Fiction

John Mummert

I’ll Come over

Thad had their best hitter on his heels. No balls, two strikes. He’d put this guy away twice already, gone down swinging both times. The fans were on their feet, the noise deafening. Ninth inning. Game seven. Two outs. The catcher flashed a signal. Fastball, inside corner. Thad nodded. He had this. The city’s first World Series title in fifty years. He directed a stink-eye at the batter, went into his windup.

The tennis ball thumped against the back of the garage, once again well outside the strike zone Thad had chalked there. Thad was tired of this game. His father was tired of the ball flying through the open garage window located about where a batter’s head would be, and bouncing off the workbench while he changed the spark plugs in the Studebaker.

“Maybe you should stick to second base,” he’d told Thad the last time he tossed the ball back out the window.

Thad had begged his way onto the pitcher’s mound the last time the neighborhood fourth and fifth graders gathered in the vacant lot down the street. His team fell behind seven to one in the second inning. Runners on second and third. A lone out registered only because of Calvin’s speed in the outfield.

“Switch with Greg,” Max had said.

“Why? I can get these guys.” Thad wasn’t ready to give up on that Cy Young Award.

“You’re better on second. Switch. Otherwise we’ll be in junior high before you get us out of this inning. Eddie’s feet will grow another shoe size over there on first.”

Thad’s dream of being the next Bob Gibson didn’t appear promising.

“Thad!” His mother stepped halfway out the back door. “Telephone!”

Thad tossed the tennis ball aside. Maybe Calvin or Max getting a game together. He dodged his little brother Tommy’s toy soldiers positioned in furious combat on the back porch—a squad of riflemen occupied the Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots ring—and stepped into the kitchen.

He picked up the receiver from the counter. “Hello?”

“Thad?”

Odd. It sounded like a girl’s voice. No chance of that. “This is Thad.”

“This is Donna Fulton. What are you doing?” Donna Fulton? It was . . . a girl?

Thad swallowed hard. What possible reason would a girl have to call him? Especially Donna Fulton. Had his mother realized it was a girl?

“Uh, n-nothing much,” Thad stammered. “I, uh . . .” Why would Donna Fulton call? Boys and girls didn’t talk to each other, not outside of school.

“I thought maybe I’d come over.”

Thad managed to hold onto the phone. She wants to come over? Boys and girls did not come over to one another’s houses. Maybe if their parents were friends. Or when Erica Carter’s parents held a cookout, and most of the neighborhood was there. No other reason. Boys and girls didn’t pal around. Well, except for Gina Kellerman, who played baseball with them. That was different. Gina Kellerman wasn’t a girl girl. She was a good shortstop. Most of the guys recognized her abilities without debate. Except for Donald Rogers, a fifth-grader most, Thad included, had deemed a giant butthead. Donald had learned his lesson the hard way one day when he mocked Gina Kellerman’s odd batting stance, her bat held above her head like the Statue of Liberty’s torch. She had punched Donald’s next pitch into a gap between right and center field, and grinned at him all the way to second base.

The guys hammered Donald. “How about that stance now, Donald Duckbutt?”

“You want her to bat left-handed next time, give you a chance?”

Thad had been playing second on Donald’s team. He took the throw from centerfield, and spun around to find Gina Kellerman already standing there, adjusting the green band holding back her thick, wavy, deep-red hair. She smiled at him, a shy smile quite unlike the spear-tipped model she’d just hurled at butthead Donald. Thad had found himself out of position three pitches later when a ground ball skipped past because, for some reason, he’d been paying attention to Gina Kellerman—who hadn’t even taken a lead off second—and not the batter.

Why are you thinking about Gina Kellerman? Thad shook his mind back to the present crisis. Donna Fulton did not play baseball. She probably threw like a girl.

“Uh, well, we—we might be going somewhere.”

“Where?” Where? She wants to know where?

Thad’s mind raced for an answer that wouldn’t sound like the lie it would be. “Um . . . my uncle’s house. In Lombard.”

“What time?” What time? Thad peeked around the corner into the dining room, worried his mother might return. Donna Fulton, who’d barely spoken to him in the four years they’d shared a classroom, wanted to know what time? Thad was certain his most substantial interaction with Donna Fulton had come two weeks into first grade, when she stuck out her tongue and called him a smelly pork chop after he beat her to a seat on the swings.

“I’m, uh, not sure. Maybe pretty soon.” Thad wished he was at his uncle’s house. Or riding his bike. Anywhere he couldn’t have come to the telephone.

