Chapter 9: A little help, here? Someone? Anyone?

Saturday, July 28, 1984 3:16 PM

I stopped pacing back and forth across my bedroom long enough to look out my window for perhaps the hundredth time in as many minutes. The scene across the street remained unchanged: Mrs. Phelps' Chevrolet was still parked in the Morrisons' driveway, with no sign of Mrs. Phelps, Charlotte, or Mike Miller. I resumed my pacing.

Why would Charlotte bring Mike Miller to visit her grandparents?? ... along with a dozen other similar questions all spun around like a tornado inside my head. My emotional side, which had been getting too much exercise all summer, screamed that a girl like Charlotte would never go for a jerk like Miller. No girl in her right mind would! My logical side reasoned that they had probably been going to the same schools for years, and that she would certainly know him much better than I did. Perhaps she knew something about him that I didn't, and that something would be enough to overcome his apparent intellectual shortcomings?

The debate raged on, interspersed with occasional and increasingly frustrated glances out the window. More than once I wondered why my anger and frustration wasn't tempered by being near my ants, but my focus remained on what was going on across the street. My ankle was starting to get stiff and I would need to sit down soon. I wish I could be a fly on the wall over there, I thought.

A fly on the wall, no ... but an ant on the floor? I looked at the ant farm on my desk, then out the window at the Morrisons' house.

Could I connect with the ants in the garage again and see what was happening in the house? It couldn't hurt to try. Anything was better than just pacing back and forth in my room! I sat on the edge of my bed and once again looked at the ant farm.

"How do I do this, guys?" I asked.

There was no answer.

"Fine, be that way. I'll figure it out myself."

The day before when I had ... whatever you might call what I had done ... I had been asleep. I doubted that I would be able to fall asleep in my agitated state of mind, but I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes anyway. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I reached out with my consciousness and tried to feel the ants on my desk. After a moment my awareness of the room around me became clearer, even with my eyes closed. The awareness grew, and soon I could envision the entire room! It wasn't like seeing with my eyes, but every detail of the room was crystal clear: the drawer in my dresser where I kept my tee-shirts was part way open; my left shoelace was untied, and there was an apple core behind the garbage can under my desk that was starting to get moldy.

So far, so good, I thought. I focused my awareness on the window and beyond. I felt something in the yard and concentrated my attention in that direction. It was an anthill! Not carpenter ants like the ones in the farm, but smaller and a bit less organized. The colony was located mostly under the sidewalk and had several entrances in the yard. I pushed my awareness across the street. The farther away I pushed, the less focused my awareness became. I found another colony of the smaller ants in the Morrisons' yard and used it as sort of an anchor for my consciousness, then pushed again toward the garage. The ants under the workbench seemed to have felt my presence and— well, I can't quite put it into words— they sent their awareness to meet me. Suddenly I had the same full awareness in the Morrisons' garage that I had a few moments before in my bedroom. I had somehow connected my consciousness to theirs!

I spared the briefest of moments basking in the new experience, before directing an ant to cross the garage and crawl under the door. In the kitchen, the Morrisons and their guests were seated at the oval table. Mrs. M, Mrs. Phelps, and Charlotte were on one end while Mr. M and Miller were at the other. They were all engaged in conversations, but despite my hyper awareness I could only hear muffled sounds. Charlotte was showing a handful of Polaroid photos to Mrs. M, who was scowling in the general direction of Miller more than looking at the photos. Miller, meanwhile, seemed to be pantomiming throwing a football with one hand while shoveling Mrs. M's cookies into his mouth with the other. Mr. M didn't seem to mind the lack of manners, but having spent 30 years in the Marines I'm sure he had plenty of experience dealing with guys like Miller.

The conversations continued for a few minutes until Mrs. Phelps, apparently announcing that it was time to go, stood and tapped her watch with an index finger. Charlotte hopped up and gave the Morrisons each a hug. Mr. M offered Miller a handshake, but Miller was too busy looking at Charlotte's backside as she bent over to hug Mrs. M in her wheelchair. Mr. M cleared his throat, finally getting Miller's attention and the handshake.

They all headed for the front door, except Mrs. M who stayed at the kitchen table with a scowl on her face. My seeing-eye ant followed the group out and watched from the doorway as Miller tried to sit in the middle of the back seat. Charlotte giggled as Mrs. Phelps shook a finger at him and shooed him to the side, then they were on their way. I bade my viewing host goodbye with a warning to stay out of sight, then willed my consciousness back to my own body.

