Is there a right way . . .

 . . . to greet someone the first time you see her after declaring your unrequited love? Act cool in a way that borders hostility? Pretend nothing happened? Both of the above?

“Are you mad at me?” Alana asked while I unrolled my yoga mat.

I wanted to beat her to class that morning. To be positioned on my mat, looking every bit the transcendent yogi far above such earthly matters as making a fool of myself. Unfortunately, it didn’t work that way.

“Why would I be mad at you?” I hated it when people said that, knowing exactly why they were mad at you.

“I mean . . . are you upset with me?”

“No, of course not.”

Penelope still wasn’t there. Neither was Gus.

“Where are the lovebirds?” I asked, lifting my chin towards the empty space by my side, normally occupied by Penelope.

“You don’t know? Gus dumped her over the weekend.”

“What? No, I didn’t hear. I was busy on Sunday.”

As if that had anything to do with why I didn’t hear. I just wanted Alana to know I wasn’t sitting around the house pining away for her.

“I was on the phone with Penelope most of the day. Where were you?”

“Fritzy invited me to a retreat that went on all day.”

In the pre-declaration-of-love world, I avoided talking about Fritzy to Alana. Now it didn’t seem to spark any jealous reaction that I could tell.

“So what happened with Gus and Penelope?” I asked coolly.

“Gus hooked up with some junior girl, Chelsea something.”

“Hooked up?”

“Well, I don’t know if they actually hooked up, but anyway, they’re together, and he dumped Penelope.”

No more “ha ha ha?”

“Why aren’t they here?”

“Penelope called in sick, and Gus is transferring out of yoga.”

“He’s allowed to do that?”

“I guess. As long as he transfers into a comparable class—any other zero period PE.”

I knew I should have said something like “Poor Penelope. Gus is such a dick.” Those kinds of sympathetic statements would have gotten me on Alana’s good side. But all I could think was: Gus Ligety, already on his second relationship before Christmas break, and I still haven’t even kissed a girl. Life is unfair.

“Wow,” I mumbled.

“Anyway, I’m sorry about this past weekend,” she whispered as Ms. Senger took attendance.

I pretended not to hear. Hearing would require a response. A response would require diving into a whole lot of things I didn’t want to talk about anymore.

>>>

“Here,” Alana shoved a wad of bills into my hand. “I hope it’s enough to pay for gas.”

It was passing period, and the money was unexpected. I didn’t care so much about the cash, although I always needed it. What I did care about was what I perceived to be Alana’s self-centeredness. But if I was wrong about the gas money, maybe I was wrong about that too.

“Hudson, could you pick me up after school today?”

I thought about the talk I was supposed to have with Pirkle. I could do it early.

“Where’s Bryce?”

“I don’t want to be dependent on him for rides home anymore.”

“O-kay. Yeah, I guess so. You coming over afterwards?”

“Yes!” she pressed her hands together under her chin and smiled angelically. “Promise you’ll wait for me to walk the dogs. We can do it together.”

“Okay, sounds good.”

“I miss Jennifer. I miss them all!”

“I’m sure they miss you too,” I answered, perhaps not so convincingly. She’d only walked the dogs with me a few times.

“And Hudson, let’s work on our graphic novels together. Maybe we can get some dinner too.”

“Your dad’s not around?”

“He’s traveling this week,” she said.

“Maybe. Let me see how much work I get done before you come over. I’m way behind.”

It was true but I was also still playing it cool. And it was a fact I hadn’t overcome my writer’s block—there wasn’t any graphic novel to work on. I could’ve just been honest, but art was where I stood out for Alana. Head and shoulders above the masses. A possible equivalent to the starting quarterback.

Then, on my way to Pirkle’s I got a text from Alana: I don’t need a ride home anymore. Thanks anyway. Oh, and sorry, but I won’t be able to walk the dogs with you, I’m spending the night at Cherie’s and having dinner there too. See you tomorrow. Love ya! xoxo

Cherie was in our art class, and lately she’d been spending a lot of time at our table, looking over our shoulders and visiting with Alana. What can I say? Not only was I jealous of Bryce, now I was jealous of Cherie too. And disgusted at myself.

