In Laymon's Terms

HARLOTTE, WHO WENT by Charlie, was thirteen and a very brave girl who thought of herself as a tomboy. She also thought of herself as an explorer of territories unknown, as a teen detective, and as a crusader against injustice. She thought of her bicycle as a stallion named Speedy, and she thought that she had an invisible friend named Herman who went everywhere with her and who would, against any and all odds, keep her from harm.

She was a very imaginative girl.

But not completely out of touch with reality.

She knew trouble when she saw it.

When the car sped toward her from the rear, she pulled way over to the edge of the road. She flinched when it raced by, engine roaring, radio blasting, guy yelling out the passenger window at her, “Eat me!”

The car, an old blue Mustang, zoomed past her so quickly that she didn’t get a chance to see who was inside.

A couple of jerks, that’s all Charlie knew for sure.

Her left hand let go of Speedy’s handlebar.

She jabbed at the noon sky with her upraised, stiff middle finger.

Ahead of her, the car braked.

That’s when she knew she was in trouble.

She muttered, “Uh-oh,” skidded to a stop and caught the pavement with her feet.

Holding Speedy between her legs, she looked over her shoulder. The road was a sunlit strip of pavement bordered by bright green forest. All the way back to the bend, its lanes were empty.

She looked forward. The only car in that direction was the Mustang.

It began backing slowly toward her.

“Oh, man,” she muttered. “Now I’ve done it.”

She glanced from side to side as if checking the woods for an escape route. Then she faced the Mustang.

About twenty feet in front of her, it stopped. The doors opened and two young men stepped out. What with school, church, the band and choir and softball team and her general roamings about the town of Maplewood and the county in general, Charlie knew just about everyone who lived in the vicinity. These guys were strangers to her.

They looked the right age to be high school drop-outs. Both of them wore T-shirts, blue jeans and cowboy boots. The driver looked scrawny and mean. He had a cigarette pinched between his lips, but it wasn’t lighted. The passenger looked fat and mean. He was chewing on something.

At the rear of the Mustang, they stopped. They both stared at Charlie. Then they gave each other a smirk.

Look what we got here.

The scrawny one flicked his Bic and lit up.

“Hi, guys,” Charlie said. “What’s up?”

“Your number,” the fat one said. His voice sounded mushy through the mouthful of whatever he was chewing.

“I guess that was supposed to be cute,” she said.

“What’re you doing on our road?” the scrawny one asked.

“This isn’t your road. This is a public road, State Highway 63 as a matter of fact, and I have every right to use it.”

“Wrong.”

“Dead wrong,” added the fat guy.

Charlie looked over her shoulder again.

“Who you looking for back there?” the scrawny one asked. “John Wayne?”

“Dead,” said the fat one.

“The Seventh Cavalry?”

“Dead.”

“Batman?”

“Dead.”

“Is not,” Charlie said.

“Might as well be,” the scrawny one said, “for all the good he’s gonna do you.”

“You’re up Shit Creek,” said the fat one, “and we’re the shit.”

“Shut up, Tom,” the skinny one said.

Tom scowled like a kid scolded by his father. Then he started to swallow whatever he’d been chewing. The swallowing seemed to take a lot of effort.

While he worked on it, Charlie said, “Look, I’m sorry I flipped you guys off. I mean, not that you didn’t sort of have it coming. Him, anyhow. Tom. It’s not exactly nice manners to shout at me like he did. I mean, eat me? That’s a really crude thing to say to someone, especially a total stranger. So I like lost my temper. But I’m sorry. Okay?”

“Okay,” the scrawny one said.

But they didn’t turn around and head for their car. They just stayed put, and kept staring at her.

“Can I go now?” Charlie asked.

“What’s your name?” the skinny one asked.

“Why do you want to know?”

He darted the cigarette at her. She flinched. Before she had a chance to dodge it, the lighted tip poked softly against the front of her pink T-shirt, just below her shoulder. It made a circle of ash the size of a pencil eraser. As the cigarette fell, she brushed at the gray dot and said, “Nice going. Jeez. Real nice.”

“What’s your name?”

“Charlie.”

“That’s a boy name,” Tom said.

“You a boy?” asked the other.

“She ain’t a boy,” Tom said.

“May I go now?” she asked the scrawny one. He seemed to be in charge. “Please?”

“Say pretty please with sugar.”

“Pretty please with sugar.”

Tom suddenly got an urgent, happy look on his face. He leaned in close to his friend’s side, cupped a hand by his mouth as if he was afraid Charlie might be a lip-reader, and whispered something. At the end of his message, he faced her, folded his arms across his huge chest, and grinned.

The other one spoke. “Tom wants you to pull up your shirt.”

For a few seconds, Charlie just stood there, staring at them and holding her bike up. Then she said, “Tom can blow it out his kazoo.”