Chapter 3: A Cigar on a Hot Day

            “You look green,” Aaron said.

            “I feel green.”

Justine concentrated on the bees buzzing on clover blossoms in the Bermuda grass. Cooper lay flat on his side and occasionally whipped his head up, snapping at air. Good thing for him he didn’t connect. His efforts lacked impact. At least he didn’t get hurt.

Like I care!

Aaron sat cross-legged, mirroring her but for his hairy, white legs and bony feet. He’d cut off the legs of a pair of faded jeans at the knee. The rest of him matched her tan,  a golden olive-brown against his white t-shirt. He exhaled three bold smoke rings.

She’d seen him take the cigar out of Dad’s humidor right in front of Mom, who hadn’t said a word.

In an attempt to escape the cigar smoke hovering in the still, hot afternoon air, Justine lay on her back and looked up. Soon these sycamore leaves would die from the cold or from some inner wisdom and fall. Aaron would not be here to rake them into piles like he used to. And she was too old for leaf jumping.

The smell of Dad’s grapes, two rows of a forgotten farming venture, made her stomach roll, that fermented syrupy smell.

            Yet she took the cigar from Aaron, using her thumb and only two fingers, the way he told her to do it.

“Careful, – “

“I know,” she snapped. She placed the moist cigar between her lips – pulling more than sucking. She knew the words and tried to be careful not to let it get past her mouth like she had last time and the time before that. She tried to pull some smoke into her mouth.

“Not too much.”

She made the ring with her lips. She blew.

            “Like this.” Aaron leaned over her, made the oval with his lips and pushed his curved tongue out in quick succession. “Don’t forget the tongue.”

            She’d forgotten the tongue.

            “That’s what I’m doing,” she lied.

            Justine took another pull, made a bigger O, and stuck her tongue forward like he had. At least it came out in spurts.

            “Who will attend to my delinquency when you’re gone?”

            Justine’s spurts grew smaller and more defined with each try.

            “You’re getting it,” Aaron said.

            “I’ll be on my way to college by the time you come home.”

            He took the cigar from her and lay down on his back, one arm behind his head.

Justine leaned over onto her elbow and watched him blow perfect little smoke rings, one after the other. She adjusted her shirt so she couldn’t feel the sweat-soaked armpits. Aaron’s army t-shirt, the one he’d given her when he was packing covered more skin than her shorts, felt all big and cozy, like pjs.  

            “Dad says you made a big mistake,” she said.

            “Father knows best.”

            “What’d you do it for, drop out of school?”

            “Somebody has to care what’s going on in this country.”

            “Don’t be so uptight about it. If you don’t want to talk about it, far out, man” Justine said.

            “‘Far out, man.’ Don’t talk slang like that, Justine.”

            “Driving a car, I’m to act like a man, but now you want me to act like a lady?”

            “Touché, little missy. Listen, Dad wants me to be a lawyer. Both of us. Rid the Central Valley of injustice from behind a desk.”

            The sweat beaded up above his lip, little sparkling bubble beads.  

            “Let’s go to the river,” she said.

            He’d taken her to Three Rivers almost every day since he’d been home on leave. It only took 45 minutes to get to where they parked at the side of the road and hiked down to the river. A well-known spot, they always ran into someone he knew.

Maybe Jesse would be there.

            “Dad’s knocking off early,” Aaron said, “and I have something I have to do before he gets home.”

            “Dad’s coming home early?”

            Aaron sat back up and faced her, handed her the cigar.

            “Shocking, isn’t it?”

            “You bet my sweet bippy,” she said.

            “Seriously, about you being a senior, little missy. Make me proud?”

            “I’m the shy, quiet sibling, remember?”

            “I want exciting letters, not boring accounts of being stood up.”

            “Shut up.”

            “What,” Aaron said, grabbing the cigar, waving it like Groucho Marx. “How many times did he stand up for you?”

            Justine laughed at his joke even though his impersonation wasn’t even close to funny. That’s what girls were supposed to do and she knew it. Laugh at their jokes.

            “After I come home, we can double date,” Aaron said, pulling a dandelion and blowing. Spinning seeds danced in a cloud of smoke across the lawn.

            “Double date?”

            “You and Jesse. Maybe me. Maybe me and Lori.”

