Rory & Sylvia

Some people say that love is a lie. Well, saying 'love is a lie,' is a lie. Lemme tell you all about it.

When I was 12 I kinda lost my mind. Her name was Sylvia and she was beautiful. Like really really beautiful. But I was average. Like really really average. So I kept thinking that the whole thing would probably collapse at any moment. Any second the other shoe was gonna fall, and it was gonna fall right on top of my heart.

That's what I thought anyway. Good thing I didn't always take my thoughts so seriously . . .

It was the summer of '88. I was living in the burbs. I liked watching single engine planes fly by, and I liked playing video games. That was pretty much my life. Up till then the total number of hours I'd spent even talking to a girl probably added up to 5 1/2 minutes . . . Total. I was terrified of them. Girls.

But the thing was, also up till then, I fell in love with pretty much every girl that I ever met. I'd make up stories in my head. They weren't dirty or anything. I went through a phase where, when I was lying in bed, to help me fall asleep I would have this fantasy that me and a girl who lived a few houses away would be boarding a plane. The girl was the older sister of Tommy Chickichiko, one of the neighborhood kids. Only me and her, no parents. The whole fantasy would just be her and I boarding that plane, and waiting for take off. Sometimes I would substitute her for Alyssa Milano. Like I said, I was twelve.

Anyway, one day by the pool, I saw her. Blue eyes. Bluer than anything I'd ever seen before. She was walking past me and my friends. It felt like it was all in slow motion, like a TV commercial. She flicked her hair as she passed, and looked me in the eyes for four seconds!

Benny and Wiley, my buddies, laughed hard and slapped me on the back, calling me Romeo and stuff like that. I watched her leave the pool. Just watched her from behind as she got smaller and smaller and faded into a crowd of kids waiting in line by Roman's ice cream truck.

That was the first time I ever saw Sylvia. It would be about 3 months into grade school before I'd see her again.

I wasn't what you'd call a straight-A student. I was more like a straight-C-minus student. The only class I ever got A's in was Social Studies. And our teacher for grade 7 Social Studies was a middle-aged lady named Laura McDreeble. First day of that class I picked the chair right in front of her. And that was my chair for the rest of the year. Now, just for the record, I wasn't trying for the teacher's pet thing. That chair was the same chair that my older brother used to sit in.

When I was 8, my brother Paul took me to my first baseball game. He also took me to my first fair. But the night I remember most was the drive-in theatre. It was my brother and his girlfriend, Rita, in the front seat. And little me in the back. We saw Karate Kid. I tried as hard as I could to hide my tears when it ended. I didn't want them to think I was a sissy or something. But when they turned around as the credits were rolling to ask me how I liked it, I could see that their cheeks were all wet too! That made me feel a lot better.

One day just after Social Studies ended, I was getting up from my chair when I looked outside through the plexiglass windows and saw Sylvia sitting under a crab apple tree. She was reading a book. I went over to the window and sorta watched her. As she turned a page over, a bee landed on her arm. I thought she was going to shoo it away or kill it or something, but she didn't. She let it crawl on her arm.. Then she kinda looked at it closely. As if she was studying it. Her lips moved like she was saying something to it, and it flew away. She was smiling while it flew away, and that was the first time I saw her incredible smile.

I tucked my books under my arm and I ran outside, hoping to maybe say something to her if I could. But by the time I got there, she was gone. The grass where she was sitting, was still mushed down, and little blades of grass were popping back into place . . . one by one.

Lunch time was usually a lot of fun. Except when none of my friends were there. Then I'd pretend that I had something else to do, and I'd go eat alone in the library. Mr. Fisher, the librarian, knew me, sometimes he'd let me keep some books longer than I was supposed to. I wasn't a fast reader, but I was a deep reader . . . at least that's what he used to say.

And it was in that library that I saw her for the third time. As soon as I noticed her, I got nervous. I tried to fix my hair, but forgot I had a sandwich in my hand. I got mustard and turkey all over my forehead. Then I spent the next few minutes trying to wipe it off on the pages of my composition book. She noticed me, and I was so mortified I just froze still, with the book up against my head. She was in the nature section, and she walked towards me, past the Choose Your Own Adventure Display, and past the purple Bristol boards covered with collages of healthy fruits and vegetables. I stayed still like a weirdo mime as she walked right up to me.

