Spring 2001 Charles River Review: Pants on Fire

Photograph of a teacher and students in a classroom.

My poker face is for shit. If something's bubbling underneath, it's going to pop out on me somewhere. If I manage to keep that crazy grin off my face, then my right leg will shake. If I'm able to put my chips down with a steady hand, I'll knock my glass over when I pull my arm back. I've never been particularly deft at avoiding the one thing you're not supposed to say, like, "I really like your shoes," to some guy with one leg. But every once in a while, just being in the general vicinity of certain people can make me shake all over.

I never knew who the hell he thought he was but whoever he was, I couldn't stop. I was the proverbial sucker for his sad-sacked eyes, his superlative Mick Jagger impressions, and the way he simply walked into the room. He was tall and lean and ran like a jock but he wasn't a jock. And though it may be a very unPC thing to say, he had an ass like a black guy: that slightly protruding curve at the top, the delicate swoop out and around, full and firm and circular. He kissed in that strenuous, far-reaching, all-consuming kind of way, the kind of way that made you feel like if he couldn't keep kissing you forever and ever that he'd rip out his tongue and throw it on the ground and pound it flat with a shovel.

Erik and I were a whirlwind from the getgo. It was early September at our crunchy college in the middle of Ohio and it was like already everybody was antsy. I can't honestly say how he ended up hanging off the back of my old station wagon, feet on the bumper, hands gripping something grippable on the back door, with me, wide-eyed and sweaty in the driver's seat, hands white-knuckling the wheel, my foot pressing down on the gas just a little harder by the second. We were reaching speeds of 40, 50, 60 miles an hour, careening down that bone-straight road like a slot car, with a muffled scream of "Stop!" from the back, but I just kept going, slippery and free and untouchable as a little ball of mercury. I could see our friends growing smaller and smaller in my rearview. They were jumping up and down and I thought I could hear them hooting and hollering at this crazy chick racing madly down the road with some guy she just met hanging from the back of her car. What was she doing? What did she want? Was he supposed to fall off? Get mangled? Die? Would she be hauled in for vehicular homicide? Murder in the second degree? Just full on murder with intent? As I finally slowed to a stop, Erik was pounding his fists on the top of my car and then he came around to my open window.

"What the fuck are you doing? You could've killed me! You're out of your mind!" His face was red and he was panting and coughing and running his fingers through his really nice hair over and over.

"Sorry about that," I said, feeling strangely unsorry. He reached into his shirt pocket with his dirty fingers with the nails bit to the quick and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds.

"Jesus!" he said, taking a cigarette from the pack with his teeth and putting the pack back in his pocket. "I don't know if I want to fucking kill you or do it again," he mumbled with the unlit butt dangling from his mouth. I hate to admit this because it's both so true and so trite, but he had a total James Dean thing going for him. Even though I'd promised myself since enduring my devastating little-girl crush on Michael Lahey who everyone knew didn't have a mother and his father drank; Michael Lahey, the king of the brooding boys who wore nothing but jeans and a jeans jacket all year round and he wouldn't even change for gym; Michael Lahey who could hit a baseball over the fence every time and wrote this poem in English class that made me cry--I'd promised myself that never again would I get stuck on a boy like Michael Lahey who I thought needed me but in the end needed me to need him more.

Erik was slapping all the pockets in his jeans with his hands. "Got a light?" he said. I reached into my glove compartment and found my old lighter, sparking it up and holding it out to him. He leaned down and lit his cigarette.

I didn't know what else to do so I smiled at him.

"Got one of those for me?" He took the pack from his pocket and held it out. It was the first time I'd had a cigarette in my hand in five weeks and two days.

"How fast were you going anyway?" he asked, as I poised my thumb on the lighter.

"You call that fast?" I scoffed, flaring it up and lighting my cigarette, feeling very Little Darlings, very Kristy McNichol.

"Oh, you're so tough," he said with a smile, something guys only say when they really know you're not so tough and I was kind of relieved. "So," he said, "Mario Andretti. You think you could give me a ride back to civilization?" and that's how it all began.