Back in my room I opened my eyes. If I had been angry before, now I was furious. Miller was just as big of a jerk while visiting the Morrisons as he had been at Tito's! I stood up and resumed my pacing. Along with my furor over Miller's behavior, I was also stunned at what I had just accomplished. I had sent my consciousness all the way across the street, and exerted some kind of mind control over an ant! On top of all the anger and wonder, I felt a wave of guilt. I had been spying on people I considered my friends. My parents had raised me better than that— but I couldn't help myself. I just had to know what was going on!

The emotions were swirling around like a hurricane in my head. I stopped pacing and sat down at my desk.

"Why do you guys only help when I'm sad?" I asked the ants as they scurried about. "I could use some calming down right now."

Anger protects the colony. There is no need for sad.

"Okay, that sort of makes sense," I mused. Perhaps they equated anger with the conviction required to defend their nest from predators. "But now another question: Why don't you talk more?"

This time my question went unanswered. "Well, if this anger is going to be worth keeping, I guess I should do something with it."

I went downstairs, and wandered aimlessly around the living room, dining room and kitchen for a few minutes looking for something to put my angry energy into. Finding nothing downstairs, I was about to head back up to my room when the garage door caught my eye.

My bike!

It had been in the corner of the garage since the day Pappy and I picked it up from the shop.

Maybe a quick ride around the neighborhood is what this anger needs, I thought.

Moments later I was pedaling up the street with all my might. With every push of the crank, I envisioned the anger flowing out of me, through the bike, and into the ground.

All those ants down there under the street can have it, I thought.

I pictured myself ladling out "Rage Stew" to hordes of ants at some sort of anger soup kitchen. And just like that, I was laughing maniacally at the thought, and all of the anger was gone.

So wit is a foil for anger ... who knew?

This reminded me that I had planned on spending more of the weekend rehearsing for my next encounter with Mike Miller. So for the next two hours, I cruised up and down the streets of Rolling Hills, rehearsing out loud along the way. The more I rode, the better I felt. Gone before long was also the stiffness in my ankle.

Later, I wondered what people thought of the teenager biking around the neighborhood, talking to himself and laughing.

Monday, July 29, 1984 9:30 AM

Monday morning I woke up to find a note from Mom saying that the Morrisons would like me to come over.

I didn't waste any time. I wolfed down a bowl of cereal, dressed in some of my better work clothes and headed across the street.

Mr. M greeted me at the door with a half-hearted smile and invited me in.

"Charlotte came for a visit yesterday," Mrs. M stated as Mr. M brought a plate of cookies and a glass of milk to the table. "She brought along a young man from her school."

"Oh?" I feigned nonchalant ignorance. "Anyone I know?" I felt bad playing silly games with the Morrisons like this, but how could I possibly explain to them what I knew? How I had witnessed a part of the visit through the eyes of an ant while laying in my bed across the street?

"Mike Miller is his name," Mr. M said. "He said the two of you had met at the new pizza place, and that looking forward to continuing a discussion the two of you were having."

"Oh, yes. I remember Mike. We only talked for a few minutes. I'm looking forward to continuing our discussion as well." And that discussion, I thought to myself, Will hopefully take a turn in a very different direction from the last time.

"He plays football," Mr. M continued with a gleam in his eye. "Tight end, just like I did back in high school! And he told me he's considering the Marines after college."

"Well, I didn't like him," Mrs. Morrison spat. "Not one little bit! His manners were atrocious, and the whole time he kept staring at Charlotte ... at her legs and her chest ... like ... like..." She couldn't seem to come up with a comparison. Having seen it myself, though, I knew exactly what she meant.

Like a hungry dog looking at a steak, I thought, but I kept it to myself.

"That's why we asked you over today," Mrs. M. Continued. "We want to know what you think of Mike ... whether or not he's the right sort of boy for Charlotte to be seeing?"

Before I could answer, Mr. M cut in. "He wasn't all that bad, Irma," he placated. "He's just a typical teenager. Right, Champ?"

I took a moment to nibble on a cookie while I contemplated the question. I didn't know a lot about girls, but I watched enough television and movies to know that any time a girl's parents (or grandparents in this case) told a girl to stop seeing someone ... well, for some reason it only made her want to stay with him more. I washed down the cookie with a sip of milk, giving myself an extra moment to formulate my answer. I decided to tell them the truth— but maybe only a part of it.

"I'll be honest," I said. "I really only met him for a few minutes, but Charlotte is a smart girl. If he isn't the right kind of guy for her, she'll figure it out." And, I thought, I'll help open her eyes to that fact.

