Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

The locks bolted behind me. I released a bout of vapor through my nostrils and hugged my loot to my chest. It was only nine o’clock. Whit would be fine.

I looked left and searched the patch of trees for the peeping toms. I stepped from the porch, rounded the corner of the house, and saw my bike beside the lamppost, safe and sound.

A paper football fluttered from the sky. It landed with a delicate crunch in the dead grass at my feet, and somewhere above me, a window slid shut. I stooped down to read the words scrawled in blue highlighter: “FOR THE BOY.”

Part of me longed for the night to be over, to jump on my bike, process my adventure, and tell Whit all about it from the safety of his basement bedroom. The other part wanted to wait, to snatch the origami triangle and to revel in whatever words the pretty girl intended for me--

The tackle came from the right. Pain ruptured my side and the camera popped from my arms as I hit the ground. I flailed my fists at my shadowed attacker. We tussled. He wailed his fists into my shoulders. I tried to wiggle away, but he had me trapped.

When he thought I was down for good, he lunged for the note but I kicked out my foot at the perfect moment, caught his ankle, and he tripped--elbows first--onto the pouch that held my brand-new camera. CRUNCH.

My eyes stung but I held back the tears. I stood. Before my adversary could scramble away, I dropped my fat knee into his lower back and pinned him to the ground. His arm was limp but his fingers clenched my note like a steel claw. “Let it go,” I growled while working the full weight of my body into his lower spine. “Let. It. Go.”

“Uncle!” he cried and his fingers uncoiled and released the paper football. I pushed his head to the grass and crawled over his body, then I took the note, ripped the camera from under his chest, and gathered the scattered rolls of film. Just as I stepped toward my bike, the boy looked up from the dust and I saw his face for the first time.

It was A.J.

His dirt-smeared mouth dropped when he saw my face. He stood. He ran.

I dumped my soiled treasure in my bike's basket and peddled through the moonlit subdivision until I found a safe place to breathe; a place where I could read the note; a place where that house wasn’t watching me.

Savoring the suspense, I unhinged every adorable fold of the letter. The number “31” was scrawled in the bottom left corner. I was right: curly penmanship.

“10:00. Back window.

Boys will be gone but watch the bushes.

My name is Mara.

Whats yours?”

*  *  *

The grass was wet but I didn't care. I plopped on my stomach beside the foundation of the Conrad home and rapped on Whit's tiny window.

My friend was in bed below me. He used a broom handle to hit the latch and I stuck my head inside.

“Where the H.E. double--”

“You won't believe me when I tell you. But I can't stay--”

“Mom came down twice! I had to say you were in the bathroom! We're in such deep shit if--”

“Big whoop! I'll be back in no time!”

“Where you goin’?”

“I’ll tell ya later. Just cover for me a little longer?”

Whit shook his head. “Didja at least get the camera?”

I stuck the bag through the window and dropped it on Whit's chest, then I reached in my pocket and pulled a ten from the wad of cash. “Got it for free. Might be broke already, but I'll check when I get back. I'll hurry!” I pulled the window shut before he could protest, then I hopped on my bike and barreled back down the empty streets.

*  *  *

I hit the brakes and listened for any indication of boys in trees before dismounting my ride. My calves burned and I was sweating like a bacon-wrapped water chestnut. Panting, I leaned the bike against the bushes and--

“Holy macaroni!” I snapped my hand back and sucked my fingertip. Blood. I stooped down and peered through the needles to find what bit me. The fancy bushes were laced with barbed wire.

“Psst!”

I looked up.

It was Mara. She held her finger to her lips. “Shh.”

I nodded and mouthed, “Okay!”

She disappeared into her room and I felt a ping of sick in my throat. A white bed sheet flew from the window, fanned out, and drifted to the side of the house. The girl was holding the top corner. When I saw her, the sickness faded.

She held up her finger and mouthed, “Just a minute!” then tied the corner onto something below the sill. The sheet thinned into a homemade rope and the tip brushed the booby-trapped bush.

I shook my head, pointed to the rope and whispered loudly, “I can't climb that!”

She rolled her eyes and hoisted a picnic basket over her shoulder. In one swift motion she grabbed the rope, hurdled the window frame, and shimmied down the siding like Mary Jane with Spiderman’s powers. I winced as she neared the bushes, but she planted her feet against the wall with deft timing, pushed off, and landed on the ground unscathed.

Whoa.

“So?” she said.

“So what?”

“I told you my name, silly. What's yours?”

“Oh. James.”

Mara grinned. She had dimples. She wasn't wearing the footie pajamas, but light-blue jeans and a purple sweatshirt. Her hair was back in a ponytail. I wanted to hug.

“Afraid of heights?” she asked and looked to the trees. Her neck was a sweet caress. Shadows from the batting moths turned her skin to lace.

“Nope,” I said. “I love climbing trees.”

She grabbed my hand. That simple touch unleashed a potent current as if our bodies were opposite ends of a battery. As we ran to the woods hand-in-hand, the kinetic charge struck a pair of contradictory chords: an barrage of self-doubt and a feeling of unconditional acceptance. I felt the earth tremble beneath my trampling girth, but the sense of inadequacy was matched by an unspoken understanding that Mara didn't care about my weight. I watched the effortless curves of her jeans as she ran and became acutely aware of my pepperoni nipples chaffing against my tee. My pits and back and butt were drenched... her body probably didn't know what a sweat gland was. But despite my sudden desire to fix my despicable body, I knew she liked me anyway.

Mara stopped beneath the tree with the tallest column of rungs. Basket in hand, she started to climb. “Watch for rusty nails,” she called back.

“Okie-dokie,” I replied. Okie-dokie? Uhg.

She giggled.

A wooden platform was wedged between three branches where the trunk split. It was barely large enough for the two of us, but our knees would have to touch in order to fit, so I didn't mind the squeeze.

The basket was open when I reached the top. Mara removed a flashlight, a box of Ritz crackers, and a circle of brie, then placed them on the particleboard between us.

“Cheese and crackers,” she said. “It's all I could find.”

“Looks good. I'm starvin'.”

“Meee too.” She un-crinkled the crackers and took out a knife.

“It's awesome up here,” I marveled, then glanced up and noticed that our ceiling was a cluster of dead twigs. The nearby trees still created a lush ring of leaves, but the branches on our tree were bare. I followed the black curve of the sickly trunk, then grabbed Mara's flashlight and switched it on. The beam made a circle on the tree's rugged skin and illuminated the letters “M” and “L” cut repeatedly into the bark. I traced the beam from the base of our platform up to the highest twig... thousands of jagged initials spiraled the trunk and choked the tree in an onslaught of “M.L.M.L.M.L.M.L.”

“My middle name is Lynn...” she said, her eyes turned down as she spread cheese on a Ritz.

I turned off the flashlight, accepted the snack, and tried to ignore the eerie presence of our strangled sanctuary.