Come Out Tonight 10 страница

“Good deal. ”

“Want to try her now? ”

Brenda glanced at the bright red numbers of the television clock.

8: 22.

“I’d better wait, maybe call her just before we’re ready to leave. She’d kill me if I woke her up. ”

Brenda shut off the television. Then she finished her glass of milk and stood up. Bending over the coffee table, she picked up her plate. It was smeared here and there with jelly, littered with crumbs and the crusts of her toast. “Want my crusts? ” she asked.

“Have they got spit all over them? ”

“They’re all the better that way. ”

Her father laughed.

“I cut them off. I always cut them off. You really pay attention. ”

“You want me to study your eating habits? ”

“Anyway, do you want the crusts or not? ”

“I think I’ll pass. Mom and I are probably going to stop somewhere for a nice breakfast after we drop you off. ”

“Okay. We’re leaving at ten till, right? ”

“Sounds good to me. ”

Nodding, Brenda left the living room. She turned at the stairway and carried her glass and plate down the hallway to the kitchen, where she set them in the sink. She hit them with water for a few seconds, then hurried back down the hallway to the foot of the stairs.

Her mother was on the way down. “Morning, honey, ” Mom said.

“Hi. ” Brenda stepped out of the way, backing toward the front door to wait. She absolutely hated it when people crowded the stairs.

Mom was wearing her fuzzy pink robe and slippers.

“We’re leaving at ten till nine, ” Brenda informed her.

“Fine, ” Mom said.

“Are you going to be ready? ”

“Oh, I can probably manage it. ”

“I don’t want to be late. ”

From around the corner in the living room, Dad called, “When have we ever made you late? ”

“Always a first time! ” Brenda called back.

Mom stepped down off the last stair. “All clear, ” she said.

Brenda smirked at her. “Very funny. ”

As Mom turned away to head for the kitchen, Brenda remembered about Sherry. “Oh, hey, Mom, does Sherry know about the car wash? ”

“I don’t think so. Not unless you mentioned it to her. ”

“I guess I’ll give her a call. ”

“You don’t want to wake her up. ”

“I’ll do it last thing before we leave. ”

“You should’ve told her about it when she was here Sunday. ”

“I would’ve, but we weren’t sure yet when it’d be. We didn’t know till Tuesday. ”

“Well, it couldn’t hurt to give her a call. She’ll probably drop by for a wash. ”

“God knows, ” Dad called, “that Jeep of hers could use one. ”

“Good, Dad, ” Brenda called. “From a guy who gets his car washed once a year. ” Climbing the stairs, she added, “Remember, everyone, ten till nine. ”

In the upstairs bathroom, she used the toilet. Then she washed her face, brushed her teeth and rolled deodorant under her arms.

Finished, she hurried to her bedroom and pulled off her pajamas. She tossed them onto her bed, then stepped over to her dresser and took her bikini out of a drawer. After putting it on, she opened another drawer and looked through a stack of neatly folded T-shirts.

She chose a pink shirt with Piglet on the front. Sherry had given it to her for Christmas a few years ago. It was one of her favorites. She’d worn it so often that it looked more white than pink, and Piglet had almost faded away. He looked ghostly. Eventually, he might vanish entirely.

That’ll be okay, Brenda thought. We’ll still know you’re there.

She pulled the T-shirt over her head. It was limp and didn’t come close to being large enough. The material was so thin that she could almost see through it. There was a hole near the right shoulder.

Looking at the mirror, she smiled at Piglet’s ghost.

Then she hunted for her cut-off blue jeans, found them under a pile of clothes on her desk chair, and put them on. They were loose and faded, but hardly ragged at all. She had a pair of really good cut-offs, tattered and patched, but she couldn’t wear them anymore—couldn’t fit into them.

For footwear, she decided to go with her old white sneakers, no socks.

She put them on, then brushed her hair. There wasn’t much of it to worry about. For most of her life, she’d worn it straight and long, but she’d really liked how Sherry looked with a short, boyish cut, so she’d changed her own style a month ago.

It was sure a lot less bother this way.

She liked the tomboy look of it, too.

The only drawback—it apparently made her look younger.

Bad enough to be sixteen without people mistaking you for a thirteen year old.

But that’s their problem, she thought.

All done, she looked at the clock by her bed.

8: 40.

She really hated to phone Sherry before nine o’clock, but she needed to be at the car wash by t

hen.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she picked up the phone. It had a dial tone, all right.