We spent the first couple of months at school mostly smoking, talking, drinking, fighting, and fucking, basically in that order. Fortunately or unfortunately, I loved everything about Erik even when I hated him. He played basketball like he was on the Harlem Globetrotters, passing the ball over his shoulder or between his legs. At parties, he was always the first guy getting everybody drinks, putting on the coolest music, or doing something stupid to make everybody laugh. He could take a lit cigarette and do that trick where you flip it backward into your mouth with just your lips and tongue so that the filter end is sticking out and then you flip it back again. People consider this to be a very interesting maneuver. We'd stay up all night and talk about stuff like space and speed, guilt and fear, dogs, catnip, death.

I can't say the sex was always tender and touching, but it was definitely something to write home about--if one were to write home about such things. When the sheer volume of sex we could manage was losing its punch, we began to explore our environment. I think our "sexcapades" (Erik's word) started that night we drunkenly ended up doing it in the backyard under this tree and the moon and we told ourselves how romantic that was, how kindred spirit we were. This portion of our sex life quickly devolved into something resembling a dare. We started having sex in places you really shouldn't be having sex. We'd go to bars and parties, restaurants and movie theaters and have sex in the bathroom. We'd go to football games and do it under this part of the bleachers where probably nobody would see us. It was taking more than a little getting used to for me to think of myself as someone who would have sex in a janitor's closet at the airport.

I'd returned to my junior year of college with all the good intentions of a crisp fall day, but somehow things hadn't been going exactly as planned. It usually took me at least until Halloween to begin falling behind in my classes, but that year I was behind before the bell ever clanged. I waited too long to buy my books and a bunch of them were out of stock by the time I finally went. I slept right through my Linear Mathematics midterm. I didn't even have my shit together enough to get my Photography One project in on time. At the beginning of the semester, I'd sat down to make a list of all the things I did and didn't want to do, like Do homework, Don't smoke, Do run, Don't party. I'd written the list over and over, rearranging the items again and again, but in the end I'd just thrown it all away. But in a last ditch moment to express my supreme belief in myself, I'd made the grave mistake of scrawling YOU CAN DO IT in capital letters on the wall above my desk. By October, the words were haunting me like a big fat echo. By November, I couldn't remember exactly what it was I was so sure I could do.

The Sunday night before Thanksgiving, Erik and I were at Rizzo's again, drinking beer and eating pizza after we'd spent the day smoking pot and driving around.

"What are you so mopey for?" asked Erik, the sloppiest eater I'd ever known.

"You've got some tomato sauce on your chin," I said. "I have to meet with Mr. Salvatorre tomorrow about not handing in my paper."

"So?"

"So I'm nervous. I don't have any excuse. What am I supposed to say: I'm sorry, Mr. Salvatorre, but I've been too busy having sex and getting wasted to finish my paper?"

Erik smiled. "That about covers it."

"Thanks a lot. You're a big help."

"Oh, stop worrying. I'm failing two of my classes and you don't hear me whining about it. Besides, Salvatorre's a pussy. Tell him your dad has a brain tumor or something."

"Yeah," I said. "Super. That's a great idea."

"Glad you like it."

The next morning, Erik was up before me, which was practically a first. I was just lying there on my back, trying to still be asleep because it was 8:26 and my alarm was set for 8:30. Then I heard the chinky rustle of coins, so I opened my eyes and there was Erik, all dressed and leaning over my desk again, fingers in my change bowl again, sifting around for quarters.

"What are you doing," I said, full voice, like I'd been up for hours. Erik jerked his hand out of the bowl and jammed it into his pocket.

"Hey, honey," he said, turning around. "I thought you were still asleep."

I was standing outside Mr. Salvatorre's office, perfectly on time, still having no idea what I was going to say. I finally knocked and he said, "Come in," right away.

"Hello, Alison," he said. "Thanks for coming and talking to me."

"Hi, Mr. Salvatorre." I sat down in the chair in front of his desk.

"So," he said, folding his hands and leaning back, "we seem to have a little problem."

"I know," I said. I liked Mr. Salvatorre. He was a big burly man with a big bushy mustache, and he was always drinking root beer.