“Probably not for a while? I’ll come over.”

“But, well—we might be leaving soon.”

“I’ll come over. See you in a bit. Bye.”

“Wait—”

Thad’s hands shook as he put the receiver back on the hook. He was dizzy. He glanced at the clock over the sink. Three-fifteen. His life would be demolished soon, a junk car crushed into a cube at the scrap yard. How was he going to explain this? Boys and girls did not—repeat—did not go over to one another’s houses. Girls were different. Weird. Unnerving. Girls were scary. To be seen hanging out with any girl other than Gina Kellerman during a baseball game meant Thad was in for some serious taunting. Even mild-mannered Calvin might give him the business. Worse from Dale and Max. Dale possessed a streak of black-heartedness that could whack a guy upside the head without warning. So, Thad, are we invited to the wedding?

But he hadn’t invited Donna Fulton to come over. She called him. He tried to stop her. That would count for something. Wouldn’t it? No, of course it wouldn’t. All that would matter is a girl—a girl!—had come over to Thad Ross’s house on Sunday afternoon. To see him. His friends would find out. Somehow, they’d find out. Catastrophe loomed.

His mother stepped back into the kitchen. “Who was on the phone?”

“Uh, nobody. Just Dale.”

“Dale? It didn’t sound like Dale. What did he want?”

“Oh, um, nothing. Asking about homework. One of our math problems.”

His mother frowned.

Idiot! Everyone knew Dale was a whiz at math. He would not call Thad for help. Thad ducked back outside to escape any more questions. Is this really happening?

He raced across the backyard to the wooden shed where he and his brother kept their bikes and sleds, and where his father kept the lawn mower and garden tools. Where he could spy any cars approaching along Jarvis or Holly Streets. He could watch the driveway entrance and the back door. He donned the Green Hornet mask hanging from the handlebars of his Schwinn Sting-Ray. He picked up a baseball bat, tested the grip, put it down. Did it again. He drew his Gunsmoke model cap pistol from its holster hanging on the wall, tried to twirl it on his trigger finger, almost dropped it like always. Calvin’s height made him a natural to play Marshall Dillon, and Max imitated Festus too convincingly to be anyone else. So Thad was always left playing, well, Thad naturally. Or a bad guy. He put the pistol back in its holster. He was getting too old for those games.

Thad wasn’t certain where Donna Fulton lived. Somewhere north of 73rd, he thought. Too far to walk. Would she ride her bike? She’d have to cross a busy 75th. Possible. If she had the nerve, and was fast enough. Would someone drive her? Thad hopped about the shed on his old pogo stick, but found it too unsteady on the plank floor. He grabbed the baseball bat again, took up a batting stance, put the bat down again. His stomach turned cartwheels. He slid the Green Hornet mask off, and laid it on the Schwinn’s banana seat.

The shed was too small for pacing off his nervous energy, and Thad knew he couldn’t hide there. His parents would see him from the back door. And Barney, their half-hound-of-some-kind-and-half-whatever-else-he-was dog, had decided he wanted to play, making Thad’s location obvious. He ducked out the door, and followed the hedgerow to the back corner of the yard. He could hide in one of the abandoned lengths of concrete storm water pipe scattered across the vacant lot next door. But he wasn’t supposed to be in that lot without permission, and he couldn’t very well hide there if he’d asked his mother first.

The willow tree! He raced to the opposite end of the yard, stumbling over Barney who still wanted to play. “Not now, Barney!” He gained a foothold where the willow’s trunk formed a V near the ground, and pulled himself up. He crawled onto a large limb where he was obscured by the smaller branches drooping almost to the ground. The driveway wasn’t visible from there, but he could see a long way up Jarvis Street. He fidgeted, picked at the bark, flicked ants off the tree with his finger, stripped the narrow yellow leaves from one of the drooping branches.

Had Donna Fulton really called? Was she really coming over? What would they talk about? What would they do? Girls were weird. But he’d look like a total Bozo if she came over and he was hiding. He didn’t want to be a clown in front of any girl. Certainly not this girl. He gasped, and reached for his face in a panic, fearful he was hiding in the willow tree while still wearing a Green Hornet mask. That would make him a Bozo.

