The smile that threatened to emerge on Patrick’s face was a mighty one indeed, and he had to seize it by the horns and use every bit of strength inside of him to wrestle it to the ground. It heaved bodily underneath him, savagely fighting for complete domination of his face. A little grin was all that managed to wriggle free however, and the only thing he could think to say was, “Totally!”
*****
Rachel offered to let him use the phone once they got to her house, but Patrick assured her that his parents would prefer that he let them know where he would be tonight in person. He told her that he was going to run to his house quickly and would be back in a couple of minutes. So she stood on the corner of the two streets while he jogged the remaining few blocks to his house with no lack of energy.
The real reason he preferred to do this in person, of course, was that if he were to use her phone to contact his parents, she would most likely be standing next to him to witness his half of the conversation. Even if the receiver wasn’t loud enough for her to hear the whole thing, she wouldn’t have a very hard time guessing his parents’ end of it. Knowing him, his traitor cheeks would flush and his voice would crack with embarrassment from their silly gasps and “ooh”s. He wanted to get it all over with face-to-face and try to enjoy the evening without a shred of live pressure from his family.
When he pushed through the front door and walked into the dining room where his mother was working on her laptop at the large wooden table, Patrick was all smiles. The inevitability of her reaction was enough to grant the enormous, toothy grin lurking in his cheeks enough strength to shove its way out completely. He wished he could be casual about it, play it cool as if this were normal, but a request such as this was almost like admitting to some kind of fault for so many years of being quiet and having very few friends, none of which were ever girls. It was like telling his mother that he was changing into what he should have been all these years, the way everyone knew he would eventually “under the right stimulation,” as his father liked to put it. He knew how she would react and knew that she would know that he knew, but for some reason the whole thing would have to play out anyway. It was just the way things were. Later he was sure to reflect that this was all very ridiculous, but it was somehow so natural for a teenager—necessary, even.
“Hey mom, can I go to a friend’s house for dinner?” He couldn’t even lump his backpack onto the table and finish the sentence without his mouth betraying him, and his mother immediately picked up on the guilt behind the smile.
“Absolutely,” she said with a silky casualness. “Who’s your friend?”
Patrick looked into her eyes for a long moment, not wanting to admit it, not wanting the attention it would certainly bring when he got home that night.
“Rachel,” he said finally.
His mother gave a soft gasp. “Raaachelll?” she said slowly and dramatically.
“I’ve got to go, though. She’s waiting for me.” Patrick was thankful at least for that excuse.
“Of course you can go to Rachel’s house for dinner, Patrick!” She said it all very deliberately, as if the conversation were being recorded and she needed the incriminating evidence to use against him later. Or maybe she had simply been waiting to say a sentence like that for a long time and was enjoying the way it sounded.
“Thanks, mom!” Patrick turned and started down the hall.
“Wait, do you need me to pick you up?” she called after him. “They still haven’t caught that dog!”
The words threatened to seep into Patrick and stoke the coals of mystery that had been burning slowly inside him, sending black smoke clouds of worry and fear billowing up into his mind, but he blew them quickly away.
“Her dad’s going to drop me off if it gets too dark,” he called back. “She lives right up the street anyway.”
Patrick heard her call, “Okay, have fun!” right as he stepped outside and shut the door behind him. He jumped off of the redwood deck and ran down the driveway and back down the quiet street to where Rachel was still standing.
As he crossed over to her he wondered if she had waited to ask him to dinner until the end of the walk because she had to work up the courage. It seemed plausible, if only because it seemed like something he might do himself. He was probably just projecting his shyness onto her though, he thought.
But it hardly mattered at all when he stopped in front of her.
“Ready?” she asked, and in that moment when she looked at him, standing on the corner holding her book bag tightly to her stomach and smiling, Patrick thought she looked prettier than she ever had. He had never seen anyone look so radiant before, or even remotely deserving of the term. She was looking at him expectantly, her green eyes and her straight blond hair shimmering brightly in the sun. Her white blouse and powder blue skirt made her appear so mature somehow, as though behind those eyes was the mind of an older woman rather than a vulnerable teenager like himself.
She was beautiful, and she wanted Patrick to come to her house for dinner. Genuinely wanted his company. He wasn’t used to any of this, and the joy surging through him felt almost as empowering—if not more so—than his very first romp in his other skin on that fateful night so long ago now.
“Yeah,” he returned, and the two of them started down the street.
*****
The first thing Patrick noticed about Rachel’s house was that it was much smaller than his own. This wasn’t surprising, seeing as his was the biggest he’d seen in town so far, but it was apparently the first thing on her mind as well.
“It’s probably not quite as big as yours, is it?” she said as they stopped in front.
Patrick almost said, “The bigger the house, the more people to live in it and annoy you,” but was able to run the comment through the mental filters and retract it just in time, being unsure if it would bring up unpleasant thoughts about her mother. She had insisted that it wasn’t a sensitive subject, but he didn’t want to take any risks.