"Your paper's over a week late and I'm not sure what to do. I checked your records and you've done very well in your philosophy classes in the past. Is there a problem?" My mind was shuffling through ideas like flashcards: couldn't pick a topic, couldn't side with Socrates, couldn't think. I knew I had to say something. I drew in my breath when my throat suddenly seized and I could barely breathe, so all I did was look down and shrug my shoulders.

"Is there something you want to talk about?"

I wanted to talk about everything. The truth. That I was disappearing. That it was just a matter of time until there was nothing left of me at all.

"Because if there isn't a good reason, I'm afraid I'm going to have to fail you on this paper."

My teeth were clenching and there was this loud whirring in my head. Then I felt one hot tear falling down my cheek.

Mr. Salvatorre sat up and leaned towards me over his desk. "No one likes to do poorly," he said softly, "but I'm afraid my hands are tied," and he offered me a tissue. With every pound of my heart, a big red F F F flashed in front of my eyes. I reached to take the tissue and knocked over his cup of pens.

"I'm sorry," I said, trying to gather them back into his cup but my hands were shaking.

"It's OK," said Mr. Salvatorre. "I've got them."

"No," I said. "I can do it."

"Alison, what is it?" I looked up into his big sweet face and I could feel my lips beginning to tremble. "It's OK," he said. "You can tell me."

I just kept looking at him and looking at him until finally I said, "My father has cancer," the words tumbling out so fast it was like one big word, and then I really started crying.

"Cancer?" said Mr. Salvatorre.

"Brain cancer," I mumbled as tears were streaming down my face and I could feel snot about to drip from my nose. "I don't know what to do," and he offered me another tissue.

"It must be really hard," he said. I nodded my head.

After my meeting with Mr. Salvatorre, I walked straight back to my room, passing right by the cafeteria where I knew Erik was eating lunch. I could feel something in my shoe, up by the pinkie toe which was really beginning to smart, but I figured I deserved it for the nasty cancer lie, for screwing up in my classes, for screwing around in public places, for squandering my gifts from God. When I finally got to my room, I took my shoe off and Erik's roach clip clattered to the floor. "That's just perfect," I said out loud. I slumped onto my bed and stared at YOU CAN DO IT until I fell asleep.

I woke up about an hour later completely sick of myself. I found all my books and lined them up along the back of my desk like little soldiers. I arranged my pens, pencils, notebooks, and my new graphing calculator in perfect order, crisp and fine. I hung my jacket up. I made my bed. I looked for my running shoes and realized I had no idea where they were. I was staring out the window when the phone rang down the hall.

"Alison!" someone yelled. "It's Erik." I just stood there, biting my lip, feeling about six.

"I can't see you tonight," I told him when I got to the phone.

"What?" said Erik. "Where were you at lunch today?"

"I already told you. I had that meeting with Mr. Salvatorre."

"Oh, right," he said. "How'd that go? What did you say?" I looked up at the ceiling.

"That my dad has cancer."

"No way!"

"Way."

"Did it work?"

"Yeah, but I feel like shit about it. I never lie."

"Now you do," he said.

"Shut up, Erik."

"Oh, come on. I'm just fooling with you."

"And then he was ridiculously sweet and understanding and said I could turn in my paper when I get back from Thanksgiving break."

"Wow, beautiful."

"Yeah, terrific. Anyway, I'll never be able to get it done. I haven't even started it and I'll be in the car all day Wednesday driving home and then back here on Sunday and Thursday's Thanksgiving and basically, I'm fucked."

"Well," said Erik. "Why don't you just stay here at school and do it?"

"I'm not staying here all alone."

"You won't be alone. I'll be here."

"You will? I thought you were going home."

"Naah," he said. "It didn't work out. And Thanksgiving sucks at my house anyway."

"Oh," I said. "But, my mom's totally expecting me."

"Come on, worry-wart," said Erik. "It'll be great. You can stay at my place. My housemate's going home. It'll be just the two of us. I swear, you can come over and I'll set you all up at the kitchen table and you can work your little heart out. I'll take care of you. I'll make you spaghetti. OK?"