            “Lori?” she said. “I don’t know what her trip is.”

            “Yeah, what happened to you two?” Aaron asked, taking a puff and offering the cigar.

            “I’m done with that,” Justine said, waving cigar smoke away. “I’m done with her, too.”

            “Lori?”

“She’s a jerk.”

“You didn’t used to think so.”

He’s right.

            They’d been best friends as long as she could remember, made crossing the street from one house to the other like walking down a hallway.

            “I think she’s dating someone,” she said. “Or something. She’s changed.”

            “Speaking of dating,” Aaron said, “if any guy ever says to you that you look like his sister, don’t believe him. Guys want only one thing, little missy. Remember that.”

            “Are you like that?”

            “I don’t want you having to marry some jerk,” he said.

            “Just want me friends with a jerk,” she teased. “Don’t worry. I’m never getting married.”

            “I’m serious, Justine.”

            “God, why doesn’t anyone ever say, ‘Girls just want one thing’?”

            “They do,” he said. “To get married.”

            Aaron knocked her elbow out from under her.

            “Life won’t be the same without you,” Justine said, jumping up.

            “You know you’re gunna miss me.”

            “I’ll miss your record player.”

            “Use it as often as you like,” he said. 

            Aaron stood up and stood next to Justine. They stood together, facing the off-white stucco wall of the back of the house, the circle he’d painted where they’d practiced pitching baseballs faded but visible. Through the window, their mother in the laundry room. 

            “She used to set Kool-Aid out for us,” Aaron said.

            “Right there on the stoop,” Justine said.

            “Does she even cook anymore?” he asked.

            Mom had changed and she hadn’t even gone anywhere. Would Vietnam change Aaron?

            “She’s liberated,” Justine said, shrugging her shoulders. Then she grabbed Aaron’s arm, twisted it as hard as she could, and pulled it behind him. He laughed, which was what guys were supposed to do – laugh at a girl’s weakness. Her strength no match for his, she threw her sweaty arms around his sweaty neck and swung up onto his back, wrapping her legs tight around his middle. Aaron leaned forward and exaggerated his walk, groaning and grunting, toward the house where he leaned down and spilled her onto the stoop.

            I’m going to miss you.

            Justine’s throat tightened. She yanked open the door.

            “Dibs on the bathroom,” she yelled over her shoulder.

            “First one there,” Aaron shouted.

            “No running,” their mother said as they raced past her in the laundry room, knocking the hamper over.

            Justine let Aaron take his shower first even after beating him to the bathroom. She wanted to go after, to soak in a bathtub full of cool water. She needed to think.

Following in Aaron’s footsteps, since she didn’t come close to fitting in his footsteps, would be flat out hell this year. It wasn’t just Mr. Trujillo, everyone one of her teachers had had Aaron before—the curse of a small town. The English teacher had already told her how much she was looking forward to having “Aaron’s sister.” That’s what they called her: “Aaron’s sister.”

            Do they even know my name?

            She might look like him, but she didn’t charm like he charmed. She wasn’t at all like Aaron. No teacher had ever adored her.

            “Justine.” It was her mother. “Someone else might want to use the bathroom.”

            “Be out in a minute.”

            “That’s what you said ten minutes ago, dear.”

            Justine flicked the drain and stepped onto the bathmat. After toweling dry, she grabbed her robe from the hook on the back of the door. The chenille felt soft against her damp skin. She opened the door but went back to swirl the water out of the bathtub so there’d be no ring.

            “Here come de judge.”

            “I’m leaving it clean, Dad.”

            Walter Baker leaned his head down next to hers, pretending to scrutinize the tub. Justine kissed him on the top of his head, every hair in place even after work.

            “Mmmm,” she said. “Brillcream.”

            “A little dab’ll do ya,” Aaron sang, coming into the bathroom.

            “You’re wearing that?” Justine stared at his crisp, khaki dress uniform.

            “Someone get the door,” Mom yelled from the master bedroom.

            “I’m taking a shower,” Dad yelled back, “if you two would be so kind as to clear out.”

            “Did you hear the doorbell?” Justine squeezed behind her brother, who stood admiring his reflection in the mirror.

            “ESP,” Aaron said.

            On cue, all three hummed the theme from The Twilight Zone.