Angry Kid

It’s true, I was an angry kid. I once tried to give my mother the measles. I remember the day clearly, the summer when I was 13 years old. Smallish hacks in the bark of all the trees lining the driveway were what I noticed first. I was on a mission–I found a carrier and was on my way to visit the sick boy. When I first explained the plan to my best friend, Jake, he thought I was kidding.

“Are you serious?” his eyes wide, mouth open.

“I’m very serious,” I said. I lowered to squat next to him.

“Nobody tries to give somebody a sickness,” he said, prying the lid off of a paint can with the blade from his Swiss Army knife. I considered that for a moment silently. I knew I was very angry. The fact is, I couldn’t help but wonder if Sophie and I had infected the baby; we were in the same house, after all, and it was a very contagious disease. The possibility alone ground guilt against jagged rage and tore something dark open in me. I wanted her skin to burn with rashes, her chest to heave and cough, her eyes to feel on fire. I wanted her to catch the measles.

“You know I’m nobody,” I said. He smiled without looking up. Laying the lid aside as though it were a flower, delicate with thumb and forefinger, he lifted the can and spilled thick white paint in a pan. The smell of latex and glue reminded me of my dad. Fat bees hovered around our sweaty heads, hectic in the air.

“You might be the craziest kid I know.” He winked, half smiled.

“I’m three months older than you and I’m mad.” I stood, kicked his foot.

“How do you think you’ll pull this off?” He faced me and made his eyes big. A challenge.

“Easy. I heard about a kid who has it. I found out where he lives. I’ll go there and get some of his germs.”

“Just like that?”

“I’ll figure it out. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“What’ll you do, say ‘can I have some germs, please?’”

“I’ll figure it out.” I gave him my hardest look. He waved his dismissal and picked up the roller propped against the house. He was repainting his parents’ house. Shirtless and barefoot, he shone bronze in the late afternoon sun.

There I was that evening looking at notched trees wondering if he was right, if I really was crazy. I stopped and took a deep breath, looked around. The house loomed immense, silhouetted. A nicely-landscaped yard and a heart-shaped wreath on the front door beckoned. I approached and knocked on the door. An sound exploded from inside and I leapt back. The door flew open and a girl emerged, hair pulled back, strong face, angled like a boy, frowning. She was a young girl but older than me, maybe 16. I was half concealed by a shrub, close to turning and running.

“Who are you? What do you want?” she said, stepping forward to get a better look at me. I stepped away from the shrub and looked at her hard. She met my gaze and held it for a long silent moment before I answered.

“I’m Jane. I live a few blocks from here. I came to see Dave,” I said quickly. My heart was battering against my lungs; I couldn’t decide if it was fear or exhilaration. I began to doubt my plan.

“Dave’s too sick to see anybody right now; he’s got measles,” she said, still glaring directly into my eyes. I smelled something smoldering or melting, like burnt grass.

“What happened?” I asked, looking past her into the house.

“Nothing, er, it blew up; the stove blew up,” she said, turning and gesturing toward the open door. The end of her ponytail was singed and black, still smoking; the smell was coming from her hair.

“Your hair!” I said, pointing to her ponytail. She reached for it, grabbed it, quickly withdrew her hand, turned, and ran.

“Oh my God; I’m on fire!” she screamed while running back into the house. I stood there for a moment in stunned indecision. I followed her in and pulled the door closed behind me. She was in the kitchen with her head in the sink, the faucet on full blast, splashing out onto her shirt, her legs, puddling at her feet on the light blue linoleum. I looked at the stove. A pan sat on a charred black burner, a can of spray grease rolled on the floor beside it. The top of the white stove was charred with brown and black streaks.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and stared at her feet. She was wearing Birkenstock sandals that were now soaked from the faucet runoff. Each slender ankle was adorned with a braided white rope, the fray of the knotted ends sticking up and out on the left one. A tattoo that looked like a slender black vine with thorns snaked up the inside of her leg and disappeared into her shorts. I took my hands from my pockets, rolled down my sleeves, crossed my arms, let them fall.

She turned off the faucet and reached for a towel. It was just out of her reach, a set of yellow dish towels stacked neatly on a shelf. I stepped forward to fetch the towel. She took it from me, her body still bent over the sink. Long muscles in her back showed through the thin white material of her T-shirt; her hair fell forward around her face shiny black, dripping wet, freed from the ponytail. She toweled off her head and stood up to face me. Letting the towel rest on her shoulders, she pushed her wet hair straight back, combing it with her fingers. Her white shirt clung translucent to her body. I stood still, staring. Her stomach and small breasts beneath the wet shirt were riveting. Tan shorts rested low on curved hips. She bent to wipe the puddle on the floor. She looked up at me. I felt like a caught thief. I dropped my eyes immediately to the floor, glanced at her face, her body, back at the floor.

“Maybe you should take a picture,” she said, standing. My ears whirred. Little hands painted murals in my stomach. I stared at the floor. I felt heat rise to my face. She came closer, brought her face near mine. I felt her lips brush my ear. A strain instantly developed in my groin. I couldn’t move; I couldn’t breathe.

“I saw you look,” she whispered. My skin pricked up all over–every attempt at movement was an edgy twitch. She lifted a hand toward me. My whole body jerked. She laughed and stepped back without touching me.

“I’m kidding, Jane,” she said, still laughing. A clump of nerves had congested in my pelvis, a delicate, foreign pain.