"Erik..."

"And we can go over to Lissy's house for Thanksgiving. She already invited me."

"Who's Lissy?" I said.

"Mrs. Kent, my pottery teacher."

"Oh, right, well, whatever. If I did stay, I'd really have to work. No fooling around."

"Not even a little fooling around?"

"I'm not kidding!"

"OK, OK. A very small amount of fooling around. I'll even clean up the place. All right? You'll stay?"

It was Tuesday morning, just two days before Thanksgiving, and I called my mom and told her I wasn't going to be able to make it home. She took it as a very bad sign.

"I don't like this," she said. "First you drop Calculus--"

"Linear Mathematics," I said, "and I can take it next semester."

"Let me finish. Then you stop calling--"

"I haven't stopped calling."

"And now you're interrupting me! Then you stop calling, and now you're not coming home for Thanksgiving and Alison, I'm going to be straight with you. I'm worried. I'm your mother, and I care about you, and frankly, I'm frightened. I think something is very very wrong, and I'm truly concerned. I love you, and I'm scared."

Whenever my mother got this way, instead of feeling like she really did care about me and love me and would do anything in the world for me, I just got scared too. I started thinking My god! She's right! I did drop my class! I am interrupting! I haven't been calling and now I'm refusing her love by staying here for Thanksgiving! Is something really wrong with me?

"Well, don't be so scared," I said. "Everything's fine. Everything's going to be OK."

By Wednesday morning, the campus was pretty much deserted and spooky and I went over to Erik's. I'd actually made some real headway on my paper and was feeling pretty good. When I walked in, Erik's place was, of course, a disaster.

"I thought you told me you were going to clean up," I said, throwing my stuff on the couch with all the other stuff that was already piled there.

"I'm going to," he said, grabbing me, pushing me backward into his bedroom.

Around two o'clock, I spread all my books out on the kitchen table and sat down to get back to work. Erik was across from me, tapping his fingers on his history book.

"I think I'm going to go for a drive," he said. "You want to come?"

"You know I can't."

"Well, then, can I borrow your car?"

"What's wrong with your car?"

"It needs a new front tire," he said. I looked up at him. He smiled.

"Why haven't you fixed it?"

"I don't know," he said, opening and slamming shut his book. "I guess I'm a little short on cash at the moment."

"Oh," I said. "You know, I don't mind lending you money."

"I know," he said.

"And, I mean, all you've got to do is ask."

"Yeah, I know," he said again.

"Are you sure you know?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," said Erik. "What's with you?"

"It's just that," and I stopped, tapping my pen a few times on the table. "It's just that I know you've been sneaking money from my change bowl."

"What?"

"Come on," I said, "it's not such a big thing, but I've seen you with my own eyes."

"That's bullshit," and he shoved his book across the table at me. "And even if I did, it's like fucking change. I mean, Jesus! What's the big deal?"

"It's just that it makes me feel like I can't trust you or something."

"Oh, like you're so fucking perfect? Miss my-daddy's-got-a-brain-tumor?"

"Oh fuck you, Erik," and this is what I really hated about Erik. He could twist a hot poker into a pretzel when he felt like it.

We spent the rest of the day in a screaming match during which we each accused the other of being our downfall, said rotten things about all of our parents, and broke two glasses and one small clock. By eight-thirty, we'd kind of run ourselves into the ground and decided to call a truce. We promised each other that we'd try harder, but I wasn't quite sure what we meant.

We didn't get out of bed until after one on Thanksgiving day, and I really did try to work on my paper, but ended up just watching football with Erik.

Around five o'clock, we went to the Kent's for Thanksgiving dinner. Mr. Kent answered the door and said how happy he was to see us and that we should call him Phil. He was a skinny guy with a big beard and was wearing leather sandals with socks. Erik and I went into the kitchen and I put the beer we'd brought down on the counter next to two pumpkin pies, a huge bowl of mashed potatoes, and a Tupperware container brimming with freshly cooked green beans, which made me feel kind of ungrateful and cruddy.

