Chapter 3

Okay, if I’ve watched this movie once I’ve watched it a dozen times, so no surprises, okay?

Didn’t take long to get a rise out of Barb, though, in the opening sequence when the older boy’s girlfriend kisses him and says ‘I love you’ and he stutters around it.

“That’s a symptom,” she said. “She has feelings and he’s not ready to return them.”

“They’re both young, Barb.”

“So there’s a certain age where you can start having valid feelings?”

“Certainly not. But I don’t think she analyzed the meaning of what she said.”

“Maybe. I’ll give you that one.”

“Love is very complex. More than one word, actually. Many levels. And there’s a gulf between ‘friend’ and ‘mate’.”

“And ‘lover’?” Eyes twinkled.

“You’re trying to back me into a corner.”

“Nope, but you’re fun to mess with. You get so serious. You’re not, usually.”

“This subject’s a minefield.”

“Okay. I’ll be good. Look, that poor rent-a-cop’s history,” she switched focus to the movie.

I relaxed, watching developing mayhem.

Then, “Why me? I mean, I have eyes, you know. Other than red hair, I got NOTHING! And red hair’s even a turn-off to a lot of people.”

“You’re listening to the wrong people, Barb. Less than one percent of the population has red hair and blue eyes. You might not exactly be unique, but you’re a rare breed.”

Bravely, or maybe it was insanely, I continued on. “When I was your age I probably wasn’t smart enough to get my head turned by your intelligence and sense of humor.”

“I’m the weird girl.”

“Yeah, there’s that,” I sighed wistfully. “And probably the only one in the whole classroom really worth the effort to pursue, despite how much thought I put into chasing the others.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“Nope. Probably shouldn’t say anything at all, but you’re special, and I don’t mean some educator’s category.”

She tilted her head, smiled demurely. “Thank you. I think you mean it.”

“It’s true.” And to myself I wished I was ten years younger.

Barb’s turn:

Saturday night diary:

In discussions with Gramma about stories I like, she says there’s often a point where things make a big change in the story. She calls it a ‘pivotal moment’.

Paul telling me that I’m special is a pivotal moment. Somehow he’s more than just ‘friend’ and ‘tutor’ and I know it but there’re a lot of things I know that I have absolutely no idea of what I should or could do with the knowledge.

It’s just a change. I know it’s a change.

So that’s the big event from this Saturday. We’re getting out of the dead heat of summer and into fall. School keeps the population down during the week but on weekends plenty of people show up. Lots of them are regulars that own or lease the camps here on the beach, so I know a few kids. A lot more bring RV’s and even tent campers. Some of the RV’s plug into rental sites but others just park off the pavement.

Lots of people, including kids my age. I started out the weekend with a girl who’d hung around me on and off during the summer. She was here with her grandparents who owned the cabin, and this time with a couple of cousins. One was a teen boy.

I was introduced. Madelaine – Maddie – was last summer’s friend. The boy was named Ramie. I don’t know if that’s his formal name or a nickname, but he seemed nice enough. Actually a year older than me.

I tend to notice things, like him scanning me up and down like I was being evaluated. Fair enough. I looked him over. Shorts and T-shirt. Taller than me. longish brown hair. Brown eyes. A couple of active zits.

That’s all just looks, though.

“‘Sup?” was the first words out of his mouth. Smile. Lots of teeth. Not bad looking, really.

By the time we’d made it halfway to the beach he was touching my butt. I swept his hand away the first time I determined it was on purpose. The second time, he protested but kept his hands to himself.

Maddie pulled me off to the side. “Girl, Ramie’s HOT. And you ‘n’ him, y’all kinda hook up, you know ... we can go back to the camp. Grandma and Harris’ll be at a party, so we can, you know, if you like privacy...”

I gave her my best stare. “I’m thirteen and I’m a good girl and there’s NO WAY I’m hooking up with Ramie or anybody else!” I turned.

“Barb,” she yelled, “c’mon. Don’t be like that!”

“End of conversation, Maddie!”

“C’mon. It’s no big deal. EVERYBODY’S done it.”

And when I looked at my former friend, I think she looked like somebody who’d ‘done it’. I continued back to the cabins. Thinking along the way, I angled towards Paul’s cabin. I can talk to Paul.