"So you're an abstract artist, huh?" She said, pointing to the mustard blots on my composition book.

"Uhhhh, no . . . I mean, yeah. Yeah, I am," I said, smiling sheepishly. We both laughed.

"Yellow's such a happy color." She continued, with an enthusiasm I hadn't really seen too much of in my grade. If her enthusiasm was a color, it'd be yellow too.

"Yeah . . . yellow's . . . good."

She smiled at me, and then she just walked off. I couldn't believe she actually spoke to me. I couldn't believe I actually spoke back! We spoke to each other! It was a whole conversation. I mean, short, yeah, but a conversation! Maybe if I keep having little conversations, I thought . . . maybe one day I won't be so scared. Of girls, I mean.

It was Christmastime. My mom and dad didn't really like to make a big thing of it, though. They'd buy a plastic tree. Sometimes they'd buy some stockings. Or we'd use grandma's old hand-knit socks. ('Knitted with love,' she'd always say.) This was the first Christmas without my brother. And we tried to get through it as best we could. My plan was to sneak down into the living room, and leave a little present for him under the tree. But when I did, I saw that my mom and my pops had already left a couple parcels there with Paul's name on them. I wrote "To Paul, I miss you" on a little piece of paper, and taped it to his favorite baseball glove. I slid the glove in between mom and dad's gifts and tiptoed back to bed. That night I dreamt that Paul called from the hospital, and his voice was so full of joy it was amazing. He kept saying how he'd be coming home any day now. 'Any day now,' he kept saying over and over. 'Any day now . . . ' I was so excited in the dream, that I nearly pulled the receiver off the phone as I ran with it in my hand, down the hall to tell my parents the news. Then I woke up, and the moon was in my window . . . making the frosty crystals twinkle.

When I was a baby I used to get these high fevers every week. It scared my parents. They would fill the tub with water and ice and they'd dunk me in it. They would do this every week. Week and after week. They said I'd just cry and cry. They felt so horrible, but they didn't know what else to do. Nothing else would bring my fever down. Then one day, a wasp flew in through an open window, and stung me. After that, I never got a fever ever again. At least that's what they tell me! Thank you, wasp!

Sylvia had two sisters, I learned. Wiley found out coz his sister was friends with Sylvia's older sister, Hannah. Hannah was 18, and she drove. And Sylvia's little sister was named Beth. She didn't talk. She's what they call a mute. Sylvia still talked to her though, but she used her hands a lot. And pointed to things. It was sweet to watch her do that. Sometimes it made me cry even. And I wondered what it would be like if I had a sister who was mute or deaf or blind or something. Or a brother who was in a wheelchair. Or a father who couldn't remember things anymore. Some of my friends have those. Life is like that, I guess.

The first love note I ever wrote to Sylvia - which was the first love note I ever wrote to anyone - was written in green ink and the paper was pale yellow. Well, it was a post it note, actually. And I stuck it on her chair in Mr. Wembly's class. He was our History teacher. It was the only class that Sylvia and I had together. I daydreamed more in that class than any other. Mostly about Sylvia. Anyway, I stuck the note on her desk before she arrived, and went to my seat at the back of the class. I held my breath as I waited for her to appear. But as Mr. Wembly asked us to stand for the national anthem, her chair was still empty. I panicked. 'What if someone else sits in her seat???' 'What if they find the note and read it out loud in front of the whole class???'

'I have to get that note back,' I thought. But how was I going to do it during the anthem? I prayed for the national anthem to be over. Wished that maybe the record player would break down again - it happened once before, and the singers voices got slower and slower till they sounded like a choir of giants. It happened right at the " . . . that our flag was still there," part. " . . . that our flaaag . . . waaaassssss . . . . stiiiillllllllllllllllll . . . . . therrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre. . . . " My prayers weren't be answered. I had to stand there through the whole anthem, worrying and sweating under my Christmas sweater. I guess that's why they call them 'sweaters.'