This wasn’t Joanie Atkins back in second grade, when he’d been disappointed to learn her family would be moving away in the summer. Like an idiot, he’d asked her if she was going with them. This was the end of fourth grade. Donna Fulton was popular. She had lots of friends, attracted lots of attention. She was the uncrowned queen of their class. Long blond hair. Shorter skirts this year, dark blue or plaid. One of those girls designated cute. Pretty. By others, not by Thad. He was positive he’d never had such a thought. Positive. Certain. Well, pretty sure. Girls were scary, and Donna Fulton was the scariest of all. Thad couldn’t meet her blue eyes without stammering. Unnerving.

Thad thought he didn’t mind the idea a girl might like him. As long as nobody knew. But he’d never admit such a thing, about Joanie Atkins or Donna Fulton or any other silly girl.

“Thad! Are you up there?” Tommy parted the drooping branches. Barney’s half-bark, half-howl announced he remained upset at the lack of attention he was receiving.

“Go away!” Thad hissed. In the same instant, he imagined the terrifying words his brother might next utter: There’s some girl here to see you.

“Mom says come wash up for supper,” Tommy said.

Thad let out a long breath. He grabbed an adjacent limb, swung forward, and dropped to the ground. He eased along the back of the house. What if Donna Fulton was inside? He peered around the corner. No strange cars in the driveway, no strange bicycles near the back porch. His heart raced as he crept up the steps. He nearly stepped on a toy soldier aiming a bazooka. He inched open the screen door, peeked inside.

“Thad?” He jumped, feared he’d wet himself before he realized it was his mother. “Stop dallying and wash up for supper. Is something wrong?”

Thad shook his head, and ran to wash his hands. He stared into the bathroom mirror. What is Donna Fulton doing? Why me?

Five-forty. Where was Donna Fulton? What if she showed up during supper, while he was trapped at the dining room table? Thad picked at his pot roast, potatoes, and carrots. He glanced out the window between nibbles. His father talked about having to go back to the salt mine in the morning. He always called his job at the Fisher Body plant the salt mine.

“Thad, what’s the matter?” his mother said as she refilled the tea glasses. “You’ve hardly touched your food.”

“I’m eating.” Thad took several bites in rapid succession in an effort to appear less suspicious. And he wasn’t about to risk not getting a piece of that cherry pie on the kitchen counter, not over some silly girl.

Thad practiced his flute after supper. He’d joined the band at the beginning of the school year, as had Donna Fulton who played oboe. And Max, who played trombone. He’d expected grief from Max and Dale when he was the only boy who chose to play flute, but they for once had surprised him. Max’s older brother told them about several famous jazz musicians who played flute—Thad had never heard of any of them—and his choice gained instant credibility.

Thad stopped every few bars to peek out his bedroom window. No sign of Donna Fulton. He was relieved, but also . . . disappointed? No, how could that be? Girls were unnerving. He changed into a clean shirt, and went into the living room to watch Bonanza with Tommy and his parents, part of their Sunday night routine.

“Why in the world did you change your shirt so late in the day?” his mother asked.

Thad studied his shirt and shrugged. “I don’t know.” He shrugged again.

His mother shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder about you.”

Thad leapt to his feet, and peered from the edge of the curtains whenever a car passed along the street. When one of the Leonard boys rode by on a mini-bike. When a car door slammed across the street at the Whitmans. Oh God, Ricky Whitman might see her. He was only a third-grader, but he’d blab. Worse yet, some of those sixth and seventh grade boys might be around, showing off for Sharon Whitman, playing chicken on their bikes.

Thad flinched when Tommy dropped a handful of marbles on the hardwood floor.

“Thad!” His father was adjusting the rabbit ears on the Zenith. “What’s the matter with you, son? Either sit still and watch TV, or go to your room so the rest of us can watch in peace.”

Thad retreated to the rocking chair, closer to the front door. Maybe Donna Fulton was playing a joke on him. She’d laugh at him tomorrow in school. Her girlfriends would snicker, point at him. His friends would notice, start asking questions. All downhill from there. Girls were so weird, so confounding.

No, wait! Maybe it wasn’t Donna Fulton at all! Yeah, that had to be it.

No, that couldn’t be it. Who else could it be? Another girl in his class playing a trick? He knew it wasn’t Gina Kellerman. He’d heard her voice on the phone when gathering the gang for a ballgame. And Thad was sure Gina Kellerman would never play such a trick. He wouldn’t care if Gina Kellerman came over though he was perplexed by the sudden notion. In a way, Gina Kellerman had been over, stopping at the edge of the driveway to talk while out riding her bike. Gina Kellerman wasn’t weird. Or unnerving. Or scary. Well, maybe a little bit scary.

