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“How are your parents?”

  “Very good, sir. Thank you for asking.”

  They weren’t very good. They were never very good. But that’s not what you say when a grown-up asks.

  “And you’re their older boy?”

  Libby’s mother answered for me. She was sitting in a stuffed wing chair with wild paisley upholstery, smoothing her skirt with her hands as though she just realized she’d forgotten to iron it.

  “No, honey, their older boy is Leroy and he’s overseas. Remember?”

  “Oh, that’s right. Sorry, son. I have trouble keeping the local boys straight. You know our Darren just got home from overseas.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I did know about that.”

  “I guess word gets around,” he said. Then he let an awkward pause fall. “Well, enough pleasantries. Let’s get right down to it. What will you two young people be doing when you walk out our door tonight?”

  “Well, sir. We’re going to walk down to the bus stop on the corner. Catch the thirty-three line into Blaine and get off at the Triplex Theater. See a movie. Afterwards we can get a soda or an ice cream if Libby wants one. And then I’ll bring her right home. Shouldn’t be later than nine thirty or ten, even with the soda.”

  “And what are you planning to see?” Mrs. Weller asked.

  “I was thinking we’d see that Herbie the Love Bug movie. About the car that . . .” I still didn’t remember exactly what the car did that was so different. But it was no ordinary car. “. . . kind of has a mind of its own.”

  Mrs. Weller sat back in her chair in a gesture that I can only describe as satisfied. She had been leaning slightly forward, as if grilling me. And the grilling had just ended.

  I had passed the test.

  “Well, I think that’s a very good choice,” she said. “I’ve heard it’s funny. And it’s a very wholesome film. I think it speaks well of you to choose it. I was afraid you were going to say you intended to see that awful slasher movie.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. I don’t like all the blood and gore.”

  “You two have a good time, then,” Mr. Weller said. Which meant I had passed his test as well.

  A silence fell, but it wasn’t awkward. It was peaceful and encouraging. As if nothing more needed to be said.

  In that moment I was filled with a feeling. I doubt I had words for it at the time, but even then I could’ve told you it had something to do with Zoe Dinsmore.

  I have words for it now. Zoe Dinsmore had solved the riddle of the movie for me. And now, having won Libby’s parents’ approval with that choice, I felt as though Mrs. Dinsmore had pressed a key into my hand, and that key had just opened up some secret part of the universe that had always been a mystery to me. Sounds like an exaggeration, but I guess you’d have to know how utterly baffled I’d been by life up until then.

  A movement caught my eye, and I looked up to see Darren leaning in the doorway to the living room. The movement had been his final hop.

  He had no crutches with him, and he was wearing only white boxer shorts and a short-sleeved white undershirt. My eyes went straight down to his missing leg. I couldn’t help it. It was bandaged, and it looked too narrow at the end to be a full-size calf like the one on the other side. It was weirdly tapered. But the shocking thing to me was not what was above the line of amputation, but what was below it.

  Nothing.

  Funny how we get so adjusted to exactly what we should see on every human body we encounter. And then when it’s missing, it’s just . . . well, I already said “shocking,” but it’s really the only word that fits the bill.

  He also had a lot of scarring on the exposed parts of his legs. Places that you could see had recently held stitches.

  I forced my eyes up to his face again.

  Everybody stood—Libby and both of her parents—so I stood, too. It seemed to be in response to Darren’s presence, but I wasn’t sure why. It was something like the way men stand when a lady walks into the room, but it had a different feel to it. A darker feel.

  “Darren, honey,” Mrs. Weller said, “we have company, and you’re not dressed.”

  “Come ’ere,” Darren said. But not to his mother. He was ignoring her entirely. He was staring straight at me.

  I didn’t move at first. I was feeling frozen.

  He said it again.

  “No, really. Come ’ere. Don’t make me go over there. It’s too hard.”