She tapped in her sister’s number. After three rings, she heard some electronic clicks. Then came Sherry’s voice on the answering machine, “Hello. I’m unable to answer the phone right now. If you’d like for me to get back to you, please leave your name and number after the sound of the beep. ”

A moment later, the beep came.

“Hey, Sher, it’s Brenda. Are you there? Are you up yet? Yoo-hooo! Time to rise and shine! ” She paused, waiting for Sherry to pick up. Then she said, “Okay. Whatever. I just called to tell you we’re having a car wash over at the high school today—today and today only! We’re trying to raise money for a new computer for the journalism class. A very worthy cause, even if I do say so myself. So anyway, we’re doing it in the parking lot from nine till five, so I hope you’ll come over if you feel like it after your night of drunken revelry or whatever. So long. ” She hung up.

Then she grabbed her purse, left her room and trotted downstairs. Nobody else was around. Ready to go, she put on her sunglasses, slipped the purse strap over her shoulder, and leaned back against the front door to wait.

Soon, Dad came down the stairs. “Are you going to call Sherry? ” he asked.

“Already did. I left a message on her machine. ”

Dad frowned slightly. “She didn’t answer? ”

“Would I have left a message on her machine if she’d answered? ”

He gave her a look. “Not necessarily. ”

She shrugged.

“It’s funny that she didn’t pick up, ” he said.

“Maybe she was in the can. ”

“What’s going on? ” Mom asked from the top of the stairs.

“Sherry didn’t answer her phone, ” Dad explained.

“Hmm, ” Mom said. “I can’t imagine her being out this early on a Saturday. ”

Smiling, Brenda said, “You never know, maybe she shacked up with some guy last night. ”

“I doubt that very much, ” Mom said, starting down the stairs.

“You and me both, ” Brenda added. “The Virgin Sherry. ”

“Cut it out, ” Dad said.

“Well, I bet she is. A virgin. ”

“I certainly hope you are, young lady, ” Mom said.

“I’m sixteen. I’d better be. Right, Dad? ”

“Can we not talk about this stuff? ” he suggested, grimacing slightly.

At the bottom of the stairs, Mom said, “Anyway, if she is shacked up with someone, it’s her own business. ”

“She has been going with that guy, ” Brenda said.

“What guy? ” Dad asked, looking surprised.

“You haven’t heard? ”

“Nobody ever tells me anything. ”

“I don’t think she’s terribly serious about him, ” Mom explained.

“You knew about him, too? ”

“Oh, Sherry’s mentioned him a couple of times. ”

“Who is he? ”

“I think he sells used books or something, ” Mom said.

“Out of a van, ” Brenda added.

“What? ”

“He travels to book fairs and stuff. ”

“How come I never heard about any of this? ”

“Maybe you just weren’t listening, ” Mom suggested.

“You’re never listening, Dad. ”

“It only seems that way because I’m so good at tuning out all the crap. ”

“Can we go now? ” Brenda suggested. “I don’t want to be late. ” She opened the front door.

“I’d like to hear more about this guy. ”

Ignoring him, Mom asked, “Did you want to take a towel or something, honey? ”

“Nope. ”

“You’ll probably get wet, ” Dad pointed out.

“Which is why I’m wearing my swimsuit. ”

“Which is why you might want a towel. ”

“I’ll drip dry, ” she said, and stepped outside.

“Sun-screen? ” Mom asked.

“Got it. ”

As they walked toward the driveway, Mom asked, “Do you have a quarter so you can call home in case…? ”

“I’ve got a quarter. ”

“What about some money for lunch? ”

“Got it. ”

“Anything you don’t got? ” Dad asked, coming along behind them after locking the house.

Brenda smirked over her shoulder at him. “Let’s see now, Dad. I don’t got a bellybutton ring, tattoos, a drug habit, a criminal record or a sexually transmitted disease. ”

“For which you have our undying gratitude, ” Dad said.

“You’re welcome. ”

Brenda stepped out of the way and waited while he unlocked the car’s passenger door.

“Why don’t you let your mother sit in the front seat? ” he asked. “You’ll be getting out in five minutes, anyway. ”

“No problem. No problem at all. ”

“I don’t mind the back seat, ” Mom said.

Brenda raised her arms and shook her head. “No, no, it’s all right. You go ahead and sit in front. No problem. ”

When they were all in the car, Dad removed the Club from the steering wheel. He put on his seat belt, started the engine, and said, “So who is this guy? Why is Sherry keeping him such a big secret? ”

“She didn’t keep him a secret from us, ” Brenda said.