Thad’s nerves settled as the evening passed and still no Donna Fulton. He had escaped. Donna Fulton hadn’t come over and ruined his life forever. But why not? And why did he care. Ugh. Girls.

Thad crawled out of bed the next morning after being called for the third time. He wolfed down two bowls of Sugar Smacks, brushed his teeth, grabbed his lunch box, flute, and math book, and plodded to the bus stop. He took his usual seat next to Calvin, at the front of the bus where the junior high kids wouldn’t bother them as long as they minded their own business.

Thad scanned the schoolyard as he stepped off the bus. No sign of Donna Fulton. Twenty minutes until the bell. He and Calvin and Dale and Max took turns seeing how high they could get a Superball to bounce. They’d lost one on the school roof a couple weeks before. Max entertained them with a near perfect imitation of their teacher, Mrs. Cox, who had encouraged him, said he had talent and might become an actor one day.

“Ben Fartright,” Dale had suggested as Max’s starring role.

“Arnold Ziffel’s understudy,” Calvin said.

Calvin threw the Superball against the school. It bounced over their heads. Gina Kellerman snared it as she walked past.

She flipped the ball to Thad. “Boys.”

Despite the grab, Gina Kellerman was dressed nothing at all like a shortstop. Shortstops didn’t wear short green skirts—matching her eyes—and boots. She thinks we’re doofuses, Thad thought—no, feared. He did not want Gina Kellerman to find out about the call from Donna Fulton. Donna Fulton! He’d been distracted. He scanned the schoolyard again, breathed a sigh of relief. Still no sign of Donna Fulton. Could he avoid her all day? The rest of the school year?

The bell rang. They trudged toward the door. And there she stood, Donna Fulton, blue skirt and white blouse, yellow hair barrette, looking straight at Thad. Terror rippled through him. His mouth was dry. This was the end. Humiliation was imminent. Why couldn’t he have been sick today? Maybe a couple days. Another bout of the chickenpox he had last year. That hadn’t been so bad.

Donna Fulton turned, and strolled into the building, talking to Veronica Larson. Not a word to Thad. Not even a look back to point or giggle.

Thad was flummoxed. Was she waiting to humiliate him in front of the entire class? She’d have to admit she called a boy. She wouldn’t. Would she? Girls. Thad drew a deep breath, and shuffled toward his classroom. His stomach tap-danced. His palms were sweating. He couldn’t stop licking his lips.

“What’s wrong with you?” Light reflected off Dale’s glasses. An expression of innocence bedecked his face, an expression Thad had learned not to trust for one second.

“Nothing,” Thad said. His cheeks were on fire. Dale had seen him watching Donna Fulton. But there was no chance Donna Fulton had told Dale anything. She thought Dale was a major-league nerd. Nerdenheimer, she called him.

Dale nodded. “Anything interesting happen this weekend?”

“No, nothing,” Thad quickly answered. Too quickly. His cheeks burned hotter. He avoided eye contact, certain Dale might read the entire story in his face.

“Any interesting telephone calls?”

Whack! Right upside the head. Dale knew. How? Thad’s life was over. In the next few minutes, his entire fourth grade class would learn Donna Fulton—a girl—had called Thad Ross at home. Had wanted to come over. As Thad watched his short life pass before him, Max spun around in the classroom doorway, grinning like a possum as Thad’s father would say.

“I’ll come over,” Max said.

Thad didn’t need to hear it over the telephone. Max’s imitations. Dale and Max doubled over laughing as they ran to their desks. Dale squinted at Thad, slapped his desktop, and guffawed so hard he had to wipe snot from his nose.

“Buttheads,” Thad muttered. “Stegosaurus brains.”

He plodded down the aisle, past Donna Fulton, who ignored him as she did every day. He slid into his desk, next to Gina Kellerman, who was doodling on the paper cover on her science textbook.

“They can be such Bozos, can’t they?” Gina Kellerman said without looking up. She continued doodling. Donna Fulton looked askance at Dale and Max, never glanced Thad’s way.

Girls were weird. Baffling. Girls were incomprehensible. Confounding. Girls were . . . no, that was ridiculous. Ridiculous piled on top of ridiculous. Girls were . . . intriguing? Ridiculous. Where did such a preposterous idea come from? Ridiculous.

Thad feared his bewilderment, this newfound intrigue—ridiculous!—concerning Donna Fulton and Gina Kellerman was not going away. But at least today was not the day some silly girl would ruin his life forever. Relief washed over him. He felt better. Much better. But not nearly as good as he expected.