  I walked to where he stood leaning in the doorway, steadying himself on the frame. I was afraid, but I didn’t know why. Afraid of him, afraid of what he might be about to say. Afraid of what he knew about what my brother was going through. I couldn’t even sort it all out in my head.

  I stopped and stood in front of him, feeling like I owed it to him to let him say or do whatever he had on his mind. I just opened myself up to that moment.

  When he spoke, his voice was soft and low. Nothing like before.

  “How’s Roy doing?”

  “I think . . . ,” I began. Then I realized I wasn’t going to lie to him. Or even smooth down the truth. He knew too much. And he deserved more. “I think he’s having a really rough time.”

  “Well, yeah. He’s normal. And it’s Nam. Of course he’s having a rough time. Who wouldn’t? But he’s not, like . . . injured or anything?”

  “No. He’s not injured.”

  “Good. Let’s hope it stays that way.”

  “Did you . . .” But then I got stuck in the middle of the thought.

  “Did I what?”

  “Did you know him? Over there?”

  “No, not over there. I knew ’im. But I never saw ’im in Nam. It’s a big country, and we’re all over it. I just knew Roy from growing up in town. Had a drink with him the night before he shipped out. Right before I found out I was going, too. Never saw a guy that scared in my whole life. I mean, until I got over there. But I haven’t seen ’im since.”

  “Right,” I said. “Got it.”

  I guess I’d been hoping he had some kind of inside information about Roy. Maybe he’d been hoping the same about me. I let that expectation go again. It hurt a little on its way out.

  “Next time you write to ’im, tell ’im I said hi.”

  “I will.”

  And with that he turned and hopped his way back down the hallway, sliding his hand along the wall for support.

  I turned around to see Libby standing right behind me.

  “We should go,” I said. “We don’t want to miss our bus.”

  Halfway to the end of the block she slipped her hand into mine. I got that funny feeling in my knees again, and a strange sensation in my low belly. Buzzy, like electricity. But I liked it.

  “You didn’t tell me your brother was having a rough time,” she said, breaking a long silence.

  I could’ve told her that I’d only learned about it from his last letter. And, since I’d told her I hadn’t heard from him last time she asked, that would make it sound as though I’d heard about his troubles more recently. It would have been a half truth, if I had gone that route.

  Or I could’ve quoted her brother.

  “Well, yeah. He’s normal. And it’s Nam. Of course he’s having a rough time. Who wouldn’t?”

  I didn’t.

  I decided that if somebody is your girlfriend, or might be about to become your girlfriend, you probably owe her a different level of the truth. I figured, for somebody like that, you can just damn well do better.

  “I know,” I said. “And I’m sorry about that. It was a thing I was having trouble talking about.”

  She gave my hand a squeeze.

  We walked the rest of the way to the bus stop in silence.

  “So what did you think of the movie?” I asked her as we walked out into the dusky night.

  I was so on edge waiting to know that I’d stuck my hands in my pockets so she wouldn’t see them shaking. Or reach for one and feel it shaking.

  “I liked it,” she said.

  I breathed for w
hat felt like the first time in months. Why was I so tied up in knots inside when I was young? I swear I have no idea.

  “Didn’t you like it?” she asked when she realized I was not about to answer.

  It was a complicated question. I’d been of two minds about it all through the film, and trying to guess which way her mind was going. I felt like . . . if I could only know her opinion, I’d know which view was “right.” It was possible to stand outside the movie and think it was silly, or to stop judging and go with it and think it was funny. But all I could do was shift back and forth, wondering what my date was thinking.

  “Sure,” I said. “It was funny.”

  We walked right past the soda shop, and she said nothing about stopping. I breathed a great sigh of relief, as quietly as possible.

  Libby had wanted popcorn, a soda, and a giant candy bar during the film. So I guessed she was too full for an ice cream soda now. But I’d been a little scared about that, because I now had just enough money for the bus home for both of us, with only about fifteen cents change. I would’ve had to tell her out loud that I couldn’t afford it, which would have been humiliating.