“Why hasn’t she brought him by? ”

“I told you, Al, I don’t think she’s very serious about him. ”

“How long has this been going on? ”

“A couple of months, I think. ”

“You know all those Charles Willeford books she gave you for your birthday? ” Brenda asked. “Well, she bought them from him at the Burbank Book Fair. That’s when she met him. ”

“Buying those books for me? ”

“Yeah. ”

“And nobody even tells me. ”

“We’re telling you now, Pops. ”

“What’s his name? How old is he? He isn’t already married, is he? ”

Mom shook her head.

“You don’t know? ”

“I think she mentioned his name once, but…”

“It’s Duane, ” Brenda said. “But I don’t know how old he is or anything. ”

“What’s his last name? ”

“I don’t know, ” Brenda said.

“I don’t either, ” said Mom.

“Is he white? ”

“I don’t know. ”

“Me neither, ” said Mom.

“A name like Duane…”

“Jeez, Dad. ”

“Well…And the fact that she’s keeping him this big, dark secret. What’s she trying to hide? ”

“She’s not trying to hide anything, dear. ”

“Brenda huffed out a laugh. “She’s probably trying to hide from a wildman interrogation by you. ”

“I’m not a wildman. ”

“Yeah, right. ”

“She’ll be coming over tomorrow, ” Mom said. “Why don’t I give her a call? Maybe she’d like to bring Duane with her. ”

“Good idea, ” Dad said. “Excellent idea. I want to meet this guy. ”

“She might not be too happy about the idea of bringing him over, ” Brenda said. “He’s got this terrible skin condition. A rash. It’s all over his body, actually. I guess it’s sort of runny and gross. If you want to know the truth, that’s why she’s been so secretive about him. ”

Mom looked over her shoulder, frowning at Brenda.

“The good news, ” Brenda said, “is that she hasn’t slept with the guy so far. Apparently, this rash is really contagious. She can’t touch him at all, or she’d catch it. ”

Mom said, “I hope you’re making this up, young lady. ”

“Huh-uh. He got the rash from being around all those old books. And the thing is, it’s gotten so bad he can’t even wear clothes anymore. He just hangs around his apartment all day, bare-ass naked, with this slimy, dripping rash all over his body. And Sherry stays there to keep him company. But she has to stand in a corner so she won’t get any of the goo on her. He leaves like snail trails everywhere he goes. And when he sits down…”

“That’ll be enough, Brenda, ” Dad said. “Your mother and I are planning to have breakfast in a few minutes. ”

“Oh, right. Sorry. ”

“Is there something wrong with Duane? ” Mom asked.

“How should I know? I’ve never met the guy. Sherry hasn’t really told me much, either. But I don’t think she’s in love with him. You know? And I’d bet a buck they haven’t done it. I think she’d have to be in love to do something like that. ”

“I sure hope so, ” Mom said.

“Also, I happen to know she’s pretty scared of getting AIDS. ”

“I hope you are, too, young lady. ”

“I always insist on a health certificate before I let a guy bang me. ”

“Brenda! ” Mom blurted.

Brenda laughed.

“You’re a real comedian, ” Dad said.

“I try. ”

“You try too hard sometimes, ” Mom told her.

“Nah. ”

“Do you have a secret boyfriend? ” Dad asked.

“Me? ”

“Yes, you. ”

“Nope. Not that I know of. If I have a secret boyfriend, he’s a secret to me. And I hope he’s unknown to me, because frankly every guy I know is either a jerk or a moron. ”

“That’s my gal, ” Dad said.

“Including you. ”

He let out a wild laugh.

Chapter Thirty

It was a great morning, sunlit and windy and no school.

And no parents.

Pete’s parents were off to spend the weekend playing golf in Palm Springs, so he had the entire house to himself until Sunday night.

Freedom!

Stretched out on his bed, he folded his hands behind his head and smiled. Above him, his window was open. Wind blew in, filling the curtain, lifting it toward the ceiling and letting sunlight slant down on him. The sunlight felt warm. The wind rubbed softly against his body.

Like the caress of a lascivious woman.

That’s pretty good, he thought.

Good. Right. If I want to write garbage.

Still, though, caress and lascivious sure sounded good together. Sibilance.

He decided the combination was worth remembering, so he climbed off his bed and walked o

ver to his desk. From a side drawer, he removed a spiral notebook. On the front cover was written, in bold marking pen, RUMINATIONS AND OTHER CRAP, Vol. 1. He opened it, flipped through a dozen pages until he found an empty one, then picked up a ballpoint and wrote, “The summer breeze was like the caress of a lascivious woman. ”

Caress of a lascivious slut.

