I was wearing clean khaki pants that I’d pressed myself, and a short-sleeved white shirt. And a necktie. Probably overkill, but that was me at fourteen. Overkill Boy.
Besides, I knew I was going to have to meet her parents first. She’d told me.
Libby answered the door, and the way she smiled at me made my knees wobbly. I had to pay attention to standing steady.
She was wearing her hair long and straight, falling around her shoulders, and a peachy-colored, off-the-shoulders light dress, like a sundress. It had high short sleeves and a short skirt, and once again I had to work hard not to stare at the wrong places.
“Sorry about this,” she said, tossing her head back over her shoulder to indicate something in the house behind her. I knew what she meant. She was embarrassed that her parents insisted on meeting me. “They’re kind of old-fashioned that way.”
“It’s not a problem,” I said.
She stepped back and I walked in.
It was true and it wasn’t true, what I’d said. I understood her parents wanting to meet me. She was their only daughter. And who was I, after all? It was a small town, of course, so I wasn’t a literal stranger to them. They probably could have picked me out of a crowd and told you my name and who my parents were, along with what my father did for a living. But we had never sat down and talked, so I guess they weren’t sure enough of who I had grown up to be. So I got where they were coming from. But it was a problem—to me, anyway. It made me so nervous that, if I made the mistake of stopping to think about it, I felt like my seams were unraveling all down the inside of me.
I took a deep breath and followed her into the living room. And I forcefully put all the fear and insecurity stuff aside. Just locked it out for the time being.
Her parents stood to greet me, and I stepped up to each one of them, starting with her mom, and shook their hands with pretend confidence.
“Mrs. Weller,” I said. “Pleased to meet you.”
I was careful that my grip was firm when shaking her father’s hand. Not aggressive or challenging. Just firm.
“Mr. Weller. Pleased to meet you.”
They motioned for me to sit.
I perched on the edge of the couch, trying to look less nervous than I felt, and Libby sat close to my left hip.
“So you’re Bart and Ellie Painter’s boy,” her father said. He was smoking a filterless cigarette, high up in the crook between his first and second fingers, and it was burning dangerously low.
“Yes, sir.”
“How are your parents?”
“Very good, sir. Thank you for asking.”
They weren’t very good. They were never very good. But that’s not what you say when a grown-up asks.
“And you’re their older boy?”
Libby’s mother answered for me. She was sitting in a stuffed wing chair with wild paisley upholstery, smoothing her skirt with her hands as though she just realized she’d forgotten to iron it.
“No, honey, their older boy is Leroy and he’s overseas. Remember?”
“Oh, that’s right. Sorry, son. I have trouble keeping the local boys straight. You know our Darren just got home from overseas.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I did know about that.”
“I guess word gets around,” he said. Then he let an awkward pause fall. “Well, enough pleasantries. Let’s get right down to it. What will you two young people be doing when you walk out our door tonight?”
“Well, sir. We’re going to walk down to the bus stop on the corner. Catch the thirty-three line into Blaine and get off at the Triplex Theater. See a movie. Afterwards we can get a soda or an ice cream if Libby wants one. And then I’ll bring her right home. Shouldn’t be later than nine thirty or ten, even with the soda.”
“And what are you planning to see?” Mrs. Weller asked.
“I was thinking we’d see that Herbie the Love Bug movie. About the car that . . .” I still didn’t remember exactly what the car did that was so different. But it was no ordinary car. “. . . kind of has a mind of its own.”
Mrs. Weller sat back in her chair in a gesture that I can only describe as satisfied. She had been leaning slightly forward, as if grilling me. And the grilling had just ended.
I had passed the test.
“Well, I think that’s a very good choice,” she said. “I’ve heard it’s funny. And it’s a very wholesome film. I think it speaks well of you to choose it. I was afraid you were going to say you intended to see that awful slasher movie.”
“Oh, no, ma’am. I don’t like all the blood and gore.”
“You two have a good time, then,” Mr. Weller said. Which meant I had passed his test as well.
A silence fell, but it wasn’t awkward. It was peaceful and encouraging. As if nothing more needed to be said.
In that moment I was filled with a feeling. I doubt I had words for it at the time, but even then I could’ve told you it had something to do with Zoe Dinsmore.
I have words for it now. Zoe Dinsmore had solved the riddle of the movie for me. And now, having won Libby’s parents’ approval with that choice, I felt as though Mrs. Dinsmore had pressed a key into my hand, and that key had just opened up some secret part of the universe that had always been a mystery to me. Sounds like an exaggeration, but I guess you’d have to know how utterly baffled I’d been by life up until then.
A movement caught my eye, and I looked up to see Darren leaning in the doorway to the living room. The movement had been his final hop.
He had no crutches with him, and he was wearing only white boxer shorts and a short-sleeved white undershirt. My eyes went straight down to his missing leg.
