2.
Audrey believed we ought to be paying attention to the weird boy next door. Audrey owned radar beyond my means. She picked up on things I couldn't.
The mailman's psoriasis. Mrs. Fripp's dentures. The fact the asphalt seals merging in the junior high school parking lot north entrance resembled swastikas. The parts-pollution, parts-heaven scent in the Red Steer restaurant whenever a new bag of fries was dumped into the deep frier. The oh-so-obvious attraction between two of our male teachers, both married, both fathers, both sports coaches. The way it was both funny and sad to watch people move through the mall and think of them thinking of their hard won individuality while all the while being controlled by the puppet master called Capitalism.
For a time, Mom referred to Audrey as 'Kid 2'. Audrey's parents both worked for Zimms, out near the airport. Contracted with the government, Zimms did "technology stuff". End and all of story. You needed clearance to know anymore than that.
Audrey was left alone most of the time. A straight 'A' student, certified mature beyond her years, she knew about Sartre and Andy Warhol and ancient British bands like Yaz, she smoked, and due to my ignorance of world events and the dire need and want so prominent throughout most of the world she claimed a cool calculated interest in my intellectual development although by my calculations, I was two months older.
Once the oddness of the Bell family adhered to Audrey's antennae it turned into her focus; maybe, just a toe-shy of obsession.
She'd come over like she used to, but would barely look at me. It was all about the Bell house. The stoop shouldered father. The tall, big boned mother. The invisible boy.
"Home schooled doesn't mean imprisoned. He looks out his window at us. Haven't you seen me waving at him? You think that's just me being spastic?"
"My mom says they're religious."
"That doesn't mean they've got cooties," said Audrey. "He looks like he wants to wave back. He doesn't. Why wouldn't you wave back? That's one of those call and response human reactions. Basic. Bloody fucking basic. Look. See? Travis? I'm waving at you. And ah-ha! You waved back. Good. Good monkey."
She asked me if the parents worked. And if one of them didn't, was there ever a time the boy was left home alone.
Home on a teacher's in-service day I'd noticed Mrs. Bell leaving the house alone and returning roughly two hours later. Briefly, the boy had come out of the house, blanket on over his shoulders. He hadn't left the porch. He'd drunk his fill of the outside world and then he'd gone back inside.
Three weeks or so later, Audrey called me and told me to stay home sick the next day. Nearly the moment my parents were gone for work, she appeared, and then camped out on the west side of the living room, staking out the Bell's house. When she had to pee she made me sit in for her, and she left the bathroom door open, talking to me the whole time, making sure I wasn't Operation Neighbor Boy's weak link.
Soon as Mrs. Bell appeared outside and drove off, Audrey was on her feet, grabbing my arm, dragging me into the teeth of the expedition.
"If he doesn't open up, we'll force our way in. Pretend we think he's being held hostage. We'll liberate him. Become him and he will become us. I've studied up, Travis. I think I know how to unleash Stockholm Syndrome in practically anyone."
She grinned banging on the Bell's front door. A predatory grin. Although I had that two months lead on her, she'd hit puberty first. She was the desirable nerdy girl before that particular type transformed into an accepted piece of culture. She held a clipboard and mashed it into her chest. I noticed the mammary displacement. I wondered how fast the clipboard warmed held so close and so tightly into her body.
