Following her from store to store, he tried to act casual, bought magazines which he pretended to read when she waited by only a few feet from him. She browsed leisurely, not buying anything, lingering at certain counters, pausing to riffle dresses hanging from the racks. He learned to be careful, to keep a certain distance, discovering in Filene’s the danger of multiple mirrors. He came upon his reflection unexpectedly, startled to see himself reproduced in a dozen different angles, and almost panicked, wondering whether she had spotted him in one of the mirrors and was leading him on a merry chase.

  Fleeing the store, he sat on a plastic yellow bench near the dry fountain, chipped and peeling, as if it were diseased. When she emerged from Filene’s a few minutes later, she wandered toward the escalator. He watched her ascend to the second level, saw her moving along the second-floor guardrail, her head barely visible. After a minute or two, he stepped on the escalator and as he alighted, spotted her going into a bookstore at the far end of the corridor.

  In the bookstore, he discovered the merits of peripheral vision: how you could see things without looking directly at them. He was able to open a book at the Best Seller—20% Off display and still see her in profile as she leafed through magazines ten feet away. When she closed a magazine with finality, he guessed that she was about to leave the store and he closed the book—he had no idea of its title or what it was about—and left the store before she did. That should convince her, if she had become suspicious, that he was not following her.

  In front of the New Age Clothing store, he knelt on one knee as if checking the shoestrings of his Nikes and saw the flash of her legs as she passed by. He remained on his knee as she went beyond the escalator and continued to Marsh’s, disappearing into the doorway. He waited awhile, counting to five hundred slowly, and then made his way into the store, walked warily through Housewares and Home Furnishings. She wasn’t in sight. He checked out Women’s Clothing and Summer Fun and even drifted through Men’s Clothing before going to the down escalator. Halfway down, he spotted her below at the perfume counter, sampling the spray from a blue bottle. As he stepped off the escalator, she had drifted to the counter containing scarves and draped a red scarf across her chest before letting it settle back on the counter like a small collapsing tent.

  Inhaling the remnants of perfume as he went by the counter, he looked for her without trying to look as if he were looking for her. Sighed impatiently at the sudden absurdity of what he was doing. Spying, for crissakes, on a girl he didn’t know. Didn’t see her anywhere—was she hiding behind a display case watching his befuddlement? He felt stupid, realizing the futility of what he had been doing. His legs were restless as he stood there, indecisive, glancing at his watch, a frown on his face, acting as if he were waiting for someone who was late. Where was she? This pointless chase of his. But it wasn’t pointless. He had found out a lot about her. Found out that she was bored and restless and kind of sad, too. She had not smiled at all, had never looked amused or entertained by anything she had encountered. Seemed to be sleepwalking, killing time, hating to go home, maybe, the way he hated to go home.

  He spotted her again as she pushed through a revolving door leading to the outside world. Hurrying, he sidestepped two elderly women, one of them with a cane, as he headed for the door. Pausing at a window next to the door, he saw her standing at the curb beneath the bus stop sign. For the first time, he really looked at her. Her blue plaid skirt fell in pleats and her pale blue sweater was fuzzy. She lifted her face as a gust of wind tousled her hair. Her hair was long enough to touch her shoulders, so black and shining that he thought it might squeak if he grabbed a bunch of it. Her features were delicate: small nose, high cheekbones, lips bare of lipstick. At that moment, she took a deep breath and her breasts rose in the sweater, straining against the fuzzy material. Looking away quickly, he felt dirty, like some kind of pervert. Yet, aroused at the same time. When he looked at her again, the bus was pulling up and she stepped toward it. A moment later, she had boarded the bus, the door closing behind her with a sigh. Watching the bus lurch away, he began to miss her. Which was ridiculous, of course, because he did not even know the girl.

