It was exactly the kind of stunt I could see a bright but unstable teenage girl devising, until she was inevitably caught. As the week progressed, small observations kept fueling the uncertainty. The fact that I only heard from Jean at night, when Madison was home. The fact that Madison kept yawning after Jean and I had our first late-night exchange. The fact that she delivered the classic X-Men comic herself, then demanded I thank her mother by e-mail. That was certainly a chin-scratcher.
Like Jean, I often tortured myself with dark, exotic notions, but this one never kept me up at night. It certainly didn’t stop my relationships from evolving. And the more I got to know them both, the quieter my theories became.
But then Jean had to shake the whole damn tree, just moments ago, with her bizarrely suggestive rant about what her little girl would do if only I asked. Her grim supposition instantly resurrected mine, only now that I knew those two, now that I cherished my rapport with both mother and daughter, the thought was downright terrifying. It was enough to make me queasy.
[mrvl_girl] Wow, Scott. I’m not sure how to take that.
[pr_demon] Try it with a grain of salt.
[mrvl_girl] No. Still doesn’t wash. Either you think she’s amazingly mature for her age or I’m amazingly immature for mine.
[pr_demon] I didn’t say I believed it. I just said it was a fear.
[mrvl_girl] So then for the record, you do not believe, assume, or hope that you are electronically flirting with a 13-year-old girl.
[pr_demon] I thought we weren’t flirting.
[mrvl_girl] Oh wake up. We’re flirting like mad. We’re just not escalating.
[pr_demon] Maybe I should read more carefully.
[mrvl_girl] Maybe you should answer me.
[pr_demon] NO. I DO NOT BELIEVE, ASSUME, OR HOPE THAT I AM ELECTRONICALLY FLIRTING WITH A 13-YEAR-OLD GIRL.
[mrvl_girl] And if it turns out you are?
[pr_demon] Is that a confession?
[mrvl_girl] It’s a query.
[pr_demon] Okay. To answer your query: I’d be upset and angry.
[mrvl_girl] How upset and how angry?
[pr_demon] Upset enough to kick you out of my life and angry enough not to miss you. Is that a satisfactory answer?
She took a few long beats to process my words.
[mrvl_girl] You know what? It is. Wow.
[pr_demon] Good.
[mrvl_girl] I really, really believe you, Scott.
[pr_demon] Glad to hear it.
[mrvl_girl] Yeah. Wow. You just killed my biggest fear. You don’t know how happy that makes me. I mean it. I’m crying a little.
[pr_demon] I swear, woman, you get stranger by the minute.
[mrvl_girl] Would you like me to kill your biggest fear? Or are you willing to take on faith that I am not my own teenage daughter?
[pr_demon] I don’t think you’re Madison!!
[mrvl_girl] Yes, but there’s still that tiny seed of doubt in your mind. I can see it. I can kill it.
[pr_demon] You can prove you’re not Madison.
[mrvl_girl] I can prove it in four words. No, make it five.
[pr_demon] Five words, huh?
[mrvl_girl] I’m giving you a choice: proof or faith. What will it be?
[pr_demon] I don’t know. I’m tempted to say “proof,” but it feels like the wrong answer.
[mrvl_girl] This isn’t a quiz show, Scott. I’m only asking for your benefit.
[pr_demon] Yeah but I can’t imagine anyone choosing faith over proof.
[mrvl_girl] Neither could I. But I just mustered up some faith in you and it feels REALLY good. Care to try some?
[pr_demon] No. I’ll take the proof.
[mrvl_girl] You sure now?
[pr_demon] I’m sure.
[mrvl_girl] You want the proof then.
[pr_demon] If it’s not too much trouble.
[mrvl_girl] It’s not. But I’d be remiss in not giving you one last chance to back out.
[pr_demon] I’m not backing out! Will you give me the damn proof already?!
[mrvl_girl] Okay! I’ll be right over!
She disconnected. The lower half of my screen went blank. For a minute I sat there, staring at my laptop like an idiot, wondering why she couldn’t just deliver her proof through the computer. Then I reread her last five words. Damn. I guess she did. Whatever made me think I was dealing with an adolescent? This woman was far too smart to be a child in disguise. This woman was smarter than me.
________________
For the eighth time in seven days, Marvel Girl pulled up in front of my building. She left the lights on and the motor running. She didn’t get out. I watched her through the window. Why was she just sitting there?
Soon my old but trusty cell phone emitted a short series of beeps. I pulled it off the kitchen counter. I had a new text message.
You coming or what?
I had no idea what she had in store for me, but I liked the way she spared me the thorny issue of inviting her in. By no means did I want her in my duplex. I didn’t want her by my stairs. I didn’t want her any where near the concept of escalation. Apparently the feeling was mutual. That was all I needed to know before putting my night in her hands.
After clutching my wallet and keys, I took a somber look at my other cellular — the Bat-Phone, that red, clunky, overembellished rigamajig that had come to symbolize my secret relationship with Harmony. I’d been carrying it around all week like a ten-pound sack of flour. For God’s sake, it was Saturday night. The news flow was just a trickle, and Harmony was rich in friends. Wouldn’t it be nice to leave the phone behind for once? To leave her behind?
No. With my luck, Harmony would need me the minute I became inaccessible. I was already two steps in the doghouse with her. I couldn’t afford any more mistakes. I took her with me.
As I approached the SUV, I could see the inscrutable Mrs. Spelling smiling at me through her window. I hadn’t laid eyes on her since last Saturday, back when she was little more than a bad driver, a worried mother and, naturally, a Deaf Woman. Now that I had at least eighty more colorful terms to describe her, she looked completely different to me. She was still forcibly cute in that Katie Comic/chipmunk sort of way, but there was a deep intricacy to her face that I had definitely missed before. It made her almost impenetrable. She was what Katie Couric might look like in a weird and cathartic mood. She was the world’s most complicated chipmunk.
At the moment, her face was dedicated to making fun of me. Feigning confusion, she lowered her window and flashed me her handheld.
Madison said I had to rush over here. Any idea what this is about?
“Read my lips: you’re not funny.”
She grinned and jerked her thumb at the passenger seat. Get in.
“And where are you taking me, exactly?”
She didn’t catch that. Another thing I’d learned from her this past week: lipreading was hard. The human mouth was nowhere near as versatile as the human throat. Many word sounds were doubled, tripled, quadrupled in a single phoneme. Even veteran readers like Jean still routinely missed or misread at least twenty-five percent of everything said. Try….sing or mass-reeding……twenty-five….cent of everything ridden. Not fun, is it?
So when she motioned again, I shut up and followed. As I closed the door, Jean turned on the interior light. She was wearing a sleeveless white blouse, turquoise capri pants, and old white sneakers. Her short black hair was held back by a plastic green hairband. She was dressed more for a day of spring cleaning than a night on the town. Okay, so she wasn’t exactly a fashion template, but there was something wonderful about the way she existed in her own continuum, far beyond the reach of Marie Claire and Laura Ashley. None of her insecurities, none of her neuroses were media fueled. She was her very own mess.