That had a lot of sibilance, but he decided not to write it down. No telling who might lay hands on this notebook, someday. His mom or dad, maybe. Especially if he got shot or hit by a car or if he dropped dead of an aneurism or whatever.

Maybe his girlfriend would read the notebooks someday—if he ever had one.

Or his wife.

Or his biographer.

Like that’s ever gonna happen.

You just never know, he told himself. So you’ve gotta make sure you don’t put stuff down that’ll make you look too much like an idiot or a creep.

Screw that, he thought.

He wrote, “Sighing, the lascivious slut caressed her breasts. ”

Too much sibilance.

And come to think of it, lascivious is a lousy word.

He scratched it out. Then he scratched out “the slut” and scribbled “she” above the line.

His sentence now read, “Sighing, she caressed her breasts. ”

Not bad, he thought.

But what if somebody reads it?

He considered scratching out the whole sentence, then decided to leave it.

Nobody’s got any business reading my stuff anyway.

He closed the notebook, returned it to the drawer, then opened the bottom drawer of his dresser. He had about ten swimsuits in there. He took out a pair of old, faded blue trunks, stood up and stepped into them. The trunks hanging low on his hips, he pushed the drawer shut with his foot. Then he left his room.

He walked down the hallway, the Spanish red tiles cool under his bare feet. In the kitchen, he started a pot of coffee.

It would take a few minutes to brew. He spent the time in the bathroom, using the toilet, washing his face, brushing his teeth and spraying his armpits with Right Guard. Then he went out the front door and brought in the LA Times.

The plastic bag enclosing the newspaper was wet from the lawn sprinklers. On his way to the kitchen, he tore it off. He stuffed it into the wastebasket, then tossed the newspaper onto the table.

It flopped open.

He read the headline: KILLER WINDS BLAST SOUTHLAND

Killer winds? Hyperbole, or had a tree fallen on someone? Either way, he didn’t feel like reading about it.

He glanced at a few of the smaller headlines.

School Board…Racial Quotas

Murder Spree…West LA Apartment Complex

New Charges…Clinton…Sex Scandal

“Same old shit, ” he muttered.

Leaving the newspaper on the table, he opened a cupboard and took down his Bigfoot coffee mug. He filled it with coffee. Then he carried it into the living room. His paperback copy of A Moveable Feast was on the lamp table where he’d left it last night. He tucked it under his right arm. The cover felt slick and cool against his skin.

He picked up a red ballpoint pen and put it sideways between his lips.

Then he stepped over to the back door. With his left hand, he unlocked it and rolled it open. Then he skidded the screen door out of his way and stepped onto the patio.

A warm wind blew against him. The sunlit concrete felt warm under his feet.

But the brilliant glare on the pool’s surface made him squint.

Forgot my sunglasses.

Keeping his eyes turned away from the pool, he walked over to the glass-topped table. He set down his coffee mug and book and pen.

The table was in shadow, so he figured he could do without his sunglasses.

He pulled out a chair and sat down with his back to the pool. Then he raised the mug to his lips. Instead of taking a drink, he watched the way the steam swirled and drifted just above the coffee’s dark surface.

How do you describe something like that? he wondered. How do you do it so everybody who reads about it can see the steam, the way it just sort of hovers low over the coffee and you can just barely see it at all, and how the coffee is trembling and shiny, reflecting the sky, and then the way you can feel the heat and moisture of the steam against your upper lip and the bottom of your nose when you go to take a drink?

He took a drink and noticed that he could feel the steam inside his nostrils, too.

The coffee tasted good and hot.

Maybe you can’t write about this stuff and make it completely real.

Hemingway can.

God, Hemingway.

Pete set down his mug, sighed, then picked up A Moveable Feast and opened it to his bookmark and began to read. Soon, he could smell the rain, feel it blowing against his face, see it slanting down through the gray Paris morning, splashing in puddles and bouncing off sidewalks.

God, this guy can write, he thought.

Nobody else can make it this real.

It made Pete wish he were in Paris on such a day, walking through the rain, going into a café to write.

Though this ain’t bad, he thought, looking up from the book and glancing over his shoulder at the pool and the hillside beyond it.

I should be writing, not reading.

But you’ve gotta read, he told himself. Especially great stuff like this. See how it’s done when it’s done right.

He read on.

The reading made him excited and a little sad. He wasn’t sure why, but he thought it had something to do with wanting to be there—in the scene. Not just reading about it, but living it. And knowing that he couldn’t, and feeling the loss.