  The next day, she followed the same routine—hospital visit, then the bus to the Mall—and he trailed her from store to store as she drifted again, aimlessly. Because he was able to anticipate her movements, he didn’t stay close to her, although he enjoyed being in her vicinity. Growing careless, he strolled by one of those multiple mirrors in Filene’s and was stunned to see her reflection along with his own. Swiveling away, he almost collided with her, his right hand and her left hand touched briefly as they turned toward each other, so close that he smelled her perfume or cologne, something light and airy and springlike. The scent compounded his confusion and embarrassment. “Sorry” he muttered, aware of her mouth slightly open in surprise, her eyes startlingly blue, the blue of a child’s crayon. Flustered, he stumbled away, cheeks flaming, disgusted with himself, swearing silently, damn it, damn it. Was his cover blown? His face known, his anonymity gone forever? He wondered as he left the store whether he should risk following her again. If he didn’t, how would he ever meet her? The question surprised him. Why should he want to meet her? Shrugging the thought away, he headed for the parking garage, eager to get home, to seek the solace of the bottle.

  Vowing to be extra careful, hoping she would not remember him, he followed her for the rest of the week. He refused to speculate about why he continued to observe her. Did not want to figure out his motives or reasons. All he knew was that she gave a purpose to his afternoons. He was pleased by the sight of her, the way she mewed, her habit of touching her hair lightly now and then, her head tilted slightly.

  On Friday, he knew that he would not see her again until the following Monday and he took more chances, shortening the distances between them. Then drew away, afraid of another encounter. Yet wanting an encounter.

  Standing on the second level, he saw her come out of Miss Emily’s Styles below. From this distance, she seemed forlorn, lonely, abandoned. An immense pity welled in him. I told them she gave me the key, Harry Flowers had said.

  Getting on the escalator, he floated pleasantly downward. He glanced up as he prepared to step off the bottom step, saw the girl across the lobby looking hesitant, as if she were wondering what to do next. More than hesitant, sad.

  That’s when he tripped and fell. Did not really trip. The trick knee that had kept him out of basketball suddenly gave way as he stepped off the escalator, went all hollow on him, and he was propelled forward by the moving step, falling finally as if from a vast height, his nose brushing the tile floor, his elbow singing with pain as it struck the floor. Humiliated as he lay on the floor, wondering if his nose was broken, his arm aching as he raised his fingers to touch his nose—was it broken, bleeding?—he was relieved at the absence of blood. Disgusted, however, he did not raise his head, did not want to look up and see anybody, especially the girl, as he felt a crowd gathering, feet scuffling, heard murmurs and a clear child’s voice saying: He faw down. No blood, nose intact. He opened his eyes and saw the small forest of legs around him and began to protest, as he muttered, “I’m all right, I’m all right, my trick knee,” rising slowly by degrees, his nose numb, checking it with his hand, still no blood, his elbow still ringing with pain. Shamefaced, cheeks pounding, trying to ignore the faces around him, some sympathetic, others amused, old people, young people. He was surprised at the size of the crowd and looked to where he had seen the girl standing. She was gone. He breathed a sigh of thanks. Maybe she had not seen him fall so ingloriously, maybe had turned away before he went crashing to the floor.

  “You okay?” A security guard in cop’s uniform frowned as she regarded him, waving off the small crowd at the same time.

  “Sure,” Buddy said. “My trick knee.” The words echoed in his mind as if he had said them a million times in the last few minutes. Maybe he had. “I’m fine,” he assured the guard, wanting to get away. Walking away, in fact, even as he said the words, but carefully, not wanting to fall down again, second time in three minutes.

  Responding to a sudden urgency for fresh air, grateful that his knee had righted itself and that he was barely limping, he headed for the nearest exit, aware of the eyes of the gathering at the escalator following him.

  The air on the sidewalk was pleasantly bracing and he inhaled sharply, rubbing his elbow as if the pain could be eradicated that way. His nose was still numb but did not seem broken. He touched it tentatively.

  “Does it hurt badly?”

  He turned at the voice and saw the girl standing there, Jane Jerome, frowning, face tender with concern.

  More blushing, more blood bouncing around in his cheeks. “It’s okay,” he said. “My trick knee.” Damn it: my trick knee again. Shame suffused him once more as he realized she had seen him fall down so stupidly, after all.

  “I fell down once, too,” she offered. “My first day at Burnside after we moved there?” The curl of a question mark at the end of the sentence touched her words with beauty. “My heel broke and here I am, in a new school, right, and I start off by falling down in front of everybody….”