"Erik!" said Lissy and she hugged him. She was buxom and wearing a flouncy peasant blouse and skirt. "And you must be Alison," and she hugged me too. "This is Emma, our daughter," she said, pointing to this little girl sitting cross-legged on the floor and picking her nose. "Emma, naughty," said Lissy. "No fingers." Emma took her finger out of her nose and looked up at us.

"I'm six," she said, and then farted.

We all went back into the living room where a few more people had arrived. There were two more students from Lissy's pottery class wearing matching tie-died T-shirts and standing in front of someone who had already sat down. When they moved away, I realized with a jolt that it was, of all people, Mr. Salvatorre, grinning, with a small Saran-wrapped bowl of what looked like cranberry sauce in his lap.

"Alison," he said.

"Oh, wow, Mr. Salvatorre," I said.

"I'm surprised to see you. I thought you were going home for break."

"I was," I said, praying my face didn't look as horrified as I felt. "I decided to stay here and work on my paper."

"Well," said Mr. Salvatorre, "that's very dedicated of you. How is your father?"

"He's fine," I said. "I mean, everything's the same. You know. The tests. We're waiting. There's nothing I can really do," and then I shut up.

"What's up with your father?" asked Phil, pouring red wine into a bunch of old style glass jelly jars.

"Nothing," I said. "Well. I'm. I don't really want to talk about it." I saw Mr. Salvatorre give Phil a little wink and a knowing nod, like, "Shush now, leave the poor girl be," and I appreciated that. Erik was next to me and gave my thigh a little whack.

"Hello, Mr. Salvatorre. Great to see you on this festive holiday," he said, walking over and shaking his hand. Phil came around with the jars of wine and everybody sat down. I was introduced to Montserrat, a fair-haired girl with big chapped lips whose parents apparently thought it was a good idea to name their daughter after an island. And her boyfriend, Tony, who had actually just changed his name to Yut-ya, which had something to do with his newly found dedication to Buddhism and all things eastern and mystical. I also found out that Lissy was growing tired of her pottery gig at the college and was studying to be a midwife. That Phil was the manager of a crafts store but that really, he was a sculptor. That Mr. Salvatorre had once wanted to be a priest and that he was currently taking a pottery class with Lissy who said he showed real promise. At some point, Emma plunked herself down next to me and kept taking off and putting back on one of my clogs.

We were all sitting in the living room for quite a while, drinking and chatting and I was already pretty drunk by the time we sat down for dinner. In the dining room were three slightly different-sized card tables pushed together with a Batik tablecloth thrown over them. There were lots of candles and Phil put on some music that sounded like cats being tortured and Yut-ya thought it was great.

Emma had evidently grown fascinated with my shoes and whined and pouted until Lissy sat her on a stool and slid her next to me at the table. Emma immediately plopped down this doll right next to my plate. It had pigtails and a polka dot dress and I felt like it was staring at me. Emma was swinging her feet and banging the underside of the table.

"Emma Jane," said Lissy. "That's naughty, please." Emma stopped swinging her feet and picked up her fork and tapped me on the arm.

"I like your shoes," she said, smiling like crazy, with her long brown pigtails getting frizzy on her shoulders.

"Well, thank you," I said. "I like your dress."

"It's purple," she said.

"I know. And red." Emma just kept staring at me. "It's nice," I said.

Erik was on my left, stuffing food into his mouth. "This is great," he announced. He tipped his head to Lissy and saluted Phil with his knife, which sent a small glob of cranberry sauce across the table. Then Emma was tapping me on the arm again.

"I'm itchy," she said, sliding the hem of her dress up with one hand and yanking at the stretchy top of her tights with the other. "My tights are itchy." Her little belly bulged over the waistband. She stuck her finger in her belly button. "This is my belly button," she said, smiling.

"I'm feeling so satisfied with everything I'm learning in my midwife classes," Lissy was saying. "It's fascinating. It's incredible how much is going on with the female body. What's really amazing and even frightening is all the things that can go wrong," and then she launched into a graphic explanation of how she'd seen this film where a fetus had grown outside of this woman's uterus and how when they opened her up, the fetus was attached to her pancreas. This story prompted Montserrat to tell that her father had drowned in a scuba diving accident off the coast of Mexico. After a round of "Oh, no..." style commiseration, everyone seemed compelled to tell one awful tale of death or destruction after another.