  I took my hands out of my pocket, because now they were holding still. I reached one out in her direction, and she reached back and took hold of it. And we walked toward the bus stop that way.

  A grown-up lady with a bag of groceries passed us on the sidewalk, coming toward us, and she smiled approvingly at our faces. And then at our linked hands. I took it to mean that we looked like a nice young couple. It made me think maybe we were, which opened up my thinking about the world quite a bit in that moment.

  And then, of course, I got too honest.

  “I’m glad you liked the movie,” I said, “because I was really worried about that.”

  She stopped dead on the sidewalk, and her hand tugged at mine until I stopped, too.

  “Why would you worry about a thing like that?” she asked.

  And I thought, Oh great. I’ve gone and done it now. I let her look at the inside of something about me, and now it turns out it’s completely weird in there.

  “I just wanted you to have a good time,” I said.

  “That’s nice. But it’s not like you made the movie yourself or anything.”

  “But I picked it out. I didn’t want you to think I had terrible taste in movies.”

  “But you hadn’t seen it. If you’d seen it nine times and really wanted me to see it the tenth time with you, and I hated it, I might think you had bad taste in movies. Which isn’t the most terrible thing in the world, by the way. But you were just guessing. Anybody can guess wrong.”

  “Hmm,” I said.

  We started to walk again.

  “I guess I worry too much,” I said.

  “Well, at least you worry about nice things, like whether I’ll have a good time.”

  Just for a minute I was filled with a great feeling. Like she wasn’t judging me and it really was okay to be myself around her. I think the only reason the feeling didn’t last longer is because we saw the bus coming. And we had to run.

  I walked her up onto her front porch, and to her door. By then it was mostly dark out, but the porch light was on. It was glaring, and I found myself blinking because of it. Blinking too much.

  “Well . . . ,” I said.

  And she said, “Well . . . ,” in return.

  She wasn’t going to let me off the hook on this. I was the one who had to find the perfect words to wrap this up.

  “I sure had a nice time with you tonight,” I said.

  “Me too,” she said.

  She was standing close, and she had her face turned up toward mine in a way I could only think of as . . . well, I hated to think it was expectant, because then it would be on me to know what she was expecting. I’m not trying to suggest I had no idea at all. I wasn’t a total child, and I hadn’t just crawled out from under a rock. I knew what tended to happen at the end of dates. I just wasn’t sure enough that I was right about what she wanted.

  It hit me that all through the date I’d let her make the first moves. She was the one who’d reached out and taken my hand. On the way out. On the bus. In the movie. Even on the way home, when I reached a hand out to her, I just reached it out. And waited.

  There was just no getting around that for me. It was the only way I knew how to be. I had to be sure of what she wanted. I couldn’t be one of those boys who just took what he wanted from a girl. That was utterly foreign to me.

  “I’d like to call you,” I said.

  “You better.”

  “And see you again.”

  “I should hope so.”

  “Well okay, then.”

  “Well okay,” she said.

  The moment was getting more awkward. It felt like she was driving me toward a kiss by steering the conversation down a dead-end street. But I still wasn’t sure enough.

  To make matters worse, I had never kissed a girl before. And now that you know how much I worried about whether she’d like the film, you can imagine my horror over her possibly not liking the kiss.

  “Well,” I said. “Good night.”

  I turned to walk away.

  Yes, I was really going to chicken out. It seemed the only way to get out of the situation and off her porch in one emotional piece.

  “Hey!” she said.

  I stopped. Turned back.

  “Aren’t you even going to kiss me good night?”

  So that took care of the first part of the equation. I was now sure of what she wanted.

  I stepped in close, and she turned her face up in that expectant way. She had her eyes closed, so I closed mine. And I leaned in. And I just did it. Right or wrong, I had to try.

  I pressed my lips lightly against hers and held them there. Maybe for the count of two.

  Then I went to pull away.

  But I didn’t get away.

  She put her hand on the back of my head, and she kissed me. More deeply this time.

