August
Her thoughts, that Tuesday night as she walks along the
edge of the road, are mainly occupied by the first day of
school tomorrow.
What she'll wear, who she'll have for homeroom, and
whether she'll get third or fourth period lunch, Seniors
always get one or the other of the later lunch periods.
That'll be a nice switch. Last year, she had first period;
who wants sloppy joes or egg salad at 10:20 in the
morning?
The pothole pocked pavement of Cuttington Road shines in
the murky glow of streetlights; the strip Of ground that
borders it is still muddy from this morning's hard rain.
Ma always reminds her to walk in the gutter, not the road,
on her way home from her job at the fast-food place out on
the highway. But she can't walk in the mud; she's wearing
sandals.
And anyway, it's less than half a mile, and there isn't a
lot of traffic on this old, winding back road leading to
their apartment complex at this time of night. A year or
two ago, there wasn't any through traffic at all; the only
thing out here in the woods was Orchard Arms, a cluster of
boxy, stucco, two-story buildings with rectangular wrought-
iron balconies cluttered with potted impatiens, tricycles,
and hibachis.
Then bulldozers rolled in and created a development where
the woods used to be. They call it Orchard Hollow,
probably because of all the apple trees they tore down to
make way for the houses. Now, farther down the road, just
past Orchard Arms, cul de sacs branch off from Cuttington
Road like jeweled fingers on a work-roughened hand.
Two- and three-story houses with two- and three-car
garages sprang up where there used to be only trees and
brambles. In the garages are shiny cars and SUVs; in the
homes are people who complain about the ruts and poor
lighting along the old road that leads to Orchard Hollow.
It's always been bad but nobody other than the apartment
complex's residents ever cared until now. The construction
equipment has torn up the pavement worse than ever, but
they're still building back there.
The new houses have broad decks and brick terraces instead
of wrought-iron balconies. They have real yards with
raised beds of roses, wide gas grills, and elaborate
wooden swing sets. Some of them even have in-ground pools.
On the hottest days of this summer, as she sat out on the
balcony, she could sometimes hear the sound of splashing
and gleeful shouts in the distance.
She often wondered what it would be like to make friends
with one of the girls who ride her bus. Then she might be
invited over to one of their pools to swim.
But so far, that hasn't happened. The girls from the
development stick together, and she, as the only kid her
age living in Orchard Arms, keeps to herself on the bus.
Sometimes she eavesdrops on the other girls' conversations
when they talk about things that interest her. Things like
boys at Woodsbridge High and sales at Abercrombie & Fitch
over at the Galleria. But when they discuss things to
which she can't relate--like curfews and overly strict
fathers and nosy mothers who are always home, always
asking questions--well, then she tunes them out.
She sticks to the very edge of the pavement as she walks,
doing her best to pick her way around the puddles that
fill the potholes. Her toes are getting wet and dirty
anyway.
Tomorrow, she'll have to put on regular shoes again for
the first time in two months, she thinks with a tinge of
regret. Regular shoes and regular clothes. In western New
York, the days of sandals and shorts and tank tops are too
fleeting as it is--you'd think Woodsbridge High would
allow students to wear them through the warm days of early
September, but hope.
What a waste of a pedicure, she thinks, remembering how
painstakingly she polished her toenails pearly pink just
this morning while she was sitting on the balcony watching
the rain.
She hears a car splashing toward her from behind and steps
farther off the road to let it pass.
It doesn't pass.
Gravel crunches beneath the fires as it slows; the
headlights illuminate the road before her, casting an
eerily long, distorted shadow of herself.
She wonders, as she turns toward the blinding lights,
whether it's somebody she knows from Orchard Arms, stop
ping to give her a ride.
Her next thought, a belated thought, is that Ma always
tells her to walk facing traffic, not with it, so that she
can see what's coming toward her.
And her last coherent thought as the car door opens and
she is dragged roughly inside is that she never, ever
would have seen this coming.
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