“I’m Anna,” she said, extending her hand. I was almost desperate to touch her but didn't. I couldn't move. I heard a noise from another room and looked in that direction. She let her hand drop. Disappointment.

“Why do you want Dave? You his girlfriend or something?” she asked.

“No. I, no…” I had forgotten why I was there. “I just wanted to get his germs,” I blurted.

“Get his germs?” She narrowed her eyes at me, amused.

“Well, yes. I need to get measle germs.” I tried to think of a reason quickly. Nothing came. She was waiting. I could only think to tell the truth.

“I want to give my mom the measles,” I said. She looked at me in silence for a moment, then threw her head back and laughed a hard, genuine laugh. My eyes fell again to her body. I couldn’t stop looking.

“Now that’s one I never heard before. I like it,” she said. She leaned against the counter, ran her fingers through her hair again. It was slicked back and glossy, inky dark.

“You’re mom seriously piss you off?” she asked, totally relaxed. I shifted on my feet, felt a rubber band in my pocket. I pulled it out. I gathered my hair to the back of my head and slipped the rubber band around it. She watched me with that same easy, amused expression. I looked away and noticed again the burnt stovetop.

“What happened with the stove?” I asked.

“Don’t change the subject,” she said.

“She lied.” I said.

“Wow, that’s all? You don’t fuck around, do you?” Her smile widened.

“It’s a long story, really. Actually, I’m not sure it’s such a good idea anymore.” I looked down. All I wanted to do was leave.

“Hell, yes, it’s a great idea! Best idea I’ve heard in a long time,” she said and laughed. I laughed too. That made her laugh harder, so much that she bent forward and held her side. The laughter faded and an awkward silence followed. I heard the birds singing outside, the sound of cars passing by on the street.

“How should we do this?” she asked. I pulled a tissue and a plastic baggy from my pocket and held them up to her.

“Aren’t you going to get sick, too, if you carry around Dave’s germs with you on some tissue?” Her eyes were dark and bright like her hair.

“I already had the measles a few months ago; I can’t catch them again.” I grinned.

“Why didn’t you just give it to your mom then?”

“It was before.”

“Before she lied?”

“Well, she always lies. But, yeah. Before she lied this time.”

“What she lie about?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Got all day.” She crossed her arms, leaned against the burnt stove. I thought about telling her. I pictured spilling it all out to her. She would hug me, maybe lay down on the couch with me and run her fingers through my hair like she did hers. What? No. I couldn’t do it. What was I thinking? I wanted to get what I came for and get out. I shook my head. Laughed at my stupid imaginings.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” I said.

“All right that’s cool.” She approached me and reached for me. I took a step back.

“Can I have the tissue? I’ll go get you some germs,” she said.

“Oh, I should do it; you’ll get sick.” I pulled the tissue out of her reach. She came closer and grabbed it.

“I had the measles, too. I’m in the clear,” she said, still close. Too close. “Thanks for your concern, though,” she said. I stepped away and tripped a little. She laughed and walked out of the room.

“So jumpy,” she said.

I stood there appalled at myself. What the fuck was all that? I wanted to tell somebody, needed to tell somebody. I could tell Jake about the stove exploding and her hair burning. But the rest? I walked out of the kitchen into the front room. It looked like they were getting ready to sell the house and were using this room as a model of what a gaudy living room might look like. Plastic covered all the furniture; all the picture frames were gold or silver and still held the placeholder photos they came with. The wallpaper was gold and silver striped and the carpet a pale brass. A glass coffee table sat in the center of the room with a gold trim and single red rose in a glass vase as a centerpiece. The rose reminded me of Anna. All slender and bright with thorns. How could a girl like that live in a house like this?

“Here’s your contagion,” she said from behind me. I jumped and turned, startled. I hadn't heard her coming.

“Easy there, Jane. It’s just me,” she said, smiling. She had big, white teeth and a smile that pulled her front lip up and under too far, revealing too much gum. The rest of her face, which was well proportioned and pretty despite it's hardness, seemed complemented by it. She looked best with a sly, closed-mouthed smile. As if reading my mind, she closed her mouth. She held the baggy out to me. I took it.

“Thank you,” I said. There was a look that lasted too long. I broke it and walked toward the door.

“Leaving so soon?” she said when I reached the door. I opened it and turned to her. She was leaning in that cool, relaxed way against the entryway to the kitchen, her arms crossed in front of her, her tanned legs crossed at the ankles.

“I better get back.” It was all I could think of to say. I walked out.

“Don’t be a stranger,” I heard her say before the door clicked shut.

I walked back up the driveway, my body ringing with relief, desire. I wondered again about the grooves in the trees, how they were like grooves in my mind, places so familiar yet undefined, disconnected. I felt the urge to turn around and go back in, return her serious gaze. I didn’t know what I would say or do, so I kept walking, somehow let down and satisfied together. I had what I came for, which was a wonder. I never thought about how I would actually obtain his germs once I got there.

I told Anna that I lived a few blocks away, but that was a lie. I actually lived a few miles away and had to take the bus to get there. I didn't even know why I lied. I sat on the bench to wait for the bus and thought about my next move. It’s true; I was an angry kid. I realized that at the time. What I didn’t know is what other people saw when they looked at me. A blond, lanky girl with a ponytail and a hard attitude. A desperate child?

Across the street from the bus stop there was a woman sitting on the street with a blanket around her. It wasn't the typical neighborhood for bums, so I noticed. She looked back at me, unblinking, expressionless. I couldn’t possibly know what she saw.