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 Posted: Sun Feb 28, 2010 2:15 pm
In this world they were just beginning to understand the miracle of living, said the radio. Ray turned the corner into the housing development where Charys lived, slowing dutifully for a stop sign and waiting for a boy in a Transformers shirt chasing a basketball to run across the street; "Blood on the pavement," opined Charys next to him and Ray gave her a look. The Murphys' neighborhood was quiet, suburban, unhip, and Mark Murphy was seldom seen in it. Ray Gordon didn't live here, or even nearby. To hear tell of it, he lived in a one-bedroom further away in the suburbs of Destiny City, in a cheaper area: the Meadowview-Crystal neighborhood was a little too nice for a teacher's salary. Or so the story went. It was hard to say what student had first claimed to know that. For all anyone knew, it was bullshit.
He spoke up again as they pulled onto her street: "I'm not going to dangle a carrot in front of your nose and hope it leads you to Sovereign Heights. I'm not even going to dangle a carrot in front of your nose and hope it leads you to a good college, though if it worked I'd strongly consider it. I'm just suggesting Sovereign Heights," he pulled up next to a street parking space a few houses over from hers, then pushed the car into reverse and started backing in, "because it'd let you start your college career without giving up your friends here, or your dad, or your hobbies, or -- whatever on earth it is that's got you so dead set against going out of out-of-state college, God only knows."
They were parallel parked in a moment. He turned off the ignition. "Burn the letter if you like, Cherry." They were both looking straight ahead, out the windshield. "Your dad home?"
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Posted: Sun Feb 28, 2010 8:34 pm
"Nope," she said, and didn't elaborate. Mark Murphy could have been in Tijuana or the slammer, which were both Schrodinger's cat likelinesses, but in all actuality her father was out at nothing more exciting than a graphics presentation the next city over care of a Comfort Inn -- the pie chart of who cared included neither Charys nor Ray Gordon. "Danke schoen, Mr. G, danke schoen -- thank you for seeing me again."
She opened the door with her finger and thumb, hip-checked it shut after a scramble out. As an afterthought, she tapped on the window until he consented to roll it down -- "You could come in for a Pabst Blue Ribbon." Ray had a Ray expression. "Just messing with you. I don't drink Pabst Blue Ribbon."
"I've taught you better than to drink Pabst Blue Ribbon."
He was reversing out now, glancing over his shoulder into the rearview mirror, already detaching, so she called out: "Hey, you still got the pleasure of my company until I complete all my flying missions. You going to put on Grease, Ray?"
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Posted: Mon Mar 01, 2010 3:29 pm
The song ended, there was some enthused, inaudible commentary from the radio host, and another begun: "True Colors." From her doorway Charys could see Ray pick up his cell phone and start dialing: there were laws against driving and talking on the phone, but he was currently in neutral. He would probably say exactly that to a police officer, too. Apparently some rules were worth breaking in front of kids.
He shifted it into drive just as he started talking, busting his alibi into a couple hundred pieces -- but just as she was about to turn and go inside, he rolled down the window and brought his cell phone down to about shoulder level.
"Schroedinger's musical. You going to go to Sovereign Heights?" He pulled out of the parking space, and she was sure that was the end of the conversation -- but just as he flicked off his turn signal again, and was about to rev the Miata out, he called out, "Memorize your lines, Polonius," tossed her a Navyman's salute, and drove off.
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