Four Years Ago
WE WAITED ON THE FRONT STEPS OF MILLY’S. FROM there we could see the bus and everyone who got on or off. School was ending in a few months, and you said this was the best time to find the new people who’d be working at the reformatory—this was when they started recruiting. Every year at least half of the high school graduates would take the bus up the hill to apply for positions. “We’ll be able to pick the new workers out right away,” you assured me. “They’ll be the ones carrying uniforms instead of wearing them.”
As usual, you were right. About ten people got off the bus at 4:00 p.m., and among them were two girls and four boys, each carrying a stack of clothing. You eyed the new workers as they walked past us in a silent clump. There was no excitement or happy chatter about their jobs like I’d expected. Instead they were morose and silent, as if they’d just been sentenced to serve time at the reformatory instead of work there.
“I feel bad for them,” I whispered to you after they were a few feet away.
“Hush. The plan is the plan.” You tugged on my hand, pulling me to my feet. We followed them for a few moments, and then you pointed to one of the boys. “Him.”
I studied the one you’d marked, trying to see what made him so special. His shoulders slouched and his greasy dark hair was short in the front, but long enough in the back to touch the collar of his wrinkled button-down shirt. He took shuffling little steps like his feet were shackled, and his too-long dress pants were already frayed. Maybe this was what you liked about him, that he looked a little sloppier and more beaten down than the rest of them. Maybe you had some thought of wanting to help him out, give him a new purpose in life. Or maybe you just saw an easy target.
As if feeling the pressure of our eyes on his back, the boy stopped and turned. You smiled at him. It was like having a flashbulb go off in his face; he was left half blind with spots of light dancing in the space between your smiling face and his own. He looked around, stunned, trying to figure out who that smile was for, unable to believe it might’ve been for him. You began to walk toward him with your hips swinging and that smile still there but turned down a few notches from stun to confuse.
The others kept going, not even noticing they’d lost one of their own.
As he watched you coming, his eyes got bigger and bigger while his Adam’s apple bobbed with each gulp of air so that it looked like he was choking on something. When you finally reached him, you placed your arms around his neck like you were hanging a medal on him, and then you pressed your lips to his cheek. As you pulled away, I finally understood why you’d bought that tube of red lipstick instead of your usual shimmery pink lip gloss. Stamped on his cheek, in candy-apple red, was the perfect bow shape of your mouth.
“I’m Piper,” you said, your voice pitched so low that I had to lean in to hear.
“Oh.” He finally smiled back at you, a big, goofy grin. “I think I know you from school maybe?”
I almost laughed at the question. Was this his idea of trying to be cool? Even in a school three times bigger than ours, everyone would know who you were. You weren’t someone who would ever go unnoticed.
“I’m Oswald,” he added. “But my friends call me Ozzy.”
“Well, maybe we should get a little friendlier, so that I can call you Ozzy too.” You laid it on thick, like you were imitating Marilyn Monroe or one of the other glamorous actresses from the old movies we constantly watched. Then you led him away, down one of the dark lanes that broke off from Main Street.
For a second I thought of following, but if you’d wanted me to come along, you would’ve made it clear you were including me. Later that night, though, you climbed into bed beside me and shared all the details. You told me his kisses were sloppy and that he kept asking, “This okay?” No matter how many times you assured him it was just fine. I asked if you thought you’d fall in love with him, and you laughed.
“No, Pollywog,” you said. “This isn’t about love. This is strategy.”