something in her hand.

  “So we went first to the yogurt place and I had vanilla with jimmies and then to the movie place and got popcorn and watched the film and walked home and met up with P.J.'s parents on the way. They say P.J. hates camp.” I decide that the constant talking is working. This way, Mom doesn't have a chance to say very much herself.