Cut your losses and move on, Pirkle had said. Part of learning how to be a man.

How did this magical thing happen where you become a man and learn how to control your feelings instead of letting them control you? When would it happen for me?

I rang Pirkle’s doorbell, hoping to catch him at home while at the same time hoping I wouldn’t. The talk was a monumental task but avoiding it was worse. I was already dreading my nights, worried when I’d be called to handle the next meltdown. Maybe there’d come a night I wouldn’t be able to talk him down—then what? I didn’t want it to be just my problem anymore.

“Hudson,” he said, when he opened the door. “Twice in two days?”

“Could we talk?”

>>>

Once again on his back patio. Once again, sitting on the molded plastic chair. My mouth was so dry it felt like I was coughing up my words.

“What brings you here?” Pirkle asked. “I’m not sure the piddling amount I pay you justifies all these visits.”

I made a mental note of “piddling.” I thought my rates were high, but if he considered them piddling I should probably consider raising them. If I divided my monthly rate by the amount of hours I’d spent at Pirkle’s, I’d have been way better off sticking with dogs.

“I’m not sure how to say this . . .” I began and then stopped. I couldn’t bring myself to make eye contact. I froze. Stage fright of sorts.

“Just say it, son. What’s the problem? You shutting down the business?”

“No, nothing like that. I want to talk to you about what’s been going on at night.”

“At night?”

He was genuinely puzzled; I could see it in his eyes. He looked above my head towards the round window of Scolari’s house. It took all my self-control to resist turning around and doing the same thing myself. The window had become a candle light, and we were the moths, unable to resist its allure. I knew why he looked, but why did I?

“Maybe you know what’s going on, but maybe you don’t,” I mumbled. “It began a while ago when I started getting phone calls from you at night. And I couldn’t make any sense out of what you were saying. Then there’ve been the times when I’ve come over at night. You weren’t exactly yourself.” A feeling of shame washed over me as though I had no right to accuse this imposing man of such lapses.

He looked down at his hands which were folded on the table. I looked at them too. Spotted with age, threaded with ropey veins, disfigured by swollen joints, his hands looked ancient. It was a wonder those same hands once held a weapon that helped win a war. That had been bathed in blood while cradling a dying friend. That had held a woman at a USO dance, twirling her around the dance floor while she fell in love. That had held the hand of a little girl with ringlets in her hair. It seemed impossible.

“Do you remember the burglary?” I asked. He should at least remember it since the two of us had cleaned up the mess during broad daylight. “I’ve been thinking about what happened. I mean, there wasn’t any sign of forced entry, and you didn’t want to call the police.”

He didn’t say anything.

“If you don’t remember all those times I came over at night, I could fill you in on what happened.”

Had I gone too far?

Finally he spoke. “You’re right, Hudson. It’s been too much. This isn’t what you bargained for, nor should you have to deal with it. I’m canceling my subscription effective immediately.”

A wave of relief washed over me. This was what I really wanted, wasn’t it? If I was completely honest with myself. To be free of Mr. Pirkle and the living nightmare that came from our association. But then I felt sick with shame. What was I thinking? That I’d stand up, offer my hand and say, Thank you very much, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you. And then walk out of his life and leave him to . . . leave him to what? I didn’t even know.

“No. Mr. Pirkle, sir. Please. That’s not why I came here today. I don’t want to lose you as a client. I just want to . . . help if I can.”

He looked up at the window again and then down at his carefully folded hands.

“Tell me what you’ve seen, Hudson. When you’ve come over at night. Don’t hold anything back for my sake.”

So, I told him everything. The baseball bat. The underwear. The combat boots. The harsh, out-of-character words. The yelling the neighbors heard. The phone calls. The circular window where he swore he saw his daughter.

“I’m losing my marbles, aren’t I?” he said when I was done. He sounded resigned, rather than sad. “Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I smell it. I feel it. And there I am again.”

“Do you remember any of it? Any of the stuff I just said?”

“Some of what you’ve said sounds familiar. Some of it doesn’t.”

