The Accidental Siren

6.2 Fairytale Part Two: The War

10:10 PM.

The driveway was lit by a single, cobalt flood.

I limped through the swarm of Livy's friends. Mara was among them--one of them--and I gave her a thumbs up. She grinned and returned the gesture.

In the garage, Mom, Mrs. Bullard and Mrs. Greenfield were ladling chili into the actors' styrofoam bowls. Mrs. Conrad declared herself the captain of “Whitney Protection Duty.” She sat beside her son on a tub of bird feed and asked repeatedly if he survived the make-believe battle. He assured her that he didn't touch the fireworks, the sword was dull, and the four-wheeler didn’t come anywhere near his limbs.

A.J. asked my mom where he could change out of costume. She gave him directions to the downstairs bathroom. He thanked her and bounded inside.

I pulled off my shoes and socks, inspected the matching white blisters on both heels, then slipped into a pair of flip-flops from the shoe shelf beside the door. All nine war-scene setups had been completed in only two hours with twenty-five takes. The woods were a mess, but it was time to relax.

Mom served me a half bowl of chili, then licked her thumb and rubbed the dirt from my chin. “Why are little geniuses always so messy?”

Mrs. Greenfield--pink with delight from the commotion--offered a handful of Fritos for my soup.

“I'm down twelve pounds, Mrs. G. Don't tempt me.”

“How'd my hubby do out there?” she asked. “He's been talkin’ about your movie all week. He didn't blow off his hand, I hope?”

“Mr. G did awesome,” I said. “He's got killer timing with a Roman Candle.”

Mrs. Greenfield looked over my shoulder to the circle of men in the front yard. Her husband was there, thin like my father but less hunched. He compensated for his male-pattern baldness by boasting a neatly combed Tom Selleck. A silver cross hung between the collar of his Polo. The guy managed a Sporting Goods store in Holland with the clever name “Greenfield Sporting Goods” and--several years ago--gave my father a deal on a beach volleyball set we never use.

I sipped my chili from the corner where the retaining wall met the house and used the vantage to study the dynamic of my peers. Below my dangling legs, the boys sat on the planter trough like construction workers on a skyscraper beam, squishing Mom's geraniums with typical adolescent mindlessness. 

In the driveway, the girls mingled in rotating clusters like a system of dancing bees. Ryan Brosh played it cool, whispering and laughing with his comrades. He was too old for the buzzing tykes... but never too old for their queen. The girls stole glances at the boys, then giggled when a boy glanced back. Every girl assumed the attention was meant for them, but how could they understand that their brief exchange was not flirtation, but a trivial darting of eyes caught at the wrong moment by their sappy imagination, meant--by the boy--as a pit stop on the way to and from the intended recipient of their affection.

Mara knew the attention was hers; I watched as she willingly partook in the flirtatious dance. “You're like my brother,” I recalled and my innards churned.

(I should note that most of these observations were only made after years of reflection. I did, however, acknowledge that my perception of the sexes had evolved drastically in the two-and-a-half months since that glimpse of Roslyn's thigh.)

From my perch, I watched my little cousin Scott conspire with Bobby and Jake behind Leo the stone lion. Scott was just young enough to connect with the twins on a level of immaturity, but old enough to test his rare position of dominance. There were whispers, shushes, elaborate gestures... then little Bobby nodded, stepped from the patio, and circumvented the group of dads with reluctant audacity. He arrived unnoticed at the group of girls, circled them with casual strides, then broke the delicate balance of sexes by squirming through the wall of the clique.