Then just as everyone was sitting back down in their seats, Sylvia came dashing into the room. She pulled off her tuque, brushed some snow off of herself, and apologized to Mr. Wembly for being late. Her sister Hannah had driven her to school. It took them 30 minutes to start the car that morning. Hannah's Buick was a very moody car. I said phew to myself as she sat down. Then I panicked again, wondering what she'd think of the note. She didn't notice it at first. Mr. Wembly started talking about South America. She looked down at her desk finally, and then looked around the room. I turned my head down quick as I could, pretending to be reading my atlas (which was upside down . . . good thing she was too far to away to see that). I raised my eyes slowly, and watched her lift the note up, and quietly read it to herself. All it said was, "Want to go to the school dance with me? -Rory" She turned back to look at me. My face was red. And so was hers. She just nodded her head silently. Yes, she nodded. Yes!

The dance wasn't for another two months. But I wondered what it was gonna be like to slow dance with a girl for the first time. Was it gonna be awkward? Am I going to step on her feet? Are we both gonna trip and fall in front of everyone? I tried not think about it. Mostly I was excited.

One cool February day after school, I ran into a bunch of old friends from summer school. Elonzo, Farrah, Primrose (that's not her real name, it used to be Patty, but she told everyone to call her Primrose), and Don. They were waiting for the bus, and to kill time were making up raps on the spot about whatever they saw going on on the street. They recognized my Reeboks and started right away.

"He loves them Reeboks, better than yo Docs, full of scuffs and yo he tuff..." We all laughed and smacked each other on the back.

"Are you guys going to Glenview High?" I asked.

"Glen-who?" Replied, Don.

"Glen-what?" Added Farrah.

"Glen-where?" Shouted Elonzo.

Primrose jumped up onto the bus stop bench, and sang at the top of her lungs "GLENVIEW FOR THE "C" CREW!!!" (That's what we called ourselves, the "C" Crew. Coz we that was the grade we got on most of our report cards.) A couple old folks made some disapproving faces and quickened their pace as they passed on the sidewalk.

Just then the downtown bus huffed to a halt. Farrah paused on the curb as the rest of them jumped on.

"Nah, we all transferred to Bagilio Alternative School...they've got a media room! We play records all day. It's great!"

Just as the bus started rolling away, they stuck their heads out the windows and chorused:

"Long live the "C" Crew!"

I waved as they drove off, pulled up my collar, and headed home. I took my favorite route along Dove Rd. It was a quiet suburban road, with snow covered lawns on either side, and lots of freshly shovelled driveways. I was daydreamily kicking a shard of ice along in front of me when I noticed something green frozen in a block of snow by the curb. It was a ten dollar bill. I tried pulling it out of the ice, but it wouldn't budge. After a minute of kicking at it with my boot heel and sawing at it with the edge of my house key, I freed the treasure from the ice's grasp. It was only 10 bucks but I was pretty happy about it. 'Maybe I'll buy myself a case of Dr. Pepper . . . or blue paper to make paper airplanes with . . .' I daydreamed the rest of the way home, thinking of things to buy with the money I found.

Once when I was around seven years old, I was waiting for my brother to come pick me up from school. In the school yard some kids were running around, pulling a silver colored kite behind them. The wind lifted the kite a few feet but it kept bumping into the ground again. I didn't know where my brother was, I guessed he was gonna be late, so I ran over and asked if I could give it a try. They handed me the string, and I just started running as fast as I could against the wind. I still remember the feeling of the warm spring air against my face. I picked up speed, sprinting across the field. At first the kite was dragging in the grass, and spinning on its different sides, taking bits of grass and dirt with it. I ran faster and faster, not even glancing back anymore. Suddenly I could hear the other kids clapping and hooting far behind me. I turned and saw the kite up in the sky, following me like a wobbly angel. They ran up to me, and I gave them back the string, smiling proudly. "Thanks!" they shouted.

On weekends in my town, there were only about 3 things to do: Go to the cinema. Go to the video arcade. Or go to the mall. I preferred the cinema. Most of the boys preferred the video arcade. And most of the girls preferred the mall. But there were always exceptions. Stanley, one of my best friends, (we knew each other since Kindergarten) tried to fix me up on a blind date when we were 10. The plan was a double date to the movies. As that weekend approached I pestered him to reveal who the girl was I was supposed to be going with. He wouldn't give me any clues. I kept asking him, whenever I saw him in the hallways in school, during lunch, on the field during gym, after school, after after school . . . but he wouldn't budge.