  Rubbing his elbow, listening to her voice, looking at the lips speaking those words, Buddy Walker fell instantly and irrevocably in love with Jane Jerome. At exactly 2:46 p.m. on a Friday afternoon in May at the Mall in downtown Wickburg.

  She had had her crushes, her tragic loves, her worshipings from afar, but never anything like this. There had been unattainable Jeremy Madison, who played the lead in the school’s abbreviated version of Grease, and made her feel weak when he passed her in the corridor and sent her heart into scary palpitations when his bare arm brushed her bare arm once in the cafeteria. He was one of the unattainables among many: for instance, the entire Burnside High School football team, with whom she fell impossibly in love one glorious Saturday afternoon as they headed for the huddle, mysterious and glamorous in their helmets, their faces glistening with sweat, a love that lasted no more than the length of the game but inducing in her body small sweet longings and strange intimate warmths. Then Timmy Kearns. Her first and only date. The agony and the ecstasy, like the title of that old movie. Both terrible and beautiful. She had adored him at a distance for weeks and he finally asked her to the movies. Sweet ecstasy, head in a whirl, breathless, could not concentrate on homework, got that awful C in math. Timmy Kearns had turned out to be barely articulate, not shy or bashful but, frankly, kind of stupid, kept scratching one particular spot on his head. Scratched and scratched and scratched. Practically ignored her, too, although they sat together on the bus, stood in line at the movies, sat next to each other in the theater. He never looked her in the eyes. Not even once. He never called her again, either. Which crushed her beyond belief. Not because she had any desire to go out with him again but because not being asked out on a second date was worse than no date at all, as if somehow you had failed miserably. Patti and Leslie sympathized with her—this was before the vandalism had changed everything—but she still felt ashamed, especially when Timmy Kearns who had been shooting her admiring glances for weeks suddenly began to ignore her altogether, even when they once met face-to-face carrying their trays of food in the cafeteria, with practically the entire school watching.

  So this thing—she had not yet given it a name—with Buddy Walker was not like any of the other times she had lost her heart. In fact, she did not feel as though she had lost her heart but had found it at last. As if, until now, she did not know she had a heart, not that kind of heart anyway. It began with empathy—she had shared his embarrassment when he fell down at the bottom of the escalator and saw the stricken look on his face even at that distance. She had left the scene because he looked familiar—she had seen him somewhere before, maybe at Burnside High—and it’s always more embarrassing when you fall or do something like that in front of people you know, rather than strangers.

  Then observing him outside as he rubbed his elbow, looking so dismal, as if he had been abandoned by his family and friends, good-looking but something sad and wistful about him, she had spoken to him spontaneously, surprising herself even as the words came out of her mouth. She had then made up that crazy story about her heel breaking. To make him feel better. Why should she have wanted to make this boy, this stranger, feel better? She did not know but a small curling inside her body responded to him, a leap in her veins when he looked at her, a look on his face that she could not interpret. The nearest she could come to describing that look was this: as if he were listening not only to her voice but to some sweet music coming from somewhere. And the somewhere was her.

  She did not fall in love with him for another twenty minutes—it happened while they were chewing pizza with pepperoni at the Pizza Palace in the Mall—although she did not know it as love until later.

  They became a couple, going steady. Walking along hand in hand. They loved to walk. On the sidewalks of Burnside and Wickburg, along the banks of the Grange River, through the lanes of Jedson Park, but most of all at the Mall. They were conscious of themselves as a couple, existing for themselves alone, wanting to be alone, yet aware of the people around them, wanting to be seen by others, glad to parade their love for all the world to observe.

  She felt a pride of possession when she met fellows and girls she knew and managed to draw him closer to her. Once, they confronted Patti Amarelli and Leslie Cairns coming out of the Poster Store and Jane reveled in their envious glances, their undisguised awe as she and Buddy walked past. She could not keep herself from looking at him, stealing sly glances as they walked along. She loved the way he brushed back an errant lock of hair from his forehead or looked at her suddenly with a surprised expression on his face, as if he had just discovered her by his side and was delighted by the discovery. She could not stop touching him. Brushed against him, ran her hand along his arm, stroked that area at the base of his neck where his hairline stopped.