Instead, he said, “I feel like my house has a lot of empty space. Kind of a waste, really.” This was true. There were parts of the house where the ceiling was so high that the builders might as well have just turned it into a couple more rooms, or even taken the extra wood and gotten started on another house altogether.
Rachel’s house may have been smaller, but if he needed a word for it he would have simply called it ‘modest’. Judging by its size it looked like it probably had two bedrooms and one, maybe one-and-a-half bathrooms. It was of a very simple design—mostly square, one story, a straight dirt driveway leading up to a single-car garage. The paint was white, though faded and dirtied with time. In theory this all should have made the house appear undesirable, but instead it just made it look more rustic. Patrick had always liked places that actually looked lived-in—the brightly painted houses of Patrick’s old street with their completely empty and perfectly manicured lawns bored him to no end.
And to add to the look there were many interesting objects scattered throughout the property. Most of them were various sheets and blocks of wood, some plain and unpainted and some carved into elaborate shapes. Patrick recalled that Rachel’s father was a carpenter, and supposed that most of these were likely either current projects or abandoned ones.
But if there was one object that pulled it all together and gave a perfect balance to the whole house, it was the swing set in the middle of the lawn. The grass around it was unmowed, brimming with weeds and spotted with barren patches of dirt, and the only remaining signs of paint were the little specks of white that peppered the weathered bars… Yet the two chain swings set in their frame of bowing metal did more for the look of the house than anything else could have. This centerpiece was a thousand times more charming than a rosy-cheeked lawn gnome in an unmoving sea of Astroturf would ever be.
As if reading his mind, Rachel walked over to the swing on the left and sat down on the black rubber seat. Patrick followed and s
at down next to her. For a few moments they were silent, and Patrick examined the yard further.
Most of the other houses on the street looked to be more or less the same size and all had some assortment of debris surrounding them, but the odd wooden pieces in Rachel’s lawn made it the most interesting by far.
Patrick spotted a huge sheet of wood probably three inches thick and with an ornate design carved into one end. It looked like it might have been destined to be the headboard of a bed until it was half-painted, and, judging by the growth of the grass around it, abandoned to the woodworking graveyard quite a long time ago. He wouldn’t doubt if the grass underneath was yellow from lack of sun.
“I’m assuming this is all your dad’s?” Patrick inquired as he studied the various abandoned projects. The more he looked, the more he felt as if they were actually finished pieces and this was a gallery.
“Yeah,” she said, “like he doesn’t work enough, he’s always getting caught up in some project or another. Although as you can probably tell he’s really good at getting sidetracked…”
Patrick chuckled. “Yeah.” He looked to his left and saw a pile of wooden poles. Some of them had holes drilled into them, and a few even had copper balls sticking out of their tops. What this project might have been was a mystery indeed. “I’d like to see some of these finished,” he said.
“Oh, I’ll show you tons of finished stuff when we get inside,” she said with a little excitement in her voice. “The place is covered with the stuff. It’s all different, too. Anything to do with wood and my Dad’s an expert.” The excitement was joined by the slightest touch of pride. “He’s always coming up with new ideas and starting on new projects. He says I’m his…” She stopped. She might have started to say something she hadn’t meant to, but having gotten so far she apparently decided that she had to finish, “…inspiration…”
Patrick pretended not to see the redness that blossomed on her cheeks.
“Sorry we have to wait for him,” she said quickly. “Our old lock just broke and we had to replace it, but he forgot to get an extra key when he was in town. He should be here any second now.” She nudged the ground gently with her foot and started swinging softly. Patrick did this as well, and for the next few minutes the two of them talked about an upcoming history test.
When Rachel’s father pulled up in his old white station wagon and got out of the car holding two pizza boxes, he looked about as happy as Patrick felt. An unbridled smile stretched across his face, which was thick with stubble and surprisingly tan. His eyes were very small, yet filled with a disproportionate brightness—sort of like looking into a brightly lit room through two little holes. They were made even smaller by his constant squint; Patrick thought at first that it may have been from the smile or the sun, but soon learned that it was just the way the man’s face was. It made him look happier than anyone Patrick could ever remember meeting. He was fairly muscular too, as one might expect from someone in such a line of work, and of a pretty average height—maybe a little shorter than his father. His hair was more of a sandy blonde—not like Rachel’s, which was much lighter.
The two of them stood from the swings to greet him, and the First thing Rachel did was give him a tight hug. Patrick watched and felt a slight twinge of remorse when he tried to remember the last time he gave either of his parents a hug and came up empty.
When Rachel released her father he shifted the pizza boxes to his left hand and extended his right.
“Hey, there. I’m Dave.” He shook Patrick’s hand, still smiling.
“I’m Patrick,” he returned, though he knew the man must have already known his name.
He realized that he had probably watched way too much TV over the years, because he almost expected Dave to say, “Rachel’s told me all about you…” and for Rachel to follow up by rolling her eyes and saying, “Daaaaaaaad!”