“I’ve done some research online, Mr. Pirkle. And my mother’s a nurse so she’s told me a few things.”

“Your mother?” he said sadly. “She knows about this too?”

“Yes, sir.”

I hoped he wouldn’t ask if I’d told Fritzy, and luckily, he didn’t. But I’d told him the neighbors heard yelling. Maybe he didn’t have to ask, he already knew.

“I’m ashamed of myself, Hudson,” he said. “That it’s come to this.”

“Don’t be ashamed, sir. Maybe it’s just a vitamin deficiency. Maybe there’s some medication that could help. My mom says you should see a doctor.”

“I’m not going to see a doctor,” he brought his closed palm down forcefully on the glass table, rattling our drinks and my nerves. “They’ll lock me up in the loony bin. I’d just as soon die then go into some . . . facility.”

“What if they can cure you?”

“Cure me? There’s no cure for old age, Hudson. And anyway, how do you think I got to be ninety years old? By running to the doctor every time I had a bloody nose? No, it was because I stayed away from doctors for the past fifty years. They have to find something wrong with you, or they go out of business. And if they can’t find something, they invent something.”

The obvious response was the hardest thing I’d ever had to say.

“But there is something wrong with you, Mr. Pirkle . . . sir.”

My goal was to get the name of someone who would help me convince Pirkle to see a doctor. But he didn’t seem to have anyone in his life outside of Mrs. Dickinson and other casual acquaintances from the Senior Center. You’d think if you live for ninety years you’d have children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, neighbors, somebody. But if you have no children, no wife. If you’re an only child like me. Then what? What if you don’t go out anymore to socialize? What if there’s no network of friends?

His daughter was my only hope. I knew she existed. I’d seen her picture, and he’d told me she was grown up, so that meant she might still be alive.

Then where was she?

“When I came back from the war, I wasn’t much good for anything, but there was a gal waiting at home for me, so we got married.”

“Why?”

“What else do you do? You grow up. You get a job. You get married.”

Ugh. Depressing thought. That’s all there is?

“Then of course the children start coming. Back in those days, people didn’t sit around and plan families. We did what nature intended us to do.”

Was it really that bad? No joy in any of it?

“You have to understand, I was numb when I came home. My feelings seemed to go through a strainer that filtered out all the good stuff other people felt. What came out the other end didn’t amount to much.”

What about his wife? Did she know he was suffering?

“My wife knew something was wrong. She cried for me every night. She cried, but I couldn’t even cry for myself. I couldn’t make her feel better, and I couldn’t make myself feel better either.”

And how did it end?

“I tried to find the humanity in my enemy in order to move on. But when I couldn’t find it in the enemy, I started to doubt it in myself. And once I knew there was no humanity in me, I ceased to be of any use to my family. After that, it was easy to cut them loose . . . my wife and daughter. They needed to get on with their lives, and they weren’t going to do that with me hanging around. I sent money and made calls from time to time, but when my wife remarried she didn’t want anything from me anymore. She broke off all contact, and I’m ashamed to say I was relieved.”

And there was never another chance at love?

“Don’t get me wrong, I kept the company of women after my divorce. I wasn’t dead below the waist, if you get my meaning. I was just dead above it.”

His daughter? No reconciliation?

“Maybe my daughter knew about me, and maybe she didn’t. But another man raised her. Provided for her and loved her. Bandaged up her scraped knees and eventually gave her away in marriage. Who was I to get in his way?”

So I was alone. If someone was going to get help for Mr. Pirkle, it was going to be me. But I had support. I had friends. I had Mom and my aunt, uncle, cousins, and grandparents. Even Mrs. Dickinson would help if I asked her, which of course I couldn’t because of privacy issues. But in the end it would be up to me, and I knew I wouldn’t abandon him.

“You know, Hudson. The last time I saw my daughter’s pretty little face was the day I drove away from the house after my wife and I had our final words. Something made me stop and turn around to take a last look. There was a round window in the front of our house and Maggie would stand up on a little wooden box and peer through the window when it was getting close to time for me to come home from work. Then the minute she saw my car turning onto that country lane, stirring up a cloud of dust behind me, she’d run outside and wait ‘til I drove up and got out. That day . . . the day I left . . . I turned around, and there she was. Looking right through the window. That was the last time I saw her.”

