A Penny on the Tracks Read online

  “Are you happy now, Asshole?” I asked him.

  “Nice little girls aren’t supposed to talk like that, or throw rocks at trains,” he said.

  I sat down on one of the rails of the track. “I’m not nice.”

  “No, you aren’t.” Derek laughed.

  “And I’m not little,” Abbey said, even though she was.

  Abbey hated that she was so small for her age. A few weeks ago, we’d been playing basketball in my driveway with some boys from down the street, and an older lady walking by stopped to talk to us. She asked what grade we were in. The other kids and I told her we were going into the sixth grade. The lady then put her hands on her knees, bent down to Abbey with a sweet smile spread across her face and asked, “And what grade are you going into, Kindergarten?”

  The rest of us exploded into laughter. Confusion settled in the woman’s expression, until I told her that Abbey was in the same grade as the rest of us. The woman apologized to Abbey, and then scolded us for being mean.

  I had been the one laughing the hardest, but then quickly felt guilty when my best friend looked like she was about to cry.

  Remembering that day and how hurt Abbey had seemed, I closely watched her reaction to Derek calling us “little girls” to make out if she was bothered by it. She seemed okay, so I let it go.

  “Give me a cigarette.” I sat down in the dusty gravel.

  “I gave you three yesterday,” Derek said.

  I pulled a quarter from my pocket and flipped it at him. “Just one more.”

  Derek caught the coin and then fished his hand in the inside pocket of his jacket. “I didn’t start stealing cigarettes from my mom until I was thirteen. How old are you?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “She’s eleven,” Abbey said. “We both are.”

  I jerked my head at her. “But she looks like she’s in Kindergarten!” I yelled, no longer worried, for the moment, of hurting her feelings.

  “Shut up!” she yelled.

  “You shut up because you smoke too!”

  “Only because you make me!” Abbey spat back at me.

  “I don’t make you do anything,” I said.

  “You made her throw rocks at those cars,” Derek chimed.

  “Who asked you?” I yelled back.

  A small smile crept across his face as he stretched his long skinny legs in front of him and leaned back on his favorite big rock. He peeked into his pack, pulled out a cigarette, and tossed it to me.

  I caught the cig carefully so it wouldn’t break and pressed it between my lips. Derek took out his lighter, and I leaned into him so he could light me up.

  I took a deep inhale, but then quickly blew the smoke out before I choked. I was getting better at not choking, but knew I’d cough badly if I inhaled too much at once.

  Even without choking, I didn’t look as cool as Derek did when he smoked.

  Derek’s hands were bigger than mine, and the way the cigarette lay between his long fingers looked more natural than the awkward way I held my cig— pressed between my thumb and index finger—in my short, uncoordinated, eleven-year-old hands.

  Whenever I had attempted to grasp the cigarette loosely between my middle and index fingers, I either dropped the cigarette or crushed it in half. And neither looked cool.

  “What are you two up to today besides causing trouble?” he asked.

  “We’re gonna wait here a little longer. Next train should be coming soon,” I said.

  “I’m not throwing anymore rocks,” Abbey said.

  I lifted the cigarette to my lips and took a softer pull on it. I let the smoke linger in my mouth a second longer before blowing it out. “I have a couple pennies I want to smash.”

  “Why do you like smashing pennies so much?” Abbey asked.

  “Because it’s fun.”

  Abbey scrunched her face at me. “You put a penny on the tracks and a train runs over it. Big whoop. It was fun the first couple times, but now it’s just boring. You don’t even know when the train is running over the penny cuz it doesn’t make a sound and all the pennies look the same after.”

  “No they don’t. I have lots of smashed pennies and they all look different.” I dabbed my cigarette against a small rock, knocking the ashes off.

  “But why do you like doing it so much?” she asked.

  I looked up, and both Derek and Abbey were watching me, waiting for an answer. I sighed. “Fine. You wanna know why I like smashing pennies so much?”

  “Yes,” they responded in unison.