  He became suddenly fastidious. Getting a haircut was now serious stuff, keeping his eye on the mirror as the barber snipped away, making certain every hair was in place. He had never used cologne, only simple Ivory soap, not even after-shave lotion. Now he used cologne after purchasing a bottle of Subtle at the perfume counter at Filene’s. Sprayed the stuff on his cheeks and neck and arms. Wondering whether he had used too much or too little, he met Addy outside her room. She stopped, sniffed delicately, and shook her head.

  “Buddy,” she said, grinning, “you’ve got a girlfriend.”

  Stunned, he said: “How do you know?”

  “That smell can only mean one thing.” Seeing his frown of embarrassment, she smiled indulgently: “I think it’s great, Buddy. You don’t have to go into details about it. But let me give you a helpful hint …”

  The hint involved the cologne. “Don’t spray the cologne directly on yourself,” she advised. “Spray it into the air and then walk into it.” Which she did as a demonstration. “That way you won’t knock her down with the smell, it will be subtle like its name and creep up on her.”

  Grateful for her advice, he decided to tell her a bit about Jane. Not too much, afraid this rare thing he and Jane shared might be jinxed if he went on at length. Cautiously, he told Addy the bare essentials: her name, how they met. Addy did not push for details, listening attentively, a strange expression on her face, which he later realized was tenderness. “I’m so happy for you, Buddy,” she said, touching his shoulder lightly.

  Maybe Addy and I will become friends, after all, he thought, astonished at what love could do.

  He became aware of the beauties of the world around him. Colors more brilliant, sunsets breathtaking, neon signs dazzling. Laughed easily at jokes, laughed at stuff that was not really that funny, like the stupid jokes Randy Pierce told at lunchtime in the cafeteria. Caught his reflection in a mirror sometimes and saw the idiotic grin on his face and didn’t care.

  Certain nights or afternoons, he and Jane did not see each other. Need to do homework, Jane said. And Buddy found himself doing homework, too. Sometimes they met in the Burnside Public Library and did their homework in the reading room, sitting side by side, and he managed to do the lessons despite the distraction of her presence. He felt older, more responsible, knowing that someday, if he was lucky, he would marry Jane Jerome, become her husband, a father—the prospect enough to take his breath away.

  Jane passed lovely weightless days, floating almost, as if her feet barely touched the earth, capable of drifting off into the sky like a balloon and never be seen again, which would be awful because life on earth was so incredibly sweet. Spring exploded in a cascade of bird songs and flowers and she felt like a flower herself, opening, like the slow-motion flowers in a Disney movie. Ridiculous, of course, but not really. Walking along beside Buddy, she felt like a woman, yet irresistibly girlish at the same time. Wanted to flounce in dresses, feel silk next to her skin, nylon on her legs, liked the sound of her clicking heels on the sidewalk or on the tile floor of the Mall. Delighted with herself, hugged herself a lot. She had a million secret places in her body that had not existed before she met Buddy and wanted him to explore them all, find them all out because she sensed that, in the finding out, there would be some kind of bliss involved. She often found that her eyes were brimming with tears and yet she was not crying. Instead of showers, she took long baths, trailed her fingertips along her flesh, held her breasts in her hands and they seemed to ache.

  They could not get enough of each other, which made it necessary for them to have rules. Unspoken rules but rules all the same, declaring boundaries, how far they could go, by some mutual instinct. How long kisses should be, how far touching and caressing could proceed. Cupping her breast drove him wild, thick juices in his mouth, the threat of a sudden embarrassing eruption. But never both breasts and never inside her sweater. They embraced lovingly in a sweet tumble of bodies. Buddy never pushed beyond those silent limits, although one night he stiffened in the middle of the longest kiss they ever had, their mouths meshed, tongues wrapped around each other, his hand kneading her breast, and he fell away from her, shuddering, then became still, silent. She reached out in the dark—they were in the backseat of his mother’s car—and touched his cheek, felt moisture there, realized that tears had spilled from his eyes. And took him in her arms, tenderly, delicately, loving him for those tears as she had never loved him before.

 

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