“Maybe that’s why you think you see the face of your daughter at night. The round window, just like the one in your old house. You once told me you thought you were in your old house. It’s probably a repressed memory or something.”

“Or it’s just a girl who lives in that house, more likely,” Pirkle chuckled, and I was slightly annoyed he brushed me off like that.

“There isn’t a girl who lives in that house. I know the guy who lives there, and he’s a piano teacher named Mr. Scolari. He’s single and doesn’t have any kids. He lives alone like you.” I tried to deliver this news calmly, keeping any emotion out of my voice. I knew I wasn’t succeeding. I wondered why, Pirkle and Scolari being the backyard neighbors they were, had never met or conversed.

Pirkle glanced up at the window behind me. He’d been looking there frequently during our conversation but I was determined not to turn around. I didn’t want to feed into his fantasy or hallucination or whatever it was.

“Hudson,” he said without shifting his gaze from the window. “She was there the whole time you were talking. You missed her.”

I felt a flash of anger. Wasn’t I the one putting myself out there for him? And if I was, didn’t he owe me some respect? He could at least pretend to play along. Maybe I should have told him how close the neighbors came to calling the cops. How close he was to being escorted to the nearest mental health facility in the middle of the night. And why me? I was just the guy who’d come up with an easy way to make a few extra bucks. I hadn’t signed up for this.

“I have an idea,” I said as calmly as I could. “Come with me to Mr. Scolari’s house. Take a look around. See for yourself there’s no girl in the window.”

“And say what? Good afternoon, Mr. Scolari. Mind if I take my batty old friend on a tour of your home? He’s been spying on you and wants to see your little girl. No thank you, Hudson. Appreciate it if none of this goes any farther. I know your mother’s involved now, but let’s keep it at that. Next thing you know I’ll be arrested as a peeping Tom, or worse.”

“What if I go over there alone, and I won’t tell him why I’m there. I’ll make an excuse to go upstairs, and I’ll call you while I’m looking out the window. Would you believe me then?”

“I think I’d believe just about anything you told me, son, unless I thought you didn’t know any better. I know you’re a man of your word.”

“If I do that. And if I can prove to you there’s no girl in the window . . . would you agree to see a doctor?”

“I’d give it careful consideration. I suppose I’d have to, if that was the case.”

>>>

By the time I left Pirkle’s house, Fritzy was already home from school. An older model orange BMW was pulling out of her driveway. Behind the wheel, a tall, blond guy. His massive square head nearly touched the interior ceiling. His shoulder was so broad it half stuck out of the open window. I stood on Pirkle’s side of the street until he drove off.

“What’re you waiting for?” Fritzy called from across the street. “Come on over!”

“Who was that?” I inclined my head towards the vanishing Beemer.

“Friend of mine.”

Was it my imagination, or were her cheeks glowing? Were her eyes sparkling?

“He looks kind of . . .”

“Kind of what? Jockish? Like me? Say it, Wheeler.”

“Nothing. Have you ever mentioned him before?”

“Probably not. You never ask about my personal life. We’re always too busy talking about yours.”

A car pulled into the driveway. Fritzy’s mom with the giant child in tow.

“Hi, Frankie. Hi, Mrs. Fritz.”

“Hello, Hudson,” her mother sung out. An expensive looking messenger bag was slung across her shoulder. She wore a long-sleeved cobalt-blue blouse and a tight gray wool skirt. Her black heels added an extra three or four inches to her already awesome height. Her hair was cut straight across and barely brushed her shoulders. It was strong, shiny hair like her daughter’s. Fritzy looked like her mom but had her dad’s direct personality. And jawline.

Frankie leaned over to retrieve his backpack and grimaced at me, although I knew it was just his version of a smile. He didn’t talk a lot. He headed straight for the door and after a few more words and a peck on her daughter’s cheek, Mrs. Fritz followed him in.