"It's for your own good," He kept saying.

I guess he thought that if I knew who it was, I'd come up with reasons (i.e., excuses) to back out. I told him I wouldn't. But he was right, I would've.

When the big day came, I felt sick from that morning onwards. I told my mom that I had a fever. She checked my forehead; it was fine. I told her I should probably stay home anyway, so I could work on my independent study project. (My topic was "The African Savannah" And all I'd done so far was cut out some pictures of animals from my father's National Geographic magazines. My scissor work was the worst: I cut off a few elephant trunks by mistake and had to glue the pieces back on, making the trunks look like broken tea pots handles.) Anyway, she said I was going to school, and there was no negotiating that. That was one of her favorite words: "negotiating." She liked to say that, and also "oh, crumbs!' whenever something bad happened.

During every single class that day, I kept getting a stomach ache. I wasn't sure if it was a real stomach ache, or just my nerves. I spent each recess by the fence, just sorta walking around the school yard, mumbling possible introductions to myself. 'Hi! So I guess you and I are supposed to watch this movie together . . . Do you like butter on your popcorn? . . . Howdy! Can I wrangle up some twizzlers for ya, miss? . . . Oh hey there, Sue Anne (I always liked that name), Stanley tells me you like playing Twister . . . ' And stuff like that. None of them sounded right. And all I could picture was her looking back at me in utter disgust, pouring her coke all over my head, and storming out of the lobby. I would've kept imagining these scenarios for the entire lunch break, but a baseball came flying my way, and hit me in the elbow. The kids who were playing laughed themselves silly for about 2 minutes straight, while I rubbed my arm, and as casually as possible, tossed the ball back to the pitcher (my aim was off, and he had to run to pick it up 20 feet away.) Stanley called me round 8 that night and said we oughta meet in front of the theater.

"Is she gonna come there with her friend? Are they gonna be there in front of the theater already? How should I walk when we walk up to them? Should I try a cool walk? You know, like Tom Cruise or something? Maybe wear some pilot goggles around my neck? . . . "

"Will you shut up! Just meet us there. Wear whatever. A shirt and some pants, like a regular person." And he hung up.

I tried about 13 shirts and none of them looked right. After trying them all on again - in reverse order - I ended up going with the first shirt. Because of my shirt debacle, I was 10 minutes late, and they were already inside the theatre. I stood just outside the door and tried to peek in. It was crowded and I couldn't see them. I was partly relieved, and thought it was a perfect time to go back home. But then the door opened, and it was Stanley and his girlfriend Linda, and beside them was Kimberly. 'Kimberly?' I thought to myself. She was tall (really tall for her age) and had really long, straight brown hair. I remembered her from my old grade school.

"Hi . . ." I said quietly. "Hi, Rory!" She said. They'd already bought their popcorn and everything so we headed into the theatre to find some seats. But in the commotion to sit down, and in the absolute fear that was still gripping me about the moment, I stood frozen while Kimberly sat down, and then beside her, Linda, and beside Linda, Stanley. So I sat down beside Stanley, and kinda leaned forward to wave at Kimberly. She waved back confusedly and that was pretty much all the interaction I had with her that night. I don't remember much of the plot of the movie. I don't even remember what it was called. I spent the whole time cursing at myself. Stanley just shook his head in disappointment.

When we all said goodbye, I reached out to shake Kimberly's hand. She shook it.

"Great movie, huh?" I forced myself to ask.

"Yeah!" She replied.

And then everyone sorta parted ways. And I turned and walked home, tearing the movie ticket into itsy bitsy pieces.

That was my first and last blind date. But we were so young so I guess you can't really call it a date. It was a blind something.