  “When a train runs over a penny, the penny changes form, but it can still be a penny if I want it to be. Or, I can make it be something else.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Derek asked. “That doesn’t even make any sense. How can a smashed penny still be a penny just because you want it to be?”

  I rose to my feet and faced him. “If I showed you a penny after it’s been run over by a train, but you didn’t recognize it as a penny, I can say it’s still a penny.”

  “No it’s not. It’s a piece of metal. It’s junk,” Derek said. “Anything a train runs over changes form cuz it’s a fucking train. A penny run over by a train isn’t a penny anymore. It is a smashed penny. It is now worthless. If I put a can of pop on the track and a train runs over it, it is now a smashed can of pop. What’s so special about that?”

  “Ohhhh, I wanna see a can of pop explode. I bet that makes a big sound. Can we do that?” Abbey asked.

  I ignored Abbey and looked at Derek. “It’s special because I like it. You can put anything you want on the goddamn tracks. I don’t care. But I like pennies. So why don’t you just shut up.”

  “She was trying to be philisogical,” Abbey explained to Derek. “She does that sometimes. The other day she asked me what would happen if there was no life.”

  “You shut up, too. And it’s philosophical, not the other stupid word you just used.”

  “Stop being so mean,” Abbey yelled. “You think you’re so smart.”

  I turned away from them and picked up a long stick from the grass. I walked around the edge of the brush and pounded the stick against the ground while still smoking my cigarette.

  “She doesn’t know everything, but acts like she does. I get really sick of it sometimes,” I heard Abbey say to Derek.

  I turned back to them. “But he’s the one who started this. He should have just kept his stupid mouth shut and let me enjoy my pennies.”

  “If you didn’t put pennies on the tracks in the first place—” he began.

  “Shut up, Derek!” I yelled.

  He laughed as though he were holding it in for some time. He carried on in such a way I wanted to kick him hard, right in the nuts, but I didn’t want to make him too mad. I had no one else to give me cigarettes.

  There wasn’t any deep philosophical reason why I chose pennies as my favorite object to flatten on a track. The reason was more practical than anything else. Pennies were easy to find—on streets or sidewalks—in between cushions on the couch, and when I asked, it was the only monetary amount of money my mother gave me without any fuss.

  I saw Derek in the corner of my eye trot back to his rock and sit down. Abbey sat beside him on the ground. “Is it true about the gun? Tell me for real, Derek.”

  I rolled my eyes. We were back on that subject. I walked over to them, pulled deeply on my cigarette, and blew the smoke in her face. “Get over it, already. If he had a gun, he would have shot us by now.”

  “Stop it.” Abbey batted the smoke away and turned back to Derek. “Tell me.”

  “Those conductors riding those trains know how exposed their freight is. When they unload and cars are damaged, they know why. But you two are devils disguised as angels. No one would suspect you.”

  “When we see the conductors Lyssa tells me to smile and wave at them.”

  Derek smirked and slowly shook his head. “Like I said, devils in disguise. Think he’s gonna raise the gun to you and fill your ass
es with salt pellets? Shit no. But he probably would if he knew it was you two launching rocks onto his cars—pretty blonde curls and all.”

  He tugged at a strand of Abbey’s light-colored hair as he got up, and then tossed another cigarette to me. “For later. Sorry I laughed at you.”

  “Sorry I yelled.”

  Derek chuckled. “It’s all right. It’s what you do.”

  He pushed up the right sleeve of his jacket and I caught a glimpse of a dark black-and-blue mark on the inside of his forearm.

  “Hey! Did you get it another fight?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “That mark on your arm. You got into another fight, didn’t you?”

  He dropped his arm to his side and lowered his sleeve over his mark. “A little one.”

  “When?”

  “A couple weeks ago.”

  “A couple weeks ago. Why didn’t you tell us? How many were you fighting this time?” I asked.

  “Just a couple.”

  “That’s so awesome.”

  “Geez, Lyssa. People can get really hurt in those fights,” Abbey said, but I ignored her.