“How was school today?” I asked.

I picked up the basketball and passed it to Fritzy. Ball play was almost becoming second nature to me.

“As good as can be expected.” She took a shot and swished it. “Why are you here?” She passed the ball back to me.

“I had the talk with Pirkle.”

I dribbled standing in place, first one hand three times, then the other hand three times. She tapped it away from me and took another shot. Made it again.

“And?”

“And it went better than I thought. But worse than I hoped.” I got the rebound and dribbled again. Three with one hand. Three with the other. A form of ball meditation.

“What does that mean exactly? Can you do something with the ball please? Take a shot.”

“It means I need to ask you for a favor.”

I took my shot and banked it in. I sat down on the driveway and held the ball between my ankles.

“Could we go over to Scolari’s house sometime soon?” I asked. “You’d have to come with me. And maybe keep him busy while I run upstairs and call Pirkle.”

“The girl in the window?”

Fritzy loved a good mystery, and I could tell she was hooked. She sat down next to me.

“Yup. I have a deal with him . . . or at least I hope I do. If I can prove there’s no girl in the window, he’ll go see a doctor and tell them what’s been going on.”

“He actually said that, or that’s what you’re hoping?”

“He said he’d think about it, which is a big step forward.”

“Why don’t we just tell Scolari the truth?”

“Pirkle would have my ass. He’d be upset if he even knew I’d told you everything.”

“Does he think I’m deaf and can’t hear what goes on at night?”

“We can’t tell Scolari, okay? No matter whether you think it’s right or wrong, that’s just the way it has to be.”

“Why’s it so important? That girl in the window stuff?”

“Because he thinks he’s normal . . . old age changes he can handle on his own. But the girl in the window, that’s like seeing something that isn’t really there. Crazy time. Today he saw her in the middle of the day. Usually it happens at night so I think he’s getting worse.”

“I don’t see why it’d be a problem to go to Scolari’s house. All we have to do is think of a reason to be there. When do you wanna go?”

“The sooner the better. Today. Right now.”

“My brother has a lesson in an hour. Scolari might be home now. Let’s go see.”

>>>

In the time it took us to walk to Scolari’s house I came up with five different excuses for knocking on his door, four of which Fritzy rejected. The surviving excuse was a bad one, but it would have to do.

“Let’s rehearse it one more time,” I said. “We knock on the door. You do the talking. You tell him we were just taking a walk and wondered if he had a beginner’s piano book I could borrow. Then I ask if I could use the bathroom and you ask for a glass of water while I run upstairs and call Pirkle from the window. Got it?”

“This is so lame, Wheeler. He’s going to think we’re crazy.”

“Just please talk to him like you really mean it. If you come off like we’re telling the truth, then he’ll believe it. I promise I won’t ask you to do anything like this again.”

“It’s kind of like this show I saw once where . . .”

“Will you do it?”

She picked up a pebble and threw it across the driveway.

“Okay, but only because we’re business partners.”

“Friends,” I corrected her.

“Wheeler?”

“What?”

“You’ve got some daredevil in you. Who would’ve thought?”

>>>

“Lauren.” Scolari seemed surprised and slightly flustered at the sight of us on his doorstep.

I could never get used to the idea that Fritzy possessed an actual real girl’s name.

“Hi, Mr. Scolari,” she blurted out in a most unconvincing monotone. “We just came by to get a book for Wheeler.”

He stepped onto the front doorstep, allowing the door to swing shut behind him.

“What kind of book?”

“I was wondering if I could borrow a beginner’s piano book,” I picked up the slack. Acting wasn’t my specialty but anything was better than Fritzy’s pathetic attempt. “To kind of study for a few weeks.”

“Have you gotten a piano since we last talked, Hudson?”

“No, but I’m seriously considering it.” I couldn’t imagine myself sitting side by side with this guy for the hundreds of hours it would probably take me to learn even the simplest of tunes.

“Could I have a glass of water?” Fritzy sputtered.

“We’ve been walking,” I said. “It’s pretty hot today.”