Instead, Dave only asked, “You kids hungry?” and he walked up to the front door, fumbling for his keys.
“Yeah,” Rachel said, and followed.
“Sho ‘nuff,” Patrick said, without a single clue as to why.
Dave opened the door and the three of them stepped into the house.
*****
Rachel had been telling the truth. The house was completely covered with everything that could conceivably be made from wood; an intricately detailed cuckoo clock, a half-dozen lamps that were all held in the hands of smiling wooden bears, plaques on the walls with various bible verses and inspirational messages etched into them, rows and rows of shelves housing an innumerable amount of little carved animal figures and groups of books held together by elaborate bookends carved to look like bears and trees, and Patrick would bet money that every wooden table, chair, bookshelf, and cabinet in the house was Dave’s work. It made the house look simply amazing, and the sheer cluttery brownness of the living room again posed a stark contrast to the white carpets and fake plants and loads and loads of tribal-looking art pieces (because I’m so worldly and sophisticated) of just about every house on his old street that he had ever been in.
“This is amazing!” Patrick said, walking into the living room and trying his best to take in the whole scene. He found a little wooden elephant on a table and studied it closely, without touching it. “I’m sure my parents would love to buy something from you.”
“Nah, I was never in to selling much,” Dave said. He had put the pizzas on the dining room table and was sorting through mail. “Once in a blue moon I’ll do a large bear commission, but for the most part I just do it for the heck of it.”
“Really?” Patrick was taken aback. “I’ll bet you could make a fortune!”
Dave only laughed, and plopped a few envelopes and magazines into a small wooden trash can. He walked back into the kitchen.
“There’s just so much stuff,” Patrick said to Rachel, who was standing behind him, smiling.
Dave must have heard him, because he called from around the wall that separated the living room and the kitchen, “Well, you know, I’m always finding friends and whatnot with old wood they don’t need anymore…”
“Translation,” Rachel said. “He’s always working, and never rests.”
Patrick laughed. After a few more moments of looking over one of the bear lamps he heard a clack from the kitchen and turned to see that Rachel was grabbing a stack of plates from the cupboard. She walked over and put them on the table, and everyone grabbed one.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” Dave said, “so I got a Hawaiian and a pepperoni. Hope that’s alright.” He opened the box of Hawaiian and lifted two sloppy pieces onto his plate, sparing Patrick the uncomfortable question of who should serve themselves first. For an adult, he was earning a lot of good marks in Patrick’s book.
“Absolutely,” Patrick said. He had never been a fan of pineapple, but pepperoni was always a good choice. He lifted the lid on the second box and was met with a waft of hot air and that universally recognizable pizza smell. He wasn’t sure if it was the circumstances or the fact that he hadn’t eaten much over the last couple of days, but the aroma was particularly heavenly.
“This smells amazing!” Patrick exclaimed as he lifted his own two slices onto his plate, plucking a long line of stubborn cheese from the box and dropping it on top like a cherry on a sundae. “Where did you get this from?”
“Pirate Bay,” Dave said. He unceremoniously slid a chair from the table and plopped down on it, starting on his pizza immediately. (This was a refreshing change to the mealtime rituals Patrick was used to.) “It’s right across from the grocery store,” he said, then took a huge bite.
Patrick followed suit, pulling out the chair closest to him and watching as Rachel did the same. He noticed that she had chosen the Hawaiian, like her father. She put her plate down on the table, but then walked to the kitchen.
“Do you want a soda or something?” she asked him from behind the refrigerator door.
“
I’m good with just water,” Patrick said honestly. He had never been much of a soda drinker. He always found the carbonation nothing but painful and unpleasant, and could hardly derive an ounce of enjoyment when his mouth was being so heavily assaulted. He supposed he was lucky however, as he often theorized that his father’s weight gain over the years was very likely attributed to the man’s great love for canned sugar water.
Rachel poured Patrick a cup of water from a filtered pitcher in the fridge, then walked back to the table, setting the cup by Patrick’s plate and a can of Sprite by her own.
“Thanks,” Patrick said to her as she sat down. For a moment he remembered warmly the time she offered him some of her lunch. He often liked to recall that memory, it seemed.
Patrick finally took a bite of his pizza and found himself blown away by the quality. He allowed himself to chew and swallow completely, then said (perhaps a trifle loudly, he realized a little too late), “Holy conoli, this is amazing!”
“Best pizza for fifty miles,” Dave said from behind a mouthful of bread and cheese, though it came out as “Besht pisha fa fiffy miles.” He swallowed and continued, “I know the guy. Gets the veggies from his buddy’s greenhouse.” He grabbed another slice to accompany the one that was still on his plate. “Fresh dough every day.” He started in on the new slice.
Patrick looked at the pizza in his hand and thought about the chain restaurants of the city. He wondered where Galaxy Pizza gets their veggies, and roughly how long the dough from Quick Tony’s normally stays frozen before it finds its way onto your plate…
He took another impossibly satisfying bite and wondered at the magical new world which his mouth had discovered.