  It wasn’t hard to know what to do, even though I was a total novice, because all I had to do was respond. Accept her lips with mine and do the same in return. I wondered how many boys she had kissed before. She seemed to know what she was doing.

  Then I started liking the kissing. Really liking it, and not worrying about doing it wrong, because nothing that wonderful could be wrong. And then it was me kissing her again, but more firmly. Less hesitantly.

  And then the porch light started flashing.

  Off. On. Off. On.

  We stepped apart.

  “I think I’m wanted inside,” she said.

  “Yeah. Seems that way.” I sounded like I was out of breath. Because I was.

  “Good night.”

  “Good night,” I said.

  I waited until I saw she was safely inside, then stepped down off her porch and started the long walk home. Not two seconds later I broke into a full-on sprint. I needed a way to vent all that energy.

  I had this wonderful feeling inside as I ran. Like I’d gotten a sneak peek into love, and it was okay in there. It wasn’t a terrible place where I’d be torn limb from limb. I could go there like everybody else.

  I was flying along the sidewalk, hardly noticing my feet touching down, and I was thinking, I can go to this love place and I can be okay.

  And, as the old saying goes . . . that’s what I get for thinking.

  Chapter Nine

  The Belonging

  When I got out to the cabin the following morning, the front door was yawning wide open. Mrs. Dinsmore was standing in the doorway, a toolbox at her feet, tinkering with the lock her daughter and I had so poorly installed.

  “You’re alive,” I said, the dogs whipping the backs of my thighs with their strong tails.

  I thought it was a subject I could half kid her about. It felt like it had become something of a dark private joke between us. But the minute it was out of my mouth, I doubted my words, and my nerve in saying them.

  If she was offen
ded, she never let on.

  “Seems that way,” she said. Then her hands stopped moving, and she looked right into my face. “I was going to ask you how your date went. But now that I’ve looked at your goofy grinning face, there’s really no need.”

  “She liked the movie,” I said.

  She didn’t answer, so I just sat down on the edge of the porch and watched her work for a minute or two. Rembrandt plunked his big butt down on my left foot, and Vermeer kept licking the air about an inch from my face.

  “Why do I worry so much what people think of me?” I asked the lady.

  It surprised me. A lot. I’d had no idea I’d been about to ask that.

  “Because you’re human?” She asked it like a question. Like maybe she wasn’t sure either.

  “So you’re saying everybody’s like that?”

  “Some more than others, I suppose. Being young doesn’t help. Younger you are, the more you’re not sure what’s the right way to be in the world. The more you think you might be getting it wrong, the more sensitive you’ll be about it. As you get older, like me, you stop caring so much what people think.” She tinkered in silence for a second or two, working with a screw that didn’t seem to want to go in straight. Then she added, “Not sure anybody ever stops caring completely, though.”

  “Can I ask your advice about another thing?”

  I could hear her sigh from a good four paces away.

  “Have I got a choice?”

  It stung me a little. I won’t lie.

  “Never mind,” I said. “It’s okay.”

  She sighed again, and set down her screwdriver. Came and sat with me on the edge of the porch.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I was just being snarky. Sometimes I think it’s expected of me. Go ahead and ask.”

  “Thanks.” I think I was more relieved than I cared to let on. “I want to take her out for another date. The sooner the better. But now I’m totally broke. I’ve got fifteen cents to my name. And after I get my next allowance again, well . . . I want to take her out to eat. Maybe lunch, maybe dinner. I guess lunch is cheaper, but dinner is fancier. But even if I’ve just gotten my allowance, I don’t think I can afford that. Unless I just take her to the Burger Barn. But even at the Burger Barn . . . I can’t tell her what to order. What if she gets the most expensive thing on the menu? And then I have to just get water. But she’d see right through that and know I was out of money. Besides, who takes a date to the Burger Barn? It’s a date. It’s supposed to be someplace nice. Why is it so expensive to take a girl out on a date?”