Emma began kicking the table again so I reached over and gave her knee a tight squeeze that made her wriggle and laugh, and she said, "Stop it, silly," with a slight lisp.

"What's your doll's name?" I asked her.

"Petey," she said.

"Petey? That's kind of a funny name for a girl doll." Emma furrowed her brow and cocked her head and looked at her doll.

"Oh," she said, smiling, slapping her little hand to her little forehead. "He's all mixed up," and she picked up the doll and turned it around and held it up in the air from its little doll arm pits. Sure enough, the flip side of the doll was a boy with short dark hair and blue pants. "This is Petey," she said, shoving the doll into my face. Then she pulled it away, flipped it again, shoved it back into my face, and said, "This is Emily," and then put the doll on her lap.

Erik was telling the story about his broken arm and how the bone had been sticking out at the elbow, which didn't seem to be impressing anybody. I was relieved that he'd left out the part about how he'd broken his arm, which was by falling down the stairs while he was fighting with his stepfather. Then he said, "Well, you know Alison's father has a pretty serious brain tumor," which drew gasps and a kick from me under the table.

"That's horrible," said Lissy. "Is he going to be OK?" Mr. Salvatorre was just looking at me and shaking his head with this sad expression like he'd never been so sorry in his whole life.

"Umm, it's looking better and better," I said, reaching for my glass and knocking it over, spilling red wine across the table where it seeped into the tablecloth like blood. "Oh my god," I said. "I'm so sorry." Lissy reached over and padded the wine with her napkin.

"Don't worry about it," she said sweetly. "You just don't worry about it." Then Phil was behind my chair, pouring me more wine with his hand on my shoulder.

"Are you OK, honey?" said Erik, giving me a wicked smile. I just looked at him.

Phil gave my shoulder a squeeze and said, "Who wants more turkey?"

I was relieved to be back out of the conversation and asked Emma about her weird little doll. "It's an everything doll," she told me. "My mommy made it for me. And it has all the parts, see?" and she lifted the girl side of the doll's dress up and pointed between its legs where there was a little strip of yarn about an inch long vertically attached. "This is where the girls make weewee," she said and flipped the doll over, unzipping Petey's pants, revealing a very small and crudely wrought cloth penis. "And this is how boys go peepee," and then she took the little cloth penis between her fingers and made a whooshing sound. I sort of laughed wondering where all this was coming from and said, "That's very interesting."

Emma was suddenly off her stool and standing next to me on her tiptoes, leaning into my ear and hotly whispered, "Do you want to see my weewee?" which made me laugh again and I said, "I don't think so," and she pulled away. "Why not?" she asked me.

"Well, I don't know," I said. She leaned into me again.

"I want to see your weewee," she said and I cracked a grin, kind of laughing, kind of trying to push her away but she wouldn't let up. She began groping my arm and pinching my skin, trying to climb back up to my ear. "Let me see your weewee," she kept insisting again and again, beginning to giggle, I think mostly because I was beginning to giggle while the rest of the table was getting into some real nitty gritty about Phil's mom's ovarian cancer, with words like "fibroid cyst" and "bulbous tissue" popping up like prairie dogs from the conversation. Emma's hands were growing downright sweaty around my wrists as she was trying to pull me off my chair. "Come on, come on," she was whining and smiling when I caught Lissy giving us a look and I smiled and made a face like "Don't worry about it." I was trying to push Emma back to her chair, which was apparently tickling, and she was giggling more than ever when, suddenly, she lunged at me, jabbing her little six-year-old pointy fingers into my stomach and grabbing at my sweater as I was laughing and coughing and yanking her by the nape of her dress and face to face, I whispered, "Cut it out!" but I was still laughing and Emma just kept sing-songing "weewee, peepee" over and over with an occasional "poopoo, kaakaa," and it was like we were on a merry-go-round as she grabbed my hands, bouncing and swinging "weewee" and I tried to stop, I swear I did, clenching my lips and shutting my eyes tight as a vise and a tear seeped out and then she pulled too hard and slipped from my grip and fell boom against the floor and she let out a shriek. A scream. A sireny whine that started out high and piercing, quickly falling through about three hundred registers ending in a wide-mouthed, hair-pulling sob that, for whatever reason, made me finally break and burst out laughing.

