0.5-Stone and Spark Read online

  "She's late," I say.

  "Yeah. No kidding."

  "Drew's never late."

  "So you want me to wait for Miss Never Late or start the burgers?"

  "I don't know."

  I really don't. This situation has never happened before. My mouth is watering and my stomach is growling, and Drew's not here.

  She's always first.

  "You want to live a little?" Titus asks.

  "What?"

  "Try something new," he says. "Until Miss Never Late shows up."

  Every Friday, we've ordered the exact same meal. Cheeseburgers, fries, shakes. But I decide today is special. So special that I'm going to break tradition.

  "What do you suggest?" I ask.

  "My onion rings."

  "Okay. Sounds good."

  But Titus doesn't leave. He just stares at me with his large brown eyes. He's got this way of looking at you that makes you really nervous.

  "I said I'll try them. What's wrong?"

  "Tell me you don't want mayonnaise."

  "I said I'd live a little, not a lot."

  "You're going to ruin my onion rings."

  "I can't help it."

  He shakes his head. "Girl, you're not wired right."

  This time when he walks away, he doesn't slap the jukebox. He pounds Journey on the back.

  "Hey!" Journey says. "Can't I sing along?"

  "Sure, if you want to starve."

  The guys laugh. Somebody howls like a dog, imitating Journey's singing voice. But Titus never cracks a smile. He's like that. I've never seen him show anything resembling joy. Not even that first day when Drew and I first met him.

  April 9. I will never forget it because it was Opening Day for the Richmond Braves. We sat together in the stands; Drew was scribbling statistics in her notebook. I was bored.

  "You smell that?" I asked.

  She didn't even look up from her notebook. "Concession stand."

  "No—better. Way better."

  I had to wait until the stupid game was finally over—Richmond Braves winning—and then Drew pedaled us from the baseball stadium on the purple Schwinn. I was balanced on the handlebars, my feet resting on the front wheel bolts. We rode through the industrial section behind the stadium, called Scott's Addition, both of us sniffing the air, growing more and more desperate tracking the delicious scent. By the time we found the small brick building with the white sign BIG MAN'S BURGERS, I was drooling.

  And that was only the beginning.

  Drew walked through the door, tripping that cowbell, and screamed.

  "Titus Williams!"

  The giant black man behind the grill just stared at her. Like we just landed from Mars.

  "June 2001," Drew continued. "Bottom of the sixth, you hit two triples and a double against the Orioles."

  She kept rattling off the guy's statistics, going all the way back to when he played for the Richmond Braves, the farm team we'd just watched at the city stadium.

  Titus didn't smile. But you could tell he was impressed. So impressed, our meal was on the house. When we came back the next Friday—after a late afternoon game (the Braves lost)—a CLOSED sign hung on the door.

  But there were people inside.

  So Drew—being Drew—barged right in.

  Not only were there no women and kids in the place, there were almost no white people.

  "Eighty-eight percent black," Drew corrected me later. "Eleven percent white." "Eighty-eight and eleven are ninety-nine," I pointed out. "You're off by one-percent."

  "No" she said. "I'm Jewish."

  "That's not white?"

  "Mediterranean."

  That was Drew. Precise. Particular. A total pain in the tuchus.

  And the most awesome best friend anywhere.

  But now I'm sick of staring at the door. I take out my geology journal and draw the tunnel's weeping walls. I make a note to myself about checking the city's water tables, and rub my thumb over the rock sample one more time, wondering if there's too much limestone or marble. Calcium carbonate, which would erode in acidic water.

  I glance at the door again; the clock says 5:15.

  My shake is melting when Titus brings the onion rings.

  "What's wrong?" he asks.

  "She's late."

  "You keep saying."

  "Drew. We're talking about Drew. The human clock."

  "Yeah, so be grateful. You just got walked to first."

  "Is this baseball lingo? Because I don't speak baseball."

  "That's part of your problem. Along with your palate."

  "My what?"

  "Ability to taste things." He plunks down the mayonnaise. "Go ahead, desecrate my onion rings. But I can't watch."