My brother liked to drive his bright green mustang down the deserted streets of our town at night. He told me it made him feel like James Dean. I asked him if I could come along a couple times, but he always said no. Said something about it not being very James Deanian. I didn't know what that meant, but it sounded cool. So instead of that, what I used to do was, whenever my brother left the car at home and he was out somewhere, I'd take the keys from his desk drawer (he used to hide them in the drawer, inside an old playing card box) and I'd sit behind the wheel, and look out the windows as if I was looking at passing traffic. I'd pretend to make turns, and I'd open the window and pretend the wind was blowing in. I didn't actually start the car. But I'd pretend the radio was on, and I'd flip through the channels and stuff. One time he caught me in his car, and I thought he was gonna lose it on me. But he just told me to give him the keys. He locked the doors, and went inside. From that day on he hid his car keys somewhere different every day. But I was still pretty good at finding them. Under his mattress. Between the pages of his yearbook. Once they were even stuck in the soil of one of mom's potted plants in the kitchen window. But whenever I'd find the keys, I'd feel bad, and just put them back. But the thrill of finding the keys was fun!

The dance was coming up. One week away and I was panicking as usual. I wanted to get some new shoes, something cool to wear. At first I wanted Air Jordans, but my mom and dad said you can't wear basketball shoes to a dance. I asked them why, and they said that 'Michael Jordan isn't a dancer, he's an athlete. And just because the dance is taking place in the gymnasium doesn't mean you're supposed to wear your gym shoes!' So we settled on a pair of leather dress shoes. I had one pair tucked away in the closet for special events, like weddings and family reunions. They made me polish them first, but I didn't really know how, and I got more polish on my shirt sleeves than on the shoes. Dad took over, and he showed me how.

"Every man should know how to do these things," He said.

1. Tie a neck tie.

2. Polish his shoes.

3. Change a flat tire.

And 4. (The most important one he said, smiling.)

Make a girl laugh.

Well, one down, and three to go!

The big night arrived. I was supposed to meet Sylvia in front of the candy store, and we were gonna walk to the dance together. I got there early this time (another thing my dad used to say: 'NEVER make a woman wait!') To kill time I strolled around in the candy store, looking for something to buy. The only thing that caught my eye was a box of Nerds. One half grape, one half cherry. Gilly was working there. Gilly went to my school, so we kinda knew each other. He said I didn't have to pay any tax. Which woulda been only a few pennies, but I thanked him anyway, and put the Nerds in my jacket pocket. It made the jacket bulge a bit, and I didn't like the damn jacket to begin with. It never fit right. I took the box out of the one pocket and put it in another pocket. But that didn't look good either. So I took it out again, and tried a different pocket. I tried EVERY pocket . . . left, right, the outside breast pocket, the inside breast pocket . . . I looked goofy no matter what. Finally I just put the Nerds in my pants pocket, and wondered why I hadn't thought of that to begin with. Just then I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Sylvia. She was wearing a blue dress and it made her look like a movie star. I wanted to tell her that, but I mumbled and said something about her dress being nice and blue. She thanked me. I offered her some Nerds, and we both had a handful of the cherry flavored ones. We crunched on them as we walked down the sidewalk.

"I haven't been to a dance in years!" She said.

"Really? Weren't there dances in your old school?" I asked.

"There was one, but during a Lionel Richie song a curtain caught fire, and the principal said no more dances . . . it was such a bummer."

"How did the curtain catch fire?"

"One of the Bullady boys lit it with a match!"

"The Bullady boys?"

"Yeah, there were 5 of them. They were brothers and they all looked the same. Same haircuts, same shoes, same buckteeth. They would walk down the halls and kick the trash pails over. They'd write their names on school walls with white out; throw people's comic books into the toilets in the boy's room. They were little monsters. Must've had monsters for parents is my guess . . . "

"Whoa," was all I could say.

"Yeah, eventually they were all expelled except for Ricky, the youngest one. He stayed, and started actually going to his classes. Without his mean brothers around, he turned into a pretty decent guy. Influence is a funny thing . . . "

"Yeah, I guess it is," I said, nodding my head thoughtfully.

"How 'bout you? You been to a lot of these things?"

"Dances?"

"Yeah."

"No . . . ummm . . . actually . . . this is my first one." I didn't wanna tell her, but I didn't wanna lie.

"That's alright," she said smiling. "It's gonna be fun!"

She could see that I was still kinda nervous about the whole thing. So she took my hand and we walked the rest of the way just holding hands. We didn't even speak. Although there was a moment when I wanted apologize for my sweaty hand, but I couldn't.

