happened, it would ruin whatever good thing we had going on. Again we let the wind take over the car. It was soothing, knowing that not only did we not need to speak, but that she could not, in fact, even really hear me if I tried.
We took 54 into Chapel Hill, passing the tennis center to our left as we came to the bottom of the hill. She directed me to Rogerson Drive, a small road of cottages built in the 1940s for GI Bill students. We stopped at a small, yellow house with a red Nissan pickup truck in the driveway. She invited me in to dry off. One wall in her living room featured a series of Polaroids of her face in different expressions, the emotions written onto the white space. JOY (AT CHRISTMAS PRESENT). REGRET (DRUNK EMAIL TO JOEL). PAIN (ACTUAL PHYSICAL PAIN—INGROWN TOENAIL). REALLY FUNNY ( AMERICA’S FUNNIEST HOME VIDEOS ). NOT FUNNY AT ALL (BUT NICE PERSON TOLD THE JOKE—ALLISON). Another had a photo of the same dogwood in different shades of light and weather. In one photo snow hung heavy on its narrow branches, miniature icicles frozen in mid-drip hanging off of buds. In another, a colorful HAPPY BIRTHDAY sign hung draped across the branches. The sun rose through blossoms in one. Another was almost completely dark. Each had the date written on it. The television flickered silent on the evening news. Closed captions ran across the bottom.
She said, “I leave this on for Chewy.”
“You really hard of hearing?” I said, looking for a pet.
“I’m deaf in one ear, part of the way in the other.”
“How’d it happen?”
She shrugged, wiping the dust off the top of the TV with her fingertip. I thought about what the man had said about her being into me.
In the past, very few times in the past, girls had told me that friends of theirs liked me, that someone had a crush, that I should talk to so-and-so more. I know that part of it was self-defense, that I would rather not set myself up for failure, but I always thought, Let them come to me . If they like me, they’ll talk. They never did, though. But this time, even though the words were from the mouth of a violent ex-con mind reader who was surely now running through some field, trailing dollar bills and Funyuns wrappers, fleeing the law and convenience store destruction in his wake, there was something there that I believed. I decided to act, whatever the chance. This one I wouldn’t let get away.
“Take a photo of my teeth,” I said.
“You gonna tell me the truth?”
“About what?”
“Tell me who sent you to talk to me.”
“You’re the one who spoke to me.”
“Was it the Asian guy?”
“You believe that stuff?”
“Or was it the naked fool?”
I put my hands into the air like what she had said was ridiculous.
“That Chewy?” I said.
“Don’t try to change the subject.”
A dog door in the kitchen took up a good third of the regular door itself. The plastic flap was dirty and worn, and the edges of the opening were rough and widened by use. Through the back window I saw a sheepdog standing in the middle of the lawn, growling at a dirty German shepherd.
The girl followed my gaze and said, “Shit.”
“That’s the dog from the highway.”
She opened the door. “Chewy, come here.”
“Hey,” I said, passing the girl and stepping into the lawn. “Hey!”
The German shepherd turned to me, teeth bared, and took a step
back. It was like he had followed me there. Maybe my presence was enough. Animals sometimes responded to me in ways unusual to other humans. I thought it was my height. They must have thought I was a subspecies, an unknown quantity.
“Get!”
But the dog lunged. His lips curled enough that the damp, hidden flesh on their underside popped out, glistening with viscous goo. He snapped, like some lever had been thrown, a mechanical function meant to break and tear. His fans from the pickup truck would have run, screaming in terror. I swung away with the towel that I had been drying myself off with, and
We took 54 into Chapel Hill, passing the tennis center to our left as we came to the bottom of the hill. She directed me to Rogerson Drive, a small road of cottages built in the 1940s for GI Bill students. We stopped at a small, yellow house with a red Nissan pickup truck in the driveway. She invited me in to dry off. One wall in her living room featured a series of Polaroids of her face in different expressions, the emotions written onto the white space. JOY (AT CHRISTMAS PRESENT). REGRET (DRUNK EMAIL TO JOEL). PAIN (ACTUAL PHYSICAL PAIN—INGROWN TOENAIL). REALLY FUNNY ( AMERICA’S FUNNIEST HOME VIDEOS ). NOT FUNNY AT ALL (BUT NICE PERSON TOLD THE JOKE—ALLISON). Another had a photo of the same dogwood in different shades of light and weather. In one photo snow hung heavy on its narrow branches, miniature icicles frozen in mid-drip hanging off of buds. In another, a colorful HAPPY BIRTHDAY sign hung draped across the branches. The sun rose through blossoms in one. Another was almost completely dark. Each had the date written on it. The television flickered silent on the evening news. Closed captions ran across the bottom.
She said, “I leave this on for Chewy.”
“You really hard of hearing?” I said, looking for a pet.
“I’m deaf in one ear, part of the way in the other.”
“How’d it happen?”
She shrugged, wiping the dust off the top of the TV with her fingertip. I thought about what the man had said about her being into me.
In the past, very few times in the past, girls had told me that friends of theirs liked me, that someone had a crush, that I should talk to so-and-so more. I know that part of it was self-defense, that I would rather not set myself up for failure, but I always thought, Let them come to me . If they like me, they’ll talk. They never did, though. But this time, even though the words were from the mouth of a violent ex-con mind reader who was surely now running through some field, trailing dollar bills and Funyuns wrappers, fleeing the law and convenience store destruction in his wake, there was something there that I believed. I decided to act, whatever the chance. This one I wouldn’t let get away.
“Take a photo of my teeth,” I said.
“You gonna tell me the truth?”
“About what?”
“Tell me who sent you to talk to me.”
“You’re the one who spoke to me.”
“Was it the Asian guy?”
“You believe that stuff?”
“Or was it the naked fool?”
I put my hands into the air like what she had said was ridiculous.
“That Chewy?” I said.
“Don’t try to change the subject.”
A dog door in the kitchen took up a good third of the regular door itself. The plastic flap was dirty and worn, and the edges of the opening were rough and widened by use. Through the back window I saw a sheepdog standing in the middle of the lawn, growling at a dirty German shepherd.
The girl followed my gaze and said, “Shit.”
“That’s the dog from the highway.”
She opened the door. “Chewy, come here.”
“Hey,” I said, passing the girl and stepping into the lawn. “Hey!”
The German shepherd turned to me, teeth bared, and took a step
back. It was like he had followed me there. Maybe my presence was enough. Animals sometimes responded to me in ways unusual to other humans. I thought it was my height. They must have thought I was a subspecies, an unknown quantity.
“Get!”
But the dog lunged. His lips curled enough that the damp, hidden flesh on their underside popped out, glistening with viscous goo. He snapped, like some lever had been thrown, a mechanical function meant to break and tear. His fans from the pickup truck would have run, screaming in terror. I swung away with the towel that I had been drying myself off with, and
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