The Traveling Vampire Show

“You don’t want to miss that.”

“I might.”

“Oh? You’d rather stay home and watch television?”

“Maybe. If you’ll be here.”

“I’ll be here unless you throw me out, I guess.”

“I wouldn’t throw you out.”

“What about Rusty?” she asked.

“What about him?”

“He really wants to see that show.”

“He’s probably grounded.”

“He’ll find a way to get out.”

“Maybe.”

“He will. And then he’ll show up here, all rarin’ to go.”

“I almost hope he doesn’t,” I said.

We suddenly ran out of words, so we stared at each other. Again, we both seemed awfully aware of being together in an empty house. Nobody to see us. Nobody to tell on us. Nobody to stop us.

We were only a few feet apart. A couple of steps forward and I’d be close enough to put my arms around her, pull her up against me, kiss her…

I couldn’t move.

She wasn’t moving either, just gazing into my eyes. She looked solemn and hopeful.

I ached to take those steps and hug her, feel her body against mine, feel her lips….

A smile broke across her face and she said, “Maybe we’d better eat.”

Saved! But disappointed.

“Good idea,” I said. “Cheeseburgers sound okay?”

“Cheeseburgers sound great.”

“We can do ’em outside on the grill.”

“Why don’t you get the fire started and I’ll make the patties?”

“Great.”

I hurried to the refrigerator, found the package of ground chuck, and gave it to Slim.

“How many you want?” she asked.

“I don’t know, how many do you want?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“Do you make ’em thick or thin?” I asked.

“Thin’s better. I don’t like them raw in the middle.”

“Me either. So if you’re making them thin, I’ll have two.”

“Okie-doke. Maybe I’ll have two, too.”

We both smiled like idiots.

Slim set the package of meat down on the counter, then stepped over to the sink and started to wash her hands. I watched her standing there, bent over slightly, the bottom of her T-shirt hanging crooked across the rear of her cut-off jeans. Her rump filled the seat of her jeans. A fringe of threads brushed against the backs of her thighs. Her legs were smooth and tanned all the way down to her ankles.

She looked over her shoulder. “What?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

She smiled. “Nothing, huh?”

“Just looking,” I said, and blushed.

We had another of those staring contests where I wanted to go to Slim, but was afraid to, and she looked as if maybe she hoped I would come over and kiss her.

This time, it didn’t go on very long before she said, “Maybe you’d better go out and start the fire.”

“Yeah, guess so. Back in a while.” I hurried outside. Nowadays, most people have grills that run on propane. It’s easy to use and doesn’t pollute the environment (God perserve us from the fumes of backyward barbecues!) When I was growing up, however, we never had a propane grill. We never had charcoal lighting fluid, either. Dad claimed the fuel odor gave food a bad taste, but I’m pretty sure he was just trying to protect my brothers and I from the scourge of doing something “the easy way.” So while every other family in Grandville started their barbecue fires by squirting fuel on the briquettes, we had to build ours the “natural way,” like Boy Scouts on a campout, by crumpling paper, piling on the kindling, then adding the briquettes on top.

At least he allowed us to use matches. Could’ve been worse.

Usually, I resented that we weren’t allowed to use fuel. Tonight, though, I welcomed the distraction of building a fire the hard way.

For one thing, it kept my mind occupied so it wouldn’t dwell too much on Dad’s accident… or on the murdered dog… or on the chewed book or the missing yellow roses… or on my betrayal of Bitsy… or on the Traveling Vampire Show….

Also, it kept me out of the kitchen.

I was glad to be outside in the murky afternoon, watching flames lick at my sticks and briquettes, with Slim safely out of sight.

Alone with my fire, I missed her and longed to be with her—but! I felt a wonderful sense of relief. At least for a while, there was no need to worry about how to act with Slim in a house without adults.

It remained in my mind, along with all my other concerns, but didn’t overwhelm me because my main thoughts were focused on adding sticks and briquettes to the fire.

I jumped a little when the screen door banged shut.

Slim came trotting down the back steps with a bottle in each hand.

They weren’t bottles of soda pop.

“You think your parents’ll mind if we drink up some of their beer?”

If she’d been Rusty, I would’ve blown my stack.

But she was Slim, and she looked so good, and she had that smile.

“They’ll just kill us is all,” I said, smiling.

“Never fear. My mom drinks the same brand. We can replace these with some of hers.”

“Then she’ll have missing bottles.”

“She’s keeps a zillion of them around. She’ll never know the difference.”

“We will,” I said. I must’ve said it funny.

Slim laughed and said, “Gad-zooks, I hope so.”

Chapter Thirty