When we got to the school, the parking lot was full of teachers' cars. Usually it's empty at night, so it was a strange thing to see. And all the lights on too. I'd never really seen my school at night. The gym doors were wide open, and Freddy Thorndike and his sister Thelma were taking people's tickets. I patted my jacket but I couldn't remember where I put my dance ticket. Then I remembered trying one other jacket on at home. And then I remembered putting the ticket into one of the pockets. And then leaving that jacket on my bed.

"I left it at home," I said quietly to myself.

"You left your ticket at home?" Sylvia asked nicely. "That's ok, it doesn't matter. We don't really need tickets to get in, they just do that for show."

"Oh..." I said, relieved. (I was about to beat myself up into a pulp about the whole thing.) I exhaled big and loud as Sylvia and I stepped into the huge twinkling gymnasium.

They had lights put up everywhere! They had streamers hanging from the walls, all pink and purple. There was a punch bowl full of red punch. And a popcorn machine, popping away.

"Should we get some popcorn?" I asked.

"It gets stuck in my teeth!" Sylvia said. "But if you want some, let's get some!"

We walked over and picked up a little popcorn bag. I held it under the machine while little kernels tumbled out. A bunch of them missed the bag completely, and fell onto the floor. We kicked them at each other, and pretended the popcorns were golf balls and that we were playing a serious game of mini golf.

The DJ for the night was Mr. Fisher, the librarian. Nobody really had any idea that Mr. Fisher had a social life. It was pretty shocking to see him up on the stage, boogieing to the music. He took a record out of its sleeve, and gingerly laid it down on the old school record player.

"Ok, folks," He said. "Time for the slow dance."

I looked at Sylvia in horror. She just smiled.

"Ummm . . . ok . . . soooo. . . . do ya wanna dance, I guess?" I stammered.

"Of course!" She said. And giggled a bit. Then she preened her dress, and just stood there looking at me. I wasn't sure what exactly she was waiting for. She stood there smiling. I scratched a pretend itch on the back of my neck. And sorta looked around. Then looked at my shoes. (I realized they were untied, so I leaned down to tie them . . . )

"Sorry, my shoes . . ." I said.

"It dangerous to dance with untied shoes," Sylvia replied. "Liable to break your neck."

I stumbled with the laces, and it took me twice as long as normal just to tie them. The pressure of her standing there before me was making me see double. I could feel the sweat rolling down my back. Finally I got them tied. I got back on my feet, and looked at Sylvia. Somehow she seemed even more beautiful than she was 30 seconds ago. I blushed.

"My shoes are all tied. I'm ready." I said.

She didn't say anything. She was still smiling. She waited for me. But to do what? I looked around at all the other couples dancing. Trying to see how they were doing it. Sylvia put her hand on my cheek and forced me to look at her.

"Don't worry about them," She said.

I wanted to look away. But more than that, I wanted to look at her. To look in her eyes. And just keep looking. That scared me, but I knew I had to try. I still didn't know what to do with my hands. So I just put them on her shoulders. She laughed.

"No, silly. I put MY hands on YOUR shoulders. And you put YOUR hands on my waist." She waited for me. I was so embarrassed. I kinda froze with my hands out like Frankenstein. I checked to make sure no one saw. Sylvia turned my head back towards her like she did before, and again she just stood in front of me, and waited.

Suddenly my hands moved on their own. They came to rest upon her waist. I could feel her body under the pleats of her dress. I could smell her perfume, it reminded me of cinnamon. I smiled a little bit. I tried to hide the smile. But then I just stopped trying to hide it. (Rule number 6. Never hide a smile.) Just then she put her hands on my shoulder. And we swayed back and forth as Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time" came floating out of the rented speakers.

I thought about all the people in the world, dancing at that same moment that we were dancing. All the kids in the gym, all the gyms in the country . . . It felt like I was finally part of something.

Then the fire alarm went off . . .

Everyone looked confused at first. Sylvia laughed, "The Bullady Boys have returned!" she cried. I grabbed her hand and we ran out into the parking lot. As we ran, I turned to look back at her a few times, and she was always smiling, everytime, and so was I, and we got outside, but it all felt like it happened in slow motion.