So I talked with Paul. Reluctant Paul, when I started talking about that whole ‘hooking up’ conversation.

“I can’t talk to you about sex, Barb.”

I can do ‘persistent’. We started talking after I threatened to make my own ginger ale. That tells me something.

The talking did good. Conversing with a concerned friend is a good thing. I think I clarified my own thoughts and feelings. Among those clarifications was that my age group did not include ‘peers’ as Gramma had explained ‘peer pressure’.

I know I’m different. Gramma and Grampa know, and they tolerate me, trying to guide and channel me in good paths with love and patience.

Paul, though, he’s different. I think today Paul saw me as something to LIKE instead of something to tolerate.

So here I am on Saturday night writing my thoughts down.

Sunday diary:

I had breakfast with Gramma and Grampa just like always. Sunday is sourdough pancakes day. I wonder what kind of pancakes Paul would make.

After I helped clean up after breakfast I headed out in what Grampa calls the ‘Barbara uniform of the day’ – a loose cotton T-shirt and baggy shorts and cross-trainers. And sports bra. Too many lookers out there this weekend. I don’t have much in the way of breasts but Paul’s comment made me aware that perhaps I should be a bit more careful about what people can see.

Oh. One more step. Brush hair. Again.

Then out the door and down the stair, observing the community waking up from Saturday night’s activities. Lots of trash around that wasn’t here yesterday. I know some people will clean up their lots but much will remain. The local sheriff’s department will bring a crew of trusties to clean the beach and will do the streets as well.

Paul wasn’t out yet. It’s late enough to where I don’t feel wrong with climbing the stairs and knocking on his door. I heard him holler and in a bit he opened it, letting me in.

“Dude’s liable to wander around his house half-dressed, first thing in the morning.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I should’ve called.” I rolled my eyes. “When I get a cellphone for my birthday.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“First week in November. The sixth.”

“I’m putting that in my phone.”

“So I can go back home...”

“You’re here. Stay.”

I giggled. “Stay. Sit. Good puppy!”

He gave a look. “Yes. Good puppy. Don’t pee on the floor. You’ll get treats.”

“Speaking of treats, Gramma made sourdough pancakes for breakfast. Is that one of your yeastie-beastie things too?”

“No, I’ve not tried sourdough. Make bread on the odd occasion, but I just use plain ol’ yeast.”

“You make pancakes?”

“From the mix. When I get in the mood. Why? You hungry?”

“No. Gramma made sourdough pancakes.”

“Oh, can you get a pinch of her starter? We’ll start our own.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have giggled and said, “Awww, that’ll be our first offspring.” He flashed me a look that I will take time to understand, but it wasn’t a negative look. “Our first collaboration.”

“We collaborate?” he questioned.

“Of course we do. I’m a HELP! I’m a stabilizing influence. A friend.”

“You are those,” he said.

“Now, you mentioned Terry Pratchett.”

“A favorite author. I’d say ‘contemporary’ but he passed away almost ten years ago. Prolific. Built a whole universe. Characters from one book thread in and out of others. Lighter reading than Civil War histories.”

“I will look into it. Got any of his books?”

“Whole shelf of paperbacks on the wall in my bedroom. Start with The Colour of Magic. If you like that one, I have the reading order for the rest.”

“There’s a reading order?”

“Forty-one books in the series. You don’t HAVE to read them in order, but I find that his character development is more enjoyable across the series if you do.”

“That’s a lot of books.”

“I know. Lazy summer afternoons. Cold, dreary winter days while the gumbo is simmering ... A wonderful way to pass the time.”

“I can go look at that bookshelf? I mean, it’s your bedroom...”

“It’s a room. Are you afraid that I’ll drug you and chain you to the wall?”

I laughed. “No. The bed.”

“You’re safe. The moon’s in the wrong phase.”

I snickered. “Okay.” First time I ever went into his bedroom. It’s not a big house at all and every room in the place connects to the great room in the core of the place.

I pushed open the partially closed door. Details. Bed not perfectly made, but the covers were pulled up and the pillows, four of them, placed against the headboard. Nightstand with lamp, also a reading lamp attached to the headboard. Uncluttered. The bookshelf was obvious because it was four feet wide and extended to the ceiling.