“For December, I suppose.” The tips of his eyebrows seemed to reach for each other just above his nose.

“And Wheeler—I mean Hudson—was wondering if he could use your bathroom.”

I was ready to kill her for her appalling lack of acting skills and timing. But Fritzy was an open book which was part of her charm. What you saw was exactly what you got, and would I have liked her as much if she’d been a talented liar?

“No, I’m fine. I don’t have to go.” My face flushed hot with embarrassment. Something about him made me not want to share any information about my bodily functions. He was so neat. So self-contained. So distant. I didn’t believe he would ever use someone else’s bathroom or want someone to use his.

“But I really am thirsty,” Fritzy said.

“I tell you what. I’m pretty busy, kids. I have a few things I need to take care of before heading over to your house, Lauren. I’ll bring some books along for Hudson and leave them with you.”

He completely ignored the part about Fritzy being thirsty.

“Okay, we’ll see you, Mr. Scolari,” she said. “Thanks for letting us stop by,” she added.

Our first attempt at detective work was a disaster, in spite of all the crime shows Fritzy watched. That should have been a warning we paid attention to.

“Okay, that just happened,” I said once we were safely out of earshot.

“Or didn’t. What the hell, Wheeler? No, I don’t really have to go to the bathroom.” Her high-pitched imitation of my voice was depressing.

“I hope you’re not planning to audition for the school play. Come on! A little inflection in your voice goes a long way. I mean . . . you did a better job of imitating me just now then you did acting like yourself. Who were you back there?”

“Oh, shut it,” she snapped back. “Now what are we going to do?”

“I’m going to have to think of something else. I can’t go back and tell Pirkle, oh by the way, the guy who lives in the house wouldn’t let us in. Then he’d really be suspicious.”

“It would totally fuel his paranoia. That’s what he has, right?”

“What do you mean, that’s what he has?”

“He has paranoia, right?”

“No, dementia.”

“Oh well, same thing.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Enough with your nitpicking, Wheeler. Get busy and think of plan B. And when you do, let me know what my part is.”

It was discouraging. I was so anxious to pull it off and get the whole mess behind me, I’d rushed into it without thinking it through. It wasn’t Fritzy’s fault we failed, it was mine.

“I’m sorry I got mad at you,” I said. “It was a bad plan, but I’ll think of something else. The important thing is to get Pirkle to a doctor.”

“You’re right about that.”

“But Fritzy? Was it just me or do you think he acted kind of weird? I mean, why wouldn’t he let us in. Frankie’s his star pupil.”

Fritzy appeared to ponder this for a few seconds. “My guess,” she said. “He was entertaining. You know.” She jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow.

“Ouch!” I pushed back. “No, I don’t know. I’m just saying, he strikes me as odd, that’s all.”

“You have a feeling?” Her eyes lit up.

“Maybe . . . I can’t put my finger on it exactly.”

“Or are you just getting paranoid like Pirkle. You’d better be sure when you say something like that, Wheeler. Some people might say you were a little odd yourself.”

“Well, you’re definitely odd,” I said. Another elbow jab.

We’d walked back to Fritzy’s by then. My car was parked across the street at the curb in front of Pirkle’s house. I automatically looked at his kitchen window to see if he was watching but he wasn’t there. I eyed the distance between where I was standing and my car to calculate the number of seconds it would take me to reach it at a full run, climb in, and shut the door behind me.

“Oh, and Fritzy?”

“Yeah?”

“Your boyfriend looks like an orangutan.”

She got me square in between the shoulder blades with the basketball before I ever made it to the car.

>>>

Plan B. What should that look like? Here’s what I did know:

1. Pirkle was getting worse

2. Either my mom or Fritzy’s dad would step in if I didn’t take care of it

3. Pirkle was still a man who deserved to live life on his own terms.

At home, Buster was waiting for me on the other side of the sliding door which opened onto my backyard. Since the glass was smeared with his nose prints, he’d possibly been there the whole day. He stood up on hind legs, scratching wildly at the glass that separated us, his one good eye sparkling with joy at the sight of me.