Everyone stopped talking. Lissy was up in a flash and over on the floor with her daughter, asking to see where it hurt. Erik leaned over and sort of hugged me but it felt more like he was grabbing me, trying to shut me up as my laughing slowed and softened and finally petered out. I put my head in my hands. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I was mumbling. Then I started to cry and Erik said he thought we had better go.

I awoke the next morning with a splitting headache. My mind was blank. Erik brought me coffee in bed, which meant he must've really felt sorry for me.

"What happened with you last night?" he said, and that's when Emma and the doll and the whole weewee incident came flooding back. "You barely made it home and then you passed out in your clothes," he said, and feeling beneath the covers, I realized I was fully dressed.

"Fuck," I said, "I'm going to have to go over there and apologize to them," and I fell back to sleep.

We didn't get over to the Kent's until the afternoon. "I guess they're not home," I said, after two rounds of knocking and several "Hey you guys!" went unanswered. Erik was bending over, his hands cupped around his eyes, peering into their windows from the porch. "Come on," I said. "Let's go."

"No, wait," said Erik. "They have more food than God in there." He stood up and looked at me. "Aren't you starving? Maybe they're around the back."

"Let's just go," I said, because I was growing pretty weary with the prospect of having to apologize for my unapologizable behavior. Erik began to walk around the back of the house.

"You're either with me or against me," he said, and I let him go. I just stood there for a while, staring up at the clouds, breathing in the burning leaves, and wishing I were home.

By the time I got around to the back, Erik was up on his tip toes, fingering his way along the top of the door frame. "Ahah!" he said and pulled something down in his hand. "A key!" He bent over and started trying it in the back door.

"What're you doing?" I said, as the door suddenly swung open. Erik turned around and grinned at me.

"Opening the door," he said and stepped into the Kent's kitchen.

"Erik!" I yelled and scampered into the house. "Erik," I whispered, "you can't be in here."

"But here I am," he said, "and here you are," and he opened the refrigerator, "and here's all this wonderful turkey!" He reached in and grabbed a handful of slices and crammed them into his mouth. "Come here," he said, taking some more.

"I don't want any," I said, walking over to him. I took a small piece of turkey and swallowed it whole, immediately shoving my hands into my pockets. Erik took three cookies from a platter on the counter, stuffing one into his mouth and sticking the other two into his jacket.

My heart was pounding and my skin got damp. My eyes were wide and dry and I kept feeling as if something were about to fall or explode. Erik turned on the faucet, tipped his head underneath and slurped some water into his mouth. He turned back to me, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, and said, "Isn't this wild?"

"No," I said. "I guess so. I don't know. I just want to get out of here." But then Erik was behind me, sliding his arms down and around me, hugging and swinging me slowly. "Erik," I said, getting all squirmy. He leaned by my cheek and was sing-songing a warm "turkey, turkey" into my ear. He brought his hands up and over my breasts and began kissing the back of my neck. Pushing me against the counter, he quickly undid my jeans and yanked them down. It all felt like a dream, like it was happening to someone else. Then he was inside me, with his hands on the back of my head, my hair in his fists, and my eyes fell shut and everything was getting cloudy and warm and disappearing, and I'll never know how long we were there when "What the...?" I heard someone say and Erik yanked my head up by the hair as he fell backwards and away from me and then there they were, crammed like a multi-car pile-up inside the frame of the kitchen door: Phil in the front with Lissy's eyes and forehead peaking over one shoulder and Mr. Salvatorre's big sweet face hanging like a moon over the other. Phil said, "Keep Emma out of here," but of course, there she was, crawling out between their legs, laughing and pointing as if this were the funniest thing in the world.