Thirteen
“Yancey residence.”
“Can I speak to Cary, please?”
“This is Cary.”
“Hi! This is Pete.”
“Who?”
“Pete. Pete Greenwood. The one you gave a ride on your bike. The fish market? Don’t you remember me?”
“Of course I remember you.”
“Well … hi, again! Ah … how’re you doing?”
“Fine.”
“Ah … just thought I’d call and say hello.”
“Okay.”
“So! … Hello.
“Hello.”
“So, ah … Cary! It’s great talking to you. Listen, didn’t you just say ‘Yancey residence’? Isn’t your last name Longstreet?”
“What’d you say your last name was?”
“Greenwood. Green. Wood. Forest, trees, that’s the way you remember it.”
“All right, Pete Green Wood. How’d you get my phone number? I didn’t give it to you.”
“Ah …”
“And something else—how do you know my last name?”
“Would you believe I’m psychic?”
“No.”
“How about—it came to me in a dream.”
“You’re a clown, aren’t you?”
“Actually, I’m a very serious fellow.”
“You don’t sound it. Are you buzzed?”
“Not tonight. I’m giddy, Cary. Can you guess why?”
“Do you drink a lot?”
“Just a little wine sometimes. Why?”
“I don’t like what drinking does to people. It makes them sloppy and disgusting. I used to drink some when I was younger, but no more.”
“Sometimes it’s nice to get away from yourself, to let go.”
“Maybe. I still want to know how you got my phone number.”
“Did you never hear of the great Sherlock Holmes who could re-create entire personalities from the merest details? What if I told you that I am Holmes reincarnated and that by riding the handlebars of your bike, I deduced your name and your phone number?”
“Look, can I have a straight answer?”
“You sound mad.”
“I never get mad.”
“Tell me your secret! I get mad all the time, I just suddenly—pow, I explode. But I’m not violent, don’t worry, all I do is yell and stomp around and then I’m okay.”
“You still haven’t answered my questions.”
“Okay, this is straight. I saw it on your notebook—”
“You snooped.”
“Cary, I just happened to see it. Your notebook was out on the counter—I didn’t try to memorize your phone number, it just stuck in my head. I called you once before about two weeks ago. Your mother answered and said it was too late for you to come to the phone. It was ten o’clock, I didn’t think that was so late.”
“It is here.”
“That’s why I called early this time. Where do you go to school?”
“Jeff High. I’m a junior.”
“A junior! How old are you, Cary?”
“I’ll be seventeen in two months. How old are you?”
“Do I have to answer that?”
“What are you, really young? Twelve or something?”
“Twelve! I’m sixteen.”
“That’s not so bad. Pete, I have to hang up now, my fifteen minutes are up.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s the limit on phone calls in our house.”
“I never heard anything like that. What do they have, a timer on you? How about sixteen minutes? Do they cut the cord if you go over?”
“Sure, and then they lock me in the attic. I really have to hang up now, Pete—”
“Cary, wait. I want to see you again. I’ll come look for you at Jeff—”
“You’ll never find me, Pete, there’s a thousand kids there. ’Bye, Pete, it’s been fun.”
“Cary! Cary Longstreet! Listen, don’t go yet, I have to tell you something … I love you! Did you hear me? I’ll probably never have the nerve to say it again. Cary? … Cary! Oh, well. You’re going to be sorry you didn’t hang on to hear that.”