“What the hell, Buster?” I opened the door and he darted inside, looking around for the nearest chew object with which to relieve his frustration.

I checked the loose board separating his yard from mine to discover he’d finally figured out how to manipulate it on his own.

Back inside, he was chewing on one of my shoes.

“Okay, Buster. Let’s get the gang, and you can take your walk.”

He looked up at me sullenly when I ripped the shoe from his mouth.

The doorbell rang.

“Hey,” Bryce said just as casually as if we were finishing up a conversation begun only minutes earlier. “Alana here?”

Buster squeezed through my ankles to get a better look at this ringer-of-doorbells.

“Nope.”

I knew where Alana was. Knew she’d gone home with Cherie and was staying over that night. But was it my job to make Bryce’s life easier by keeping tabs on his girlfriend? I didn’t think so.

“Funny dog,” he chuckled, looking down on Buster. “What happened to his eye?”

“He banged his head on a table, and it popped out,” I said.

With his one eye fixated on Bryce, Buster wagged his scrawny tail furiously, irrationally disappointing me. Bryce leaned over to scratch him behind the ear.

“Poor little guy,” he said. “Mind if I come in for a glass of water?”

I’d used the glass of water ploy only an hour earlier with Mr. Scolari, so I wasn’t completely falling for it.

“Sure.”

He followed me into the kitchen where I handed him a bottled water and waited for him to leave. But he was in no hurry. He emptied the contents in about four or five big gulps, all the while looking around.

“So, this is where you live,” he remarked when he was done, just as though something historical had once happened in that kitchen.

“Yup. This is where I live.”

Why wasn’t he leaving?

He stared at the note on the refrigerator, pronouncing a sort of hmph after a few minutes, then turned his attention to the family room (which you could see from the kitchen) where the TV and video games where hooked up.

“Wanna play?” he motioned to the video game controllers.

“I can’t right now,” I said. “Gotta take the dogs for a walk before their owners get home.”

“Oh, right. The dogs.”

He walked into the family room. Buster and I followed him there. He looked out into the yard through the sliding glass door.

“How’s art?” he asked without turning.

“Fine.”

“Alana says you’re really talented. She’s always talking about that.”

He strolled back to the kitchen with Buster and me still trailing behind him.

“She’s exaggerating,” I said to his back. “I’m not that good.”

“No really, you are. I’ve seen some of the stuff you’ve done. Alana’s got a few of your pieces hanging on her bedroom wall.”

Insert knife and turn. I still hadn’t seen the inside of Alana’s bedroom.

“Well, thanks.”

What was that expression about waiting for the other shoe to drop? Because it sure as hell felt like something had already dropped.

“Think I could have another bottle of water to take with me? I’m not going home for a while.”

“No problem,” I said and handed him another one.

Go. Leave. Get out. I didn’t want to feel guilty about being in love with his girlfriend and I didn’t want to establish any human connection with him either.

“You’re not lying to me are you?” The smirk on his face was both arrogant and anxious. It surprised me I might actually be able to provoke some anxiety in this alpha male.

“Lying?” Were we still having a friendly talk or had we just completed a conversational U-turn? “About what?”

“Is Alana really here?” he asked.

“Of course not.” I was dumbfounded. “Why would I lie about that?”

Here was my second chance to tell him where Alana was, but I stubbornly refused.

“Mind if I take a look around?”

“You’re being ridiculous,” I said. But I couldn’t resist the idea of watching Bryce act like an idiot. “Go ahead if you want.”

He stared at me for what seemed like a minute, as though allowing his truth-o-meter to get an accurate reading. Then he dropped his eyes to Buster who was busily adoring him. He looked back at me.

“Are you trying to steal Alana from me?” he asked. “Don’t bother, because you can’t, and you might make a fool out of yourself in the process.”

He was right about that.

“Look, why don’t you just go and find Alana because she’s not here. I’m not trying to steal her away from you, and by the way you can’t steal people. They do whatever they want.”

There was the anxious and arrogant smirk again.

“I’ll see you around,” he said. “Thanks for the water.”

He bent over to scratch Buster behind the ear and then headed out the door.

