a pachuco, but he was white and Episcopalian like Hannah. With his chewed-down fingernails he picked at the clusters of white-capped pimples on his chin and forehead.
“Your girlfriends ain’t comin’,” he said. “I seen ’em up by the flume.”
“You lie.”
Billy grinned. Without a shirt on, his pale torso looked soft and feminine. She tried not to stare at his pointy pink nipples. He looked more like a girl than she did.
“Pool’s open,” he said. “How come you didn’t go? I seen you there another time. You swim good.”
She shrugged.
“That friend of yours, the one with the braces? She’s a good diver.”
“She took lessons.”
“I could dive from here.” Billy teetered on the edge of the root saddle, giggling.
“You better be careful.”
He made a face.
She caught the Tangee bottle in her fist and slipped it into the World War II khaki pack that held lunch.
“Whatcha got?”
Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, oatmeal cookies and bananas, but it wasn’t Billy Phillips’s business.
“How long ago did you see ’em?” she asked.
“Couple hours.”
“Now I know you’re lying, Billy. We were just talking on the phone then.”
Billy patted the pocket of his blue jeans. “I got something.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Betcha can’t guess what.”
“Betcha I don’t care,” she said. “Whatever it is, you probably stole it.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Mrs. Watson at Green’s Drug told my ma you and your girlfriends’ll probably end up in San Quentin the way you snitch stuff.”
“She never.”
He laughed.
“Shut up, Billy. You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you want to know what I got?”
Hannah said, sarcastically, “I could not care less.”
“What if I said it was something of yours.”
“You’d be lying.”
“What if I said it was outa your bedroom.”
“You’ve never even been upstairs at my house.”
His laugh sounded like he was gagging for air.
She stood up. “You can just show me what it is or you can leave, Billy Phillips. You’re not even supposed to be down here.”
“It’s a free country. Who says I ain’t supposed to be down here?”
Hannah had heard her mother say if Mrs. Phillips was smart she’d never let Billy out of her sight. “Are you sure they were going to the flume?”
“That fat one—”
“She is not fat!”
“The one with hair like Nancy in the comics. She had smokes in her pocket.”
“You make me sick the way you lie.”
Billy looked up into the branches of the oak. “I bet if I was to climb up there, I could jump clear out to where the water’s deep.”
Hannah buckled her brown leather sandals and gathered up the army pack, slinging it over her shoulder. “You do that and then write me a letter. I’ll try to remember to read it.” She leaped across the space between her rock and the shore and scrambled up the path.
“Where you going?”
“Crazy,” Hannah said. “Wanna come along?”
He grabbed her arm.
“Get your cooties off me!”
He squeezed her wrist so her bones hurt.
“I’m gonna tell.”
“Yeah? Well, I could tell your ma some things about you and your girlfriends.”
“You better let me go, Billy.” Hannah wanted to ask him what he knew but more than that, she wanted to get away from him. Their raised voices had attracted the attention of the crows. A pair scolded them from the branch of a sycamore across the creek.
“I seen you down here actin’ like movie stars with your shirts tied up around your chi-chis.”
He grabbed at the Debra Paget front of her shirt and yanked it undone. With her free hand, she tried to hold it together. In her ears, a ringing began like the song of the cicadas.
“You’re in big trouble now,” Hannah said, tugging away from him. “I’ll tell my father.”
He grabbed for her again; and she kicked his shin and told herself not to be frightened—it was only dumb old Billy Phillips—but panic nipped at her anyway. She kicked again, but he was ready for her and stepped back so she lost her balance and would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her wrist again.
“I seen you plenty of times down here when you didn’t know I was lookin’.”
“You can go to jail for that. That’s spying.” She snarled the worst thing she could think of. “Commie.”
“Look in my pocket. Go ahead. I dare you.”
Her fingers were numb and tingled.
“You’re hurting me.”
“Put your hand in there,” he said.
“I don’t want to.” She began to cry.
Billy snorted. He shook her hard by the arm and she hiccupped. “Put your hand in.”
Her fingers touched the frayed edge of his denim pants pocket.
“What you think you’re gonna feel? Mr. Pinky?”
“Shut your nasty mouth, Billy.”
“You want me to let you go, you gotta . . .” Hannah squeezed her eyes shut and put her fingers into his pants pocket up to the middle knuckle. She felt something silky.
“Go on.”
“My underpants!”
It was one of her Seven Days of the Week panties. Her mother had printed her name on the elastic band with a laundry marker when she went on the day camp overnight. She thought of her mother, hanging out the wash and talking to Mrs. Phillips over the fence, thought of Billy’s hands on her shirts and shorts and underpants. She didn’t think, she just shoved the panties back at him.
“You stole these off the line, you dirty creep. I’ll tell your mother. You’re gonna get in so much trouble—”
His hand clamped over her mouth. “Wanna see Mr. Pinky spit up?”
She bit his palm. Surprised, he jerked his hand back. Her first scream rang through the woods.
Up in the field by the old chicken coop, Jeanne and Liz stopped walking. Liz was plump with her dark hair cut in a Dutch-boy style. Jeanne, a full head taller, chewed on a pigtail and talked through a mouthful of braces.
“That was a scream.” Jeanne’s S’s whistled.
Another scream, like diesel brakes on the long,