  “You gotta tell me about the fight, Derek. Were stupid jocks messin’ with you again about your long hair?”

  Derek backed away. “Sorry, kid. I gotta go. Next time.”

  “All right, but next time it happens tell me right away.”

  “See ya, Derek,” Abbey said as he walked away from us.

  After twenty minutes of waiting and no sign of a train, I asked Abbey what she wanted to do.

  “I dunno,” she answered.

  “Is your mom home?” I asked.

  “Probably.”

  “Then let’s go to my house.”

  WE DROPPED OUR bikes in the middle of the driveway despite my mother’s continuous nagging to keep the driveway clear so she can pull into the garage. We ran to the back door and I didn’t think twice about the bikes. I was sure Abbey would be gone by the time my mom got home from the hospital.

  I picked up a decorative fake toad sitting in the dirt beside the door. The house key was supposed to be hidden underneath it, but wasn’t.

  “Fuck!” I yelled.

  “Again?” Abbey asked.

  I knew what I had to do even though I didn’t want to do it.

  “You have to do it,” Abbey said, knowing what I was thinking. “Just ask her.”

  I glanced toward my next door neighbor’s house. “I hate going over there.”

  “Then stop forgetting your key.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  I turned around and with very heavy footsteps I dragged myself to the house next door. I stood on my neighbor’s porch, waiting a few seconds before knocking.

  After the third knock, the door eased open. The first thing I saw was a distinctive full head of silver hair, and then Mrs. Chapetta’s old, wrinkled face popped through the crack of the doorway.

  She glared at me with a stoic expression. I knew she knew why I was there.

  “Can I have my key?” I asked, trying to sound nice, but knowing I didn’t. It was hard to be sweet to her since I knew she told my mom everything I did, including riding my bike in the street.

  She glared at me, and then turned and disappeared into the house. She appeared, seconds later, with the key in her hand. She opened the screen door just wide enough to slip her bare, age-spotted arm through the space and dropped the key into my hand. “You bring that key right back. Your mother gave it to me for emergencies so I could get into your house if she needs me to, not for your forgetfulness.”

  Actually, forgetting my key was exactly the emergency my mother had given the old hag a spare key. I had no idea what other scenarios the demented old lady believed she possessed our house key for. I imagined the crazy woman sneaking into our house while we were asleep and touching all our things with her sticky fingers.

  Although my aged neighbor never touched me before, I assumed she had sticky fingers because she always smelled like maple syrup.

  I wanted to yell in the old woman’s face that the reason she had a spare key to my house was so that she could give me the key whenever I locked myself out, and then I’d tell her to just shut her mouth and give me the damn key without the strange looks, or the damn lecture.

  I gripped the key tightly in my hand, and without saying any of those things, I ran home, unlocked the door, and sprinted back to the old lady’s porch. I knocked on the door and shoved the key underneath the slot of the screen door, and ran off without waiting for her to answer.

  I WAS MAKING our favorite sandwich—bologna, lettuce, and cheese smeared with mustard and mayo on white bread—when Abbey called for me from the living room.

  “Lyssa! Hurry up! Poison’s on!”

  The sandwiches lay on the counter amid a mess of open condiment jars and scattered pieces of lettuce and lunch meat. I quickly smashed the top slices of bread onto both sandwiches against the piled-stack of a sloppy mess I had created and hurried into the next room, dropping bits of food as I ran.

  Abbey was standing on the couch, shouting out the lyrics we both knew by heart as Brett Michaels’ voice filled the room.

  I handed her a sandwich, jumped on the couch, and screamed out the chorus to “Talk Dirty to Me.” I took bites of my sandwich during the guitar solo, and Abbey held her sandwich high in her left hand, as though it were the end of a guitar, and strummed her right hand against the front of her shirt. We banged our heads in unison, hair (and food) flying everywhere.

  Abbey’s house had a bigger TV and better food options than bologna and cheese sandwiches, but we never could have done what we were doing right then if we were at her house.

  Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It” came on next, and we both lost our minds. We dropped what was left of our food onto the table and yelled