It happened mostly when he read Hemingway.

He ached to be there. He wished he could be Hemingway in a Paris café, Nick Adams camping by a woodland stream or walking down a railroad track, Robert Jordan with Maria naked in his sleeping bag, Harry Morgan steering his charter boat through the waters off Key West on a quiet, early morning with no sounds other than the putter of his motors and the squeals of the seagulls.

With Hemingway, he wanted to be there so badly that it made him ache. And it also made him ache with a need to write that well, himself.

God, to be able to do that to people!

But he knew it was too much to hope for, and that made him sad, too.

At least I can try, he told himself.

Then he realized that his eyes had been moving over the lines of the book but he’d been daydreaming, not reading.

He picked up his coffee mug.

Holding it close to his face, he couldn’t find a trace of steam anymore. The dark surface of the coffee still trembled and flashed reflections of the sky, but now Pete could see subtle swirls of rainbow colors, as if someone had slipped a dab of gasoline into his coffee. He supposed it was caused by oil from the coffee beans.

He hoped so.

It wasn’t very appetizing to look at. He needed to remember it, though, so he could use it sometime in his writing.

I should put it in the notebook before I forget about it, he thought.

But he didn’t feel like fooling with the notebook again. He wanted to work on his novel.

He sipped the coffee. It had lost most of its heat and didn’t taste so good. He set the mug down on the table.

Maybe I should toss it out and get a refill, he thought. And bring out my book and try to get some writing done.

So he took his mug into the kitchen. He dumped the remains of the coffee down the sink, then left the mug on the counter and hurried to his bedroom.

He found his sunglasses on top of the dresser. He put them on, but the tinted lenses made his room too dark. He took the glasses off and slid one of the stems down the waistband of his trunks.

With the glasses hanging at his side, he stepped over to his desk. The two spiral notebooks containing his novel in progress were hidden under stacks of papers at the bottom of a desk drawer. He

pulled them out, shut the drawer, then took a black ballpoint pen out of the top drawer. He slid the pen under the band of his trunks, next to the stem of his sunglasses. Then he hurried back to the kitchen.

He filled his mug with fresh, hot coffee from the pot. Mug in one hand, notebooks in the other, he hurried outside. As he put them on the table, he felt excitement in the pit of his stomach.

It wasn’t always there when he was ready to start writing, but sometimes it was. Especially if he’d just been reading something really great.

He began to sit down, but stopped when he felt the stiffness of the pen and sunglasses stem inside his trunks. He pulled them out, put on the sunglasses, and dropped onto the lawn chair.

He opened PART 2 and flipped through pages until he came to the end of what he’d written so far. It was two pages into a chapter. He went to the start of the chapter and began to read.

“Who do you think it is? ” Shana asked, a tremor shaking her voice.

Ralph darted his eyes again to the rear-view mirror and squinted into the glare of the headlights of the car behind them.

Pete frowned.

Of the headlights. Of the car.

That didn’t seem too good, having both those of phrases one after another.

He needed to get rid of one.

“Ah! ” he said.

He scratched out the first of the and changed glare to glaring.

…squinted into the glaring headlights of the car behind him.

Not bad, he thought and resumed reading.

“Whoever it is, he’s been on our tail for the past ten miles. I think maybe he’s after us. ”

“Oh God, Ralph. I’m scared. ” With that, Shana reached across through the darkness. Her hand came to rest on Ralph’s knee.

On his knee? Way down there? Why not have her put it on his ankle?

Pete scratched out knee and wrote thigh.

That sounds like a chicken part, he thought. Something you’d pick up at KFC along with your drumstick and wing.

He scratched out thigh and wrote leg.

And heard the doorbell chimes. The sound of them sent a squirm through his stomach.

Somebody’s at the door?

He muttered, “Crap. ”

Why don’t I just not answer it?

The chimes rang again.

Maybe it’s something important, he thought. Maybe it’s a cop. Mom and Dad were in an accident…Maybe the neighborhood’s being evacuated. None of the fires seemed near enough for anything like that, but…

I’d better find out.

Grimacing, he shut his notebook and set down his pen and pushed his chair back.

The chimes rang again and again as he hurried through the house.

It’s either an emergency or somebody’s a real pest.

Stopping at the front door, he leaned forward and looked through the peephole.

The latter.

Chapter Thirty-one

Pete opened the door. “Hey, Jeff, ” he said.