Turns out it was a false alarm. James Leedon, the class clown, pulled it. They found him running through the halls with a cowboy hat on. As everyone filed back into the gym, Sylvia and I lingered for a moment behind the rest of them. We looked at the trees that were moving in the wind. We pointed at the smiley face moon. Then she kissed my cheek. For no reason. I blushed again. That was the first time a girl ever kissed me.

Spring was coming. The soccer fields were thawing. And my grades were getting worse - as impossible as that was. I couldn't take my mind off of Sylvia. I'd find myself doodling her face on my math book. Or mouthing her name as I stared out the window of Mrs. Hengle's English class. We would meet during lunch, and eat under the crab apple tree. Or stroll around the school yard, making up new names for the streets in our neighborhood.

"Pongshnikkyshnikjar Road!" She said, giggling.

"Hairy Armpit Avenue" I replied.

"Who Ate All The Jam Street!"

"Wilbur's Tooth Boulevard!"

"Runny Nose Road!!"

We would spend the entire lunch break this way. Just talking and laughing.

One day, before school, I found a book under my bed. I don't remember where it came from. I thought maybe it was something I got from the library. But I couldn't remember taking it out. It was called "Welcome To The Milky Way" and it had pictures of stars and planets and galaxies. I threw it in my backpack.

Then the phone rang. My mom picked it up. She said it was the school. One of the Phys Ed teachers had called in sick and they needed someone to substitute for them. My dad used to be a football coach, so they asked if he'd like to come in for the day.

"Robert!" My mom called from the kitchen.

"Yeah, pumpkin?" My dad replied from the backyard where he was fiddling around with the broken lawn mower.

"Would you like to teach Phys Ed at Rory's school for the day?"

"Just gimme 5 minutes to get my stuff!" he hollered, as he ran inside, wiping oil on his pants.

"Come on, Rory, we'll go to school together!"

When we got there, the front lawn was filled with students and teachers. It was Track & Field Day.

"Oh boy, I didn't know today was Track & Field Day!" my dad sighed.

I told my dad that it'll be a cinch. We hugged, then I ran up to my English class as fast as I could. Today we were supposed to hand in our short story about something (or someone) we love. I knew what my subject would be right away. But how was I supposed to cram all the great things about Sylvia into 1,000 words?

Instead, what I did was I made the story part 1 of 25 parts! The first 1,000 words were about the way she loves animals, and all the stray cats & dogs that she's brought home, and how she puts up posters to find people to adopt them. She's found homes for about 15 animals so far. And she never gives up. She brings them home, bathes 'em, gives them funny nicknames - sometimes she asks me to help . . . I named a shaggy labrador "Hulk Hogan the 3rd" once.

That's just the person that she is. It always blew my mind how she thought about every living thing, and just loved them all equally. She didn't keep score. She didn't compare. She just bear hugged every person and every animal that ever crossed her path. I bet if an actual bear came by, she'd even BEAR HUG the bear!

Anyway, I handed in my assignment, and took a seat in my chair again. Martin, a buddy of mine who lives on the same street as me, asked me what I chose to write about. I told him it was a secret. He laughed, and said he'd written his on vanilla ice cream.

When the lunch bell rang, I grabbed my backpack and bolted down the hallway to find my dad. He was in the gym getting all the Track & Field equipment ready.

"Hey, pops, how goes it?"

"Oh, Rory, glad you're here . . . Could you grab those pails of field paint. We're gonna take 'em outside and mark the relay points."

"Sure!"

I grabbed as many pails as I could carry, which was 5 . . . I tried for a sixth but it just plopped back onto the gym floor and teetered around a bit. I was gonna grab the handle by my teeth, but dad said I shouldn't always be in such a hurry.

"Better two trips to the gym, than one trip to the dentist!" he said.

When we finished marking the field up, we went inside to grab something to eat. My mom had made me a turkey sandwich, so I had half and my dad had the other half. As we were chewing the remains of our halves, I saw Sylvia walking into the cafeteria with tears in her eyes. I ran over to her.

"Sylvie, what happened?"

"Oh, Rory. I . . . "

"What is it?"

By now my dad had walked up to see what the matter was. Sylvia looked at me and then at my dad.

"I lost a doggie today . . . " She said through her tears. Then she just exploded into total bawling. My dad and I hugged her.