>>>

I couldn’t stop thinking about Bryce’s visit but didn’t mention it to Alana the next day. The thought of the two of us fighting over her like dogs wasn’t an image I wanted implanted in her brain.

“I heard Bryce came to your house looking for me yesterday,” she whispered in between yoga poses.

Penelope turned her head in our direction so as not to miss a word. With Gus gone, Penelope paid a lot of attention to me, as if I had the power to deliver Gus back to her. The thought occurred to me she might even want to use me for some revenge sex which I wasn’t totally opposed to. I did feel sorry for her. Even her ha ha’s lacked real enthusiasm. Nothing was “the cutest thing ever” anymore, and she no longer cared if you could “believe it.” And I actually missed Gus. I’d become the last guy standing. In yoga, at least.

“Yeah,” I wondered how much she knew. “Did he ever find you?”

“We got together last night.”

“Oh, I thought you were staying with Cherie.” I prickled with irritation.

“I was but . . .” she trailed off. “Anyway, thanks for not saying where I was because I might not have wanted to see him.”

Did she think this was all one big conspiracy? Me and her scheming together to manipulate Bryce into loving her the way she wanted to be loved?

“You’re welcome, I guess.”

“I don’t need a ride home today,” she said.

“I didn’t offer one.”

I was right on the cusp of where love turns to hate.

>>>

Fritzy called after school.

“So, what’s plan B?”

“I haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Well, you’d better. Pirkle was out in his front yard last night in just his tighty-whities and boots. He was carrying a shovel over his shoulder.”

I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I was going to, but he went inside. I didn’t want to bother you unless I had to.”

“Shit.”

“When are you going to come over and get your piano books? Scolari left a stack of them for you.”

The piano books. My failed plan A. The sick feeling turned into a cold, hard lump.

“I guess I can come a little later.”

“Wear your workout clothes. We can shoot some hoops.”

>>>

I walked into Fritzy’s house and dumped my keys in the brass metal bowl kept on the entry table just for that purpose.

“One sec while I get my shoes on,” she said. I followed her into the bedroom.

Every square inch of wall space in her bedroom was taken up by posters of glistening bodies of athletes in motion; musculature displayed to prime advantage.

“Jesus, Fritzy. Your bedroom’s like a muscle shrine.”

“You’re getting there.” She slipped a shoe on and drew the laces tight. “Slowly but surely.”

“So anyway . . .” I sat on the thick, spongy carpet, my back to the wall.

“What?”

“I’m not sure I’m allowed to talk about myself anymore since you said that’s all we do.”

“Go ahead, Wheeler,” she sighed. “What’s going on with Love now?”

“Yesterday Bryce came over looking for her. He thought she was at my house hiding from him.”

Fritzy stopped mid-shoe and looked up at me with disbelief.

“No way!”

“And he wanted to look around my house to make sure she wasn’t there. I told him to go for it, but he must have realized how stupid that was, so he left. But not before telling me I’d better not try to steal her away from him.”

Fritzy pulled on her other shoe and yanked the laces upward before tying and double tying them.

“That’s what you’re trying to do, isn’t it? Steal her away from him.”

“No. I mean . . . of course I’d love it if she left him, but it’s so demeaning to say that. Like she’s a piece of property he owns, and I can somehow . . . take her away from him.”

“You would if you could.”

She sat forward on the edge of her bed and directed the Fritzy glare right at me. I consciously prevented myself from sliding any further down the wall.

“Anyway,” she stood up as our signal to leave, “I don’t know what you see in that girl, but you should have fought him even if you got your ass handed to you.”

I stood up too.

“Fought him? Alana abhors violence. She even thinks sports are too violent.”

“What the hell does ‘abhor’ mean?”

“She hates it.”

“Oh. Well you should have at least punched him.”

With her hands on her hips she looked like a warrior princess preparing for battle.

“Fritzy, you have many fine qualities, but common sense isn’t always among them.”

“Look who’s talking, Mr. Smarty Pants.”

“Anyway, you don’t even know Alana.”

“Thank God for that,” she said. “C’mon let’s go.”