  As he leaves, I dip one ring in the mayo. This is how I eat my French fries, too. But I'm not prepared for this first bite. When the golden breading crunches open, it releases a glorious steam scented with sweet Vidalia onions. I close my eyes.

  "He ain't worth the spit on his ball!"

  "You should know!"

  The insults zing back and forth. I chew, savoring the contrast between the breading's crunch and onion's tenderness. And the mayo, tying both together.

  "The ump needs glasses!"

  "More like a telescope!"

  Drew told me all these guys played minor league baseball with Titus. He's the only one who made it to the majors, playing two seasons for the Atlanta Braves before a knee injury sidelined him.

  I eat another onion ring.

  But the clock says it's almost 5:30, and suddenly the food doesn’t taste that great.

  I pack up my tunnel rock and notebook, carrying the basket of onion rings and empty milkshake to the counter.

  Titus turns from the grill. "Something wrong?"

  "Can I get our burgers to go?"

  He gazes at me a long time, those eyes like pools of dark water. But finally he whips open the steamer oven and takes out two buns. On the grill, the cheddar has melted over our burgers like golden lava. He wraps up everything in butcher paper, including the rings, then puts it all in a white bag.

  "You're not going to wait for her?" he asks.

  "She's not coming."

  "You're sure?"

  "Drew's never late."

  He hands me the bag. "Never say never."

  "Unless it's Drew," I say. "Then, never means never."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I run home, cradling the bag of cheeseburgers and fries. My legs feel heavy as lead, but worse is the rock hammer. It pokes my spine like an insistent finger, reminding me of something that happened this morning. Something that bothered me.

  Drew and I were standing at our lockers.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you tonight,” I said. “Prepare to be amazed.”

  But she didn’t look prepared to be amazed. She looked a hundred miles away. “You know Newton’s third law of motion, don’t you?”

  “Newton had three?”

  “Raleigh, seriously.” She closed her locker, spinning the dial lock just so. “Newton’s third law of motion states that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “So. I have a surprise for you, too.”

  Here’s the problem with having a highly competitive best friend. I could trespass in an abandoned train tunnel and come out with rock samples—and she would still have to top it.

  Now, as I run down Monument Avenue past the statue of Robert E. Lee, the idea hits me: Drew is pouting.

  She knew my surprise was better. So she just didn’t show up.

  The fries are starting to smell cold. I slow to a walk and head down the alley behind our house.

  Quietly I unlock the carriage house and slide back the panel doors. Once upon a time the carriage house kept literal carriages: horses and buggies. Now it’s our garage. My dad’s car is parked beside my mom’s. When I touch the hood, the metal feels hot. I wonder if she’s telling him now, showing him the “evidence” that I’
m not their “real” daughter.

  I sneak past the cars, including my sister’s old VW Bug that my dad wouldn’t let her take to college. Helen left for Yale in August—early admission, art scholarship, the whole big nine yards. My sister is a superstar, and when she left, my mom went into a tailspin. But I’m pretty happy with Helen gone. For one thing, she can’t keep me from riding her bike. Which she would if she was here. Helen’s like that.

  I leave my backpack, toss the food bag in the front basket and wheel the bike into the alley. In six months, I’ll be sixteen. Nobody’s even mentioned driving lessons. And I don’t bring it up because my dad’s so stressed. My sister, however, whined for years, until he broke down and bought her exactly what she wanted: an old VW Bug. The hippie mobile. Right now it’s hidden under a tarp, and as I wheel the bike past it, I feel the temptation to spit on it.

  I bike down Monument to The Boulevard then pick up Grove Avenue. Heading west into a sinking sun, I keep scanning the road for a skinny girl with wild brown hair riding a purple Schwinn. Drew’s so compulsive she never changes routes. So if she’s heading to Big Man’s Burgers, I will see her.

  But I don’t.

  Just past Libbie Avenue, I turn into St. Catherine’s School. Episcopalian, not Catholic. But nobody can tell by our uniforms. I circle the buildings then stop at the bike rack behind the gym, where Drew always parks her bike.