Jeff raised a hand in greeting, lifted his sunglasses so they rested atop his brush cut, and walked in. He was wearing a white T-shirt, faded jeans and cowboy boots. Though he was short and skinny, he walked with a tough-guy swagger.

“Come on in, ” Pete said.

“You alone? ”

“No, I’ve got a hot babe in my bedroom. ”

“You wish. ” He turned his thin, freckled face to Pete. “Did your folks go to Palm Springs like they planned? ”

“Yep. ”

“Cool. Wanta do something? ”

No, Pete thought. I just want to be left alone.

But Jeff was his best friend.

And Pete was Jeff’s only friend.

“I guess we could do something for an hour or two, ” Pete said. “Then I have to work. ”

“On that book you’re writing? ”

“Yeah. ”

“Christ, you gotta do that on Saturdays? ”

“Yeah, I sure do. But it can wait a while. What did you have in mind? ”

“How’s the pool looking? Didn’t get wrecked last night, did it? ”

“I think it’s okay. ”

“Any trees land in it? ”

“Not that I noticed. ”

“Have you looked at it today? ”

“Not closely. ”

“Okay if we use it? ”

“Use it for what? ”

Jeff let out a bray of laughter. “Good one! ”

“Wanta go for a swim? ” Pete asked.

Jeff always wanted to go for a swim unless the weather was terrible. In awful weather, he preferred the hot spa. He lived in an elaborate house just down the road, but it had no pool or spa. Not anymore. They’d been removed a few years ago and replaced with a tennis court.

“Why’d your parents want to do that? ” Pete had once asked.

“Ah, my stupid sister. ”

“What sister? ” Pete had asked, unaware that Jeff had any.

“The one that drowned. You ask me, if they were gonna take out the pool, they should’ve done it before she drowned. How smart is that? Now I’ve got no pool and I hate tennis. Only thing is, I can watch Mom’s friends play. Couple of ’em are pretty decent babes. But shit, if we still had the pool, they’d be frolicking around in their bikinis or something. ”

“I’m sorry about your sister, ” Pete had said.

“Yeah, well…Shit. ” Jeff had shrugged his thin shoulders, tried to smirk, and added, “That’s the way the ball bounces, you know? ”

His attempt to make light of her death with the old, childish saying had brought tears to Pete’s eyes.

From then on, Pete could never hear anyone say, “That’s the way the ball bounces, ” without remembering how Jeff had said it that day about his sister.

And he never again used the adage himself.

“How about it? ” Jeff asked. “Can we go swimming? ”

“Did you bring a suit? ”

“Got it on, ” Jeff said, and patted the hip of his jeans.

Whenever Jeff came over to visit, he always wore his swimsuit underneath his jeans.

“Be prepared, ” Jeff said. “That’s my motto. ”

“I thought your motto was, ‘Kill ’em all and let God sort ’em out. ’”

“That’s my other motto. ”

“Anyway, I guess we can go swimming if you want to. ”

“And then we can, like, lay around and catch some rays for a while, okay? ”

“Sure. ”

Jeff led the way through the house. In back, he set down his sunglasses on the table next to A Moveable Feast. Then he peeled off his T-shirt. “How about that wind last night? ” he asked, hopping on one foot as he struggled to pull off a boot.

“Pretty strong. ”

“Killed like nine people, you hear about that? ”

“Huh-uh. ”

“Yeah. Shit. ” With one boot and sock off, he switched feet and started pulling at his other boot. “Got mashed by trees, most of ’em. But there were a couple of electrocutions, too. Plus a fireman got cooked in a brush fire over in Orange County. Pretty bad shit. ”

“It didn’t seem that bad around here, ” Pete said. “We never even lost our power. ”

“No, but the phones went dead. ”

“They did? ”

“Oh, yeah. ” Barefoot, Jeff pulled down his jeans and stepped out of them. “Phones were dead all night. Some places had their power knocked out, too. You know, like about half the valley was in the dark. ”

“Glad that didn’t happen here. ”

“Yeah. You all alone in the house. That would’ve been the pits, huh? ”

“Yeah. ”

Jeff pulled up his drooping trunks. They were the red, faded ones he always wore. “Maybe you could’ve gotten a story out of it, though. You’re always looking for experiences. That would’ve been a good one, huh? ”

“Would’ve made things interesting. ”

“You could, like, have a killer break into your house. And you can’t call anyone for help ’cause the phones don’t work. And you haven’t got any guns ’cause your parents are a couple of…” Jeff’s eyes widened. “Hey! ” he blurted. “Whoa! Did you hear about those killings last night? ”

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