And…I’ll take you out to the island tomorrow. Now stand up so I can straighten that tie of yours. You should wear blue more often. Come on little bro, I’ll race you to the car.”

Noah shouted,” I’m riding shotgun,” shoved Joe hard and made a beeline for the door.

Two pairs of feet thudded along the hallway, thundered down the stairs, through the living room and out into the night.

Noah gasped, “I beat you Joe,” pulled the car door open and slid in beside his father, tilted the side mirror, stared at his reflection and tried to plaster his unruly, dirty brown cow-lick down with a spit covered right hand. After fussing and flattening for ten minutes, he let out a sigh, gave it up as a lost cause and sat in silence until they reached the Jorgenson’s.

He grumbled, “Do I have to go in?”

Helen’s cry of welcome drowned out Joe’s reply. “Come on Joey,” she shouted. “Come on and meet the gang. The girls are dying to meet you. You can talk to them, but remember tonight you belong to me.”

Loud music mixed with excited laughter, mingling with happy voices, streamed out the open window, flowed out the wide doorway, spilled over the front lawn, surrounding Noah with its mesmerizing rhythm.
Against his will, against his every instinct not to have a good time, his feelings of being inferior, of somehow being less than everyone else here began to fade and he surrendered to the magic. He knew with a certainty beyond all reason that tonight would be the best night of their vacation, perhaps the best night ever.

His voice broke into a squeak when he called, “Helen where’s Analee?”

Her laughing, scornful answer, “She’s in the living-room with the rest of the kids,” didn’t dim his spirits.

Not even her loud whispered, “You had to bring him, didn’t you,” could make him angry.

Joe’s booming laughter filled the small bedroom, rattling the windows, sliding underneath the windowsill into the darkness. “I didn’t mean right now, little bro, we have a party to go to.”
Noah shifted his eyes away from the steady gaze and mumbled, “I’m not going to that darn old party.”

“Not going? What do you mean you’re not going? Just why aren’t you going?”

Noah shouted, “Because they don’t want me there. Because Analee…….” He opened the scribbler to an unmarked page and shrugged off the hand resting on his narrow shoulder.

“Come on kid, don’t be such a spoilsport.”

A loud, “No,” came from between clenched teeth and fire filled his eyes.

“You’re going, because I’m not going to let one of your pouting fits spoil my fun. Please Noah, if you come you can have my knife, my rod and reel too.

The picture fell out of nerveless fingers, landed face down on the polished surface. Noah sucked air into his heaving lungs, picked up the picture without looking, and set it in its proper place.

Hands still shaking bypassed the yearbook, bypassed the glasses glaring at him, hovered over the scrapbook for a moment, picked it up and flipped through to the last page. Noah looked at Joe’s one and only, quite poor attempt at poetry, laughed quietly and read. “Oh Helen/your angel face would launch more than a thousand ships.

How I hunger to taste your lips. I’ll willingly surrender to your promised bliss. I’d give all I’ll ever posses/for a moment of your sweet tenderness.”

Once again Noah was transported away from the room, away from the sadness, away from bitter reality.
“What are you doing squirt?”

The chewed up pencil stub dropped from Noah’s hands, landed without making a noise beside the dog-eared, wrinkled up scribbler.

Joe scooped up the scribbler, thumbed through the pages and read, “Analee, oh my sweet Analee/with thee I long to be/you’re eyes dim the glory of the stars/you’re smile enchants me/captivates me,” in a mocking way. Half way through, his voice softened, filled up with a grudging respect and a sharp whistle split the air, “Not half bad, not half bad at all. I wish I could write like this.” Pleading filled his deep grey eyes, “Will you write a poem for me to read to Helen when you have time?”

Noah’s left hand picked up the bit of pencil, a pink tongue licked the lead.

The picture fell out of nerveless fingers, landed face down on the polished surface. Noah sucked air into his heaving lungs, picked up the picture without looking, and set it in its proper place.

Hands still shaking bypassed the yearbook, bypassed the glasses glaring at him, hovered over the scrapbook for a moment, picked it up, and flipped through to the last page. Noah looked at Joe’s one and only, quite poor attempt at poetry, laughed quietly and read. “Oh Helen/your angel face would launch more than a thousand ships. How I hunger to taste your lips. I’ll willingly surrender to your promised bliss. I’d give all I’ll ever posses/for a moment of your sweet tenderness.”

Once again Noah was transported away from the room, away from the sadness, away from bitter reality.

“What are you doing squirt?”

The chewed up pencil stub dropped from Noah’s hands, landed without making a noise beside the dog-eared, wrinkled up scribbler.

Joe scooped up the scribbler, thumbed through the pages and read, “Analee, oh my sweet Analee/with thee I long to be/you’re eyes dim the glory of the stars/you’re smile enchants me/captivates me,” in a mocking way. Half way through, his voice softened, filled up with a grudging respect and a sharp whistle split the air, “Not half bad, not half bad at all. I wish I could write like this.” Pleading filled his deep grey eyes, “Will you write a poem for me to read to Helen when you have time?”

Noah’s left hand picked up the bit of pencil, a pink tongue licked the lead.

Joe’s booming laughter filled the small bedroom, rattling the windows, sliding underneath the windowsill into the darkness. “I didn’t mean right now, little bro, we have a party to go to.”