"I'm so sorry, Sylvia," my dad said, taking off his glasses to wipe away his own tears. "Was it a rescue?"

"Yeah. A little chihuahua named "Toyster." He caught pneumonia while he was out in the street. By the time I found him, it was already too late. I thought I could nurse him . . . do something . . . I dunno. I've never had anything . . . anyone . . . die on me before."

"What are you gonna do?" my dad asked.

"I'd like to bury him. Can you guys help me?"

"No sweat." My dad and I replied in unison.

The death of Toyster put a bit of a damper on Track & Field day. But my buddies Lionel & Terry got first place in the Triple Jump. And Sylvia's best friend from Kindergarten, Louise, beat everyone else in the 100 meter dash. I watched Sylvia and Louise jumping up and down together after the win. Only my dad and me knew that she'd been crying. Any spectator on the field would've seen a girl leaping and laughing in delight, congratulating her oldest friend with the kind of selflessness only she seems to have. Again I stood amazed at her.

"She's one tough cookie, your Sylvia," my dad said to me as we stood together clapping on the emerald school yard.

Toyster was buried in the abandoned field under a thicket of lilac trees.

"My favorite flower," Sylvia said.

I wanted to help take her mind off of everything, so we went to grab a slice of pizza at Magico's Pizzeria. It's a little hole in the wall, most people don't even notice it, but they've got the best pizza in town. We ordered EVERYTHING on our pizza. Made it party-sized. And Sylvia decided to share it with all the other kids in the place. She kept one slice for herself. I watched her as she watched everyone eagerly chomping down on their slices. The tears were gone from her eyes. She was smiling. Giving always made Sylvia smile. She kissed me on the cheek as Lionel started to sing the theme from Growing Pains. Eventually everyone else in the place joined in, some with their mouths too full of pizza to pronounce the words, some laughing so hard that they keeled over their little tables, and toppled their sodas over.

" . . . As long as we've got each other. We got the world spinning right in our hands . . . As long as we keep on givin'. We can take anything that comes our way . . . "

Later I walked Sylvia home. We took our time as we passed all the houses on that warm summer night . . . holding hands the whole way.

From that day on, whenever we passed the abandoned field, Sylvia would pick a wild flower and put it on Toyster's grave. She never told anybody else about Toyster. Only my dad and I. And we never told anyone either. Some funerals are kinda private I guess.

I remember the day that Sylvia finally asked about my brother Paul. I never really told her much about him. And she could tell I didn't really wanna talk about that particular subject, so she never pushed.

We were swinging on the swing set in Ronnegault Park when she turned to me, smiling, and gently asked:

"Your brother Paul, he isn't alive anymore, right?"

"No . . . "

"Do you think you're ready to tell me?"

"Yeah . . . "

She lowered her feet and they dragged in the gravel, making a little cloud of dust. I kept swinging for a bit, but just on the momentum alone. Slowly the swing swung less and less, taking me lower each time, until it went still.

"My brother was in a car accident. He was drunk. And his girlfriend was in the car with him . . . "

"Oh my gosh . . ." she whispered, reaching out her hand. I took her hand in mine, and looked up at the clouds.

"Yeah, they were on their way to a concert. He'd bought her Springsteen tickets for her birthday. She turned 17 that day . . . anyway, they were late for the concert and my brother hates . . . I mean, hated being late. He ran a red. There was a freight truck going by . . . " Sylvia squeezed my hand tight.

We both looked at the ground for a bit.

"You must miss him a lot," she said.

"When I think about him I miss him. But I don't really think about him much."

"Why not?"

"Coz it hurts I guess. . . . "

"He was a good brother to you." Sylvia just knew these things, I don't know how.

"Yeah, he was a great brother to me."

"Where is his gravestone?"

"Just down the street."

"Wanna go visit him?"

"Not really . . . not yet."

"You sure?"

"Yeah . . . "

"Well, maybe another day," she said as she pushed off the ground and started swinging again, as if we never even stopped to have that conversation. I remember how her long hair floated in front of, then behind her, each time her swing passed mine . . .

That was it. She didn't really want to know much more than that. She just wanted to know if he was good to me. I guess basically she was asking if my brother loved me. If I loved him. That's all that matters, I guess. Not how we leave the world, but how we love the world.