My answer seemed to satisfy the Morrisons, if for different reasons. I made small talk, mostly asking about Charlotte's trip. When I finished my cookies and milk, I made a show of checking for crumbs on the table and taking the dirty glass and plate to the sink. Mr. M didn't seem to notice, but I caught a gleam in Mrs. M's eye. Before I left, I asked to use the bathroom. I didn't need to, but it gave me a few moments alone to connect with the ant colony in the garage, and send them a feeling of thanks for the help yesterday. I also tried to make them understand that staying in the garage was dangerous, but I didn't know if they would listen or not.

I spent the rest of the day pedaling around the neighborhood on my bike, again practicing my lines as I rode. I was pretty confident that I could put Miller in his place the next time we met, but visions of Charlotte in a cheerleader's outfit kept creeping into my thoughts.

Tuesday, July 30, 1984 9:04 AM

Pappy took me to my final follow-up with the orthopedist. The doc was thrilled again with my progress, saying that he expected me to need the cane for another couple of weeks. I mentioned how much riding my bike helped with the stiffness. Hearing this, the doc asked if he could write about my rapid recovery for some kind of case study, but Pappy told him he would have to talk to my parents first.

Pappy dropped me off at the house, where I was somewhat disappointed not to see the gang waiting for me. Brett had mentioned a few days before that the team would be starting "two-a-days" this week, but I had no idea what that meant. What I did know, was that it would keep both Todd and Miller, along with the rest of the team, away from Tito's for the next couple of weeks. After having spent much of the weekend riding my bike, there was no reason not to take it to Tito's and see if the gang was there. I performed a quick inspection of my bike, checked the air in the tires and put a drop of oil on the chain, then headed up Wendel Road.

Locking my bike to the fairly crowded rack at Tito's a few minutes later, I recognized Brett and Charlie's bikes. David's family was away on vacation, visiting family somewhere in Florida and Eddie was at summer camp with the Boy Scouts. I headed around to the park area, looking for my friends but hoping to see Charlotte as well. I suddenly realized that as much as I had been practicing what to say to Mike Miller the next time I saw him, I hadn't given much thought to what I would say to Charlotte! On the other hand, we had been close friends as far back as I could remember. I shouldn't have any problems holding a conversation.

The Heads had maintained possession of the tables closest to the building, and the jocks and elites kept to themselves on what was now 'their side' of the path. I kept an eye out for Charlotte as I made my way to the woodline, but didn't see her. If she didn't show by noon, I would seek out my not-quite-a-friend Mindy for information. For the moment, however, I was not in a hurry. As I strolled along the path, I also noted the presence of several ant colonies, mostly near the big garbage cans. I wondered if they liked pizza?

Once into un-crowd territory I quickly located Brett and Charlie. They made the appropriate sympathetic comments when I told them about Charlotte bringing Miller to visit the Morrisons, then we settled in to just enjoy the day. Now that I was able to get around on my bike, we started making plans to do some of the things we had talked about— swimming at the lake and possibly that trip to the mall, if my leg was strong enough.

Faith was there, hanging out with the Heads as usual, and I caught her looking my way a couple of times. When I made eye contact, she held my gaze for a few moments with a sly sort of grin before looking away.

The day was hot and humid as always, and over the course of the morning I made several trips up to the pizzeria for Pepsis. By noon, I was hungry and feeling an urgent call to nature. I excused myself from the conversation I was having with several of my fellow nerds comparing the merits of Star Wars versus Star Trek, and headed once again to the pizzeria to use the rest room and get some lunch. I was about to round the corner to the front of the strip mall when a commotion from the Elites' tables caught my attention. I turned to see what was going on just in time to see a copper-haired girl in a yellow sundress approaching an excited mob of other girls. It was Charlotte! I would recognize her auburn locks from a mile away— and she was wearing the same dress from last year's birthday party!

I was torn. I would have loved nothing more than to sprint over to the elite tables and join in the massive group hug, but my body had other needs! I spent a brief moment debating but my body's needs won out over my heart and mind, and I hurried inside to take care of business. Lunch forgotten for the moment, I rushed right back out— and bumped into Faith at the corner.

She was grinning ear to ear, despite the fact that I had just almost knocked her down. "I see you've recovered from your little mishap with the soccer ball," she observed.

"Yeah, no permanent damage," I blurted out. I really just wanted to go talk to Charlotte! Why was Faith always showing up at such inopportune times? I hurriedly thanked her again for her help with the puddle, all the while looking over her shoulder to see where Charlotte was.

"Hey, look at me," she said softly. I realized I shouldn't be so rude. After all, she was the only one who helped that day. I blushed and stammered out an apology.

"It's ok," she stated, putting a hand on my forearm. "Just relax and be yourself. Everything will be just fine." Then she gave my arm a gentle squeeze, stepped around me and went inside.