  It’s not here.

  Instead, a white panel truck is parked within inches of the bike rack. The truck’s bumper has a sticker that asks, “How’s my driving?”

  Lousy.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” says a guy walking out of the gym. His blue coveralls swim around his body. “Don’t say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “I already got the lecture. Once was plenty.”

  He throws open the back doors, just missing the bike rack.

  “Was there a purple bike here?” I point to the rack he’s almost destroyed.

  “Huh?” He glances over his shoulder. “No, no bike.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Look, you girls want us out of here before the dance starts. So quit bugging me.”

  He yanks some white PVC pipes from the truck, carries them to the gym, throwing open the door. The wail of an electric guitar flies out. The band, I figure. Rehearing for tonight’s dance. I bike away as fast as possible.

  When I coast down Westhampton to Drew’s house, I see her mom’s Volvo in the driveway. It’s packed with those long rectangular boxes that hold foil and Saran Wrap. Drew’s mom is head of public relations for the cooking division of Reynolds Aluminum. Which is pretty ironic since Jayne Levinson doesn’t even know how to boil water. I know, because Drew and I used to meet here every Friday night for cheeseburgers—frozen White Castle burgers nuked in the microwave.

  After eating at Titus’s place, there’s no going back to that.

  I lean my bike against an oak in the back yard and kick through the fallen leaves. The back door is always open and leads into the sunroom, which gets no sun because the trees are so thick.

  I stick my head inside. “Drew?” I whisper.

  The only reply is a hiss.

  Sir Isaac Newton. Their satanic Siamese cat.

  But her mom also calls out, “Drewery?”

  Drew’s full name, which means there was trouble.

  “Drewery, is that you?”

  “No, ma’am,” I call back. “It’s Raleigh.”

  I’m trying to sound polite, but on the list of People I Never Want To Talk To, Especially On Friday night, number one is Jayne Levinson.

  “Raleigh?”

  “Just looking for Drew. Is she here?”

  I turn, glancing around the yard. It’s smothered with leaves, enough that I can’t see the burn marks in the grass. Drew likes to experiment with explosive propulsion, something the neighbors don’t exactly appreciate. But the only thing out there is the wind, lifting the fallen leaves.

  When I turn around again, Jayne Levinson is standing at the edge of the sunroom.

  “How’s life, Raleigh?”

  The light from the kitchen outlines her petite shape, her expensive clothing. The glass of red wine in her hand.

  “I’m fine, thank you. So Drew isn’t here?”

  “No.”

  “She wasn’t at the restaurant either.”

  "What restaurant?”

  “Big Man’s Burgers.” The name doesn’t register. So I try another. “Titus’s place?”

  She laughs. She throws her head back and laughs like that's the funniest joke on the planet. I glance at the cat. Curled on the rattan couch, he kneads his claws into the cushions with lethargic cruelty.

  “That’s not a restaurant, Raleigh. It’s a hole-in-the-wall.”

  Whatever.

  “She’s never late.”

  “It must be the slum factor—are your lives just too privileged?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m trying to figure out why you girls insist on going to that dump."

  I smile. Politely. Then hate myself. I’ve vowed never to smile like this—this phony, gross smile that people offer my mother all the time. Yet here it is, the awful pleasantness frozen on my face. And I'm pretty sure this fake smile is one of those things that, once you learn how to do it, you can never unlearn it. Like riding a bike.

  "So you haven't seen her?" I ask.

  Jayne sips her wine. “I suppose it's too much to hope you two are going to the dance?”

  The fake smile comes back. See? Already a habit.

  “That’s what I thought." She takes another sip. “On the other hand, it's probably safer this way."

  A substantial part of me does not want to know what she means. But I have to ask, since it might help me figure out where Drew is.

  “What's safer?”

  “Your anti-social lives. This way, neither of you will get knocked up.”

