Could a fight break out between girls at a party? I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t be very ladylike, but I really doubt that Shelley cares at all about that.
Noted: avoid Shelley Norman.
After that, I mostly stand around and watch the boys try to get up the nerve to ask the girls to dance.
Jeffrey Parks is there and gives me a wide berth. Sparrow Andrews, another boy from my class, comes up to me. His first name isn’t Sparrow, of course, it’s David, but Sparrow is a nickname that kind of exactly describes his scrawny build. He comes up to me and, like a little sparrow, hops around in front of me on one foot in the dirt of Martin’s backyard. I’m holding a cola at the time. He hops until he bangs into me, and my cola goes all over my new shirt.
“Gosh, m’awful sorry, Gwennie. Djuwanna dance?”
He helps to mop the drink off my shirt, but somehow I just don’t have the inclination to dance with him after that. I sure hope my mom can wash the mess out. A few girls come up to me and ask where Jez is. It’s a universal truth that my best friend is a lot more popular than me. I shrug, “Barbecue,” I say a few times, as casually as I can. I keep looking around for Martin, but I can’t find him.
The truth is, I find the strangeness of the event truly mesmerizing. I stand off to one side of the yard, a yard that I have intimate knowledge of, by the way. I ran around in the kiddie pool, floundered through the sprinkler, hid in the hedges, played in the garden playhouse, found secret spots in my little kid world, in that backyard. True, I haven’t been here for a while, the trees and bushes are a little bigger maybe, but it is still the backyard of my little kid life. It’s mine in a way that it isn’t anyone else’s.
The fence is covered by pretty lights, and the big tree has a spotlight nailed to it. Martin’s parents set up a picnic table with food and drinks, and there is a portable stereo playing music nearby.
Kids are dancing in the spotlight. It’s a slow dance, and I’m watching and kind of swaying along with the music, when I feel someone behind me.
I turn around and it’s Martin. He smiles his crooked smile and says, “Sorry I didn’t say hi before, Gwennie, my mom made me change my shirt. I spilled cola on it.”
I laugh and tell him “Yeah, me too.”
We both laugh, just like old times.
Then Martin Evells asks me to dance.
Dancing with a boy three inches shorter than you is a little awkward, I have to admit. You really have no choice but to breathe all over his face, and pretty much directly into his nose. You can only hope that your tooth-brushing from several hours before is still holding up.
Still, the niceness is there. Martin is nice. There’s just no other word to describe him. Even all these years later, he still smells like lemons. His mom either really loves lemon-scented laundry detergent, or that’s just Martin’s natural smell.
Either way, it’s a good smell. We dance a little in the spotlight, and I’m pretty sure I see a few girls look angrily in my general direction. Mrs. Evells even pops her head out the back door a few times to watch us. I get the feeling she wants to say something, but she doesn’t.
I don’t care.
I’m Gwennie Golden, I’m a Night Flyer, and I’m dancing with a boy. My favourite boy of all time. Martin Evells.
Ten o’clock rolls around before I even know it.
TWENTY-SIX
I will wish I left five minutes earlier than I did. Because what happens next is a little disturbing. I’m not going to sugarcoat it, though. So here it is:
Martin’s mom comes out of the house at ten o’clock and says okay everyone, time to leave. She makes a special of note of saying “Gwendolyn Golden, it’s time to go,” which seems a little unnecessary. I get it. Party’s over.
We all say thank you and we head toward the front sidewalk to go home.
All except for me, that is, because Martin won’t let me. Once his mom goes back into the house, he sneaks out to the front sidewalk, where I’m aiming to depart, and grabs me. He makes a “shhh” sign with his finger, and we tiptoe back into his yard. It looks desolate and woeful now all the partiers are gone. Dropped napkins and potato chips and half-empty soda cans litter the yard in the dark.
He takes me to the back of the yard, where there’s this little garden playhouse. It’s all white, with cut-out windows and pretend flower boxes and a wraparound porch. It has a tiny polka-dotted red door with a big green handle. It was a lot of fun once, when we were six. No one our age would go near it now, though. Not something that’s so obviously meant for little kids. Which explains why I’m so confused when Martin drags me back there and puts his finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he whispers again.
“What are we doing here?” I whisper back, but he doesn’t answer me. He just creaks open the little polka-dotted door and leads me into the dark interior of the overgrown dollhouse. In the distance, I can hear all the partygoers slowly leave, saying goodbye to each other.
“Shouldn’t you be saying goodbye to everyone?” I ask.
He shakes his head and pushes me inside the playhouse.
“You could fix up the place,” I say, looking around. I’m trying to be funny, but the truth is that the little house and the dirt floor and everyone else leaving in the distance starts to make me feel kind of strange. The little house still smells like wood and mice and old paint, just like it did when I was six. I have a sudden rush of little-kid want. I want a popsicle. I want my dolly. I want to go home and take a nap.
Then it dawns on me. There is something slightly wrong with this scenario. It’s not what I was expecting from Martin Evells. What did he think we were going to do in here? Play house like we did when we were little?
It doesn’t take long for me to get the picture. Clearly Martin does want to play house, but it’s a grown-up version we definitely never played before.
Before I know what’s happening, Martin jumps on me and starts rolling around on top of me in the dirt. He’s trying to kiss me, pulling at my hair and grabbing my green shirt. One of my pearl buttons pops off and rolls away. How much damage can my new shirt take? First spilled cola, now this.
I’m starting to get mad.
Now you might think I’d be afraid, but honestly I’m not. First of all, I think I mentioned I’m a good three inches taller than Martin, and much heavier. He hasn’t had his growth spurt yet, and I’m most of the way through mine. By the time he starts growing and I stop he’ll end up a lot taller than me, but right now, right here in this particular predicament, I definitely have the upper hand.
So I have no choice. I smack that boy hard. I give him a full-barrelled wallop right upside his head, and I make good contact, too.
He grunts in surprise, and says, “Jeez, Gwen, what’s the matter with you?”
I say “What’s the matter with you, Martin? Is this how you treat your guests?”
I get up to leave, and he swears. I push him on his behind and storm out of that playhouse. That’s one childhood sanctuary ruined forever, thank you very much, stupid Martin Evells. I’ll never remember all those innocent afternoons playing in that house the same way ever again.
I stomp off across his backyard. I can hear him picking himself up in the little house and he starts chasing after me across the grass. I pick it up a little and am just about at the back gate. Everyone is gone now, and the house is dark except for the kitchen light, which is on.
As I put my hand on the latch, he grabs my arm. He isn’t too gentle, either.
I snatch my arm back and get ready to plough him another one, even harder this time. I’m