  This is Jayne Levinson on a Friday night: Any idea slipping into her mind will immediately launch out of her mouth. During the week, Jayne recites scripted words for Reynolds Aluminum. She’s even on TV from time to time, repeating scripted words about things like turkey-baking bags. But on Friday evenings she pops the cork and out comes Weekend Jayne. She’s a big part of why we moved Friday dinner to Titus's place.

  "Her bike isn't at school either.”

  "That so?" She takes another sip of wine. More like a gulp.

  "Did she say anything about changing plans for tonight?”

  “No. But you can park your butt on the sofa until she shows up. Until then, I’m sure you can read.”

  She makes ‘read’ sound obscene.

  As she walks back into the kitchen, her frothy silk skirt rippling behind her, I wonder which is worse: my mom, trapped in her dark remote world, or Jayne, who speaks public fakery all week, then comes home and can’t keep one thought to herself, no matter how hurtful.

  Right now it seems like a tie.

  I cautiously lower myself on one side of the wicker love seat. Isaac Newton sits at the other end, his blue eyes glowing like marbles hoping to find a slingshot. I keep two cushions between us and reach for the books. They rise like stalagmites from the floor. Jayne refuses to put bookcases in here, saying they would look “tacky.” Which makes no sense because it’s not like three-foot towers of books looks any less “tacky.”

  To be honest, Drew likes to read stuff that makes my eyes glaze over. Baseball, for instance. And, as if baseball wasn't boring enough, she combs through books about potential energies and String Theory and stuff that’s just totally abstract science. One reason I prefer geology is that you can smell, touch, and even taste minerals. It’s real.

  I open the book. But there’s a distinctive glunk-glunk coming from the kitchen. I look up. Bottle #1 must be almost gone. Drew had to explain it to me, back when we ate dinner here. The ice dilutes the alcohol, so Jayne can drink longer before passing out.

  I stare at the page in my lap. Drew’s highli
ghted a quote from Richard P. Feynman. He’s her absolute hero, a famous physicist who worked on the Atomic Bomb, among other things. The line reads:

  "Science is the belief in the ignorance of experts."

  When a high whistle sails out of the kitchen, Jayne curses.

  I glance at my watch. 6:18 p.m.

  Drew knows how much Jayne hates the cuckoo clock, so she programs it for surprise attacks. I hear the bird's little door slam, followed by another curse.

  Keeping one eye on Isaac Newton, I pick up the phone on the side table and dial the number I’ve seen a hundred times on that big white sign. The numbers spell BigMans.

  When Titus answers, I say, “It’s Raleigh.”

  “Oh.”

  He sounds surprised. And why not? I’ve never called before.

  “Is she there?”

  “No.”

  “She never showed up?”

  “You said she wouldn’t.”

  I did. But everything’s out of whack. I’m second-guessing myself that Drew might be pouting because I made it into the tunnel. And it’s possible—even likely—that she and Jayne are fighting. But not being on time would really, really bug her. I can’t see Drew holding out this long.

  “I’m at her house. She’s not here.”

  There's a long pause. I don’t know what I expect Titus to say. But Isaac Newton snags the pillow with lethargic cruelty and there’s more glug-glugging from the kitchen as Jayne pours another glass. And still Titus says nothing.

  “Okay.” I wait. Still nothing. “Thanks.”

  I hang up. Outside the sky is sapphire blue swimming toward amethyst purple.

  My curfew is 7 p.m. Ridiculous for somebody six months from her sixteenth birthday. But I don’t argue. Partly because of my crazy-paranoid mother. But also partly because I feel bad. My dad doesn’t know that we switched from Drew’s house to Titus’s place. I hate lying to him.

  Ice splashes into Jayne’s glass. Isaac Newton gives me a big yawn, like he's oxygenating for a good kill. I stand up and replace Richard P. Feynman on the stalagmite of books.

  Like all good Southern girls, I know it’s rude to leave someone’s house without first saying goodbye. And rude is bad. On this side of the Mason-Dixon line, being rude is equivalent to breaking one of the Ten Commandments.

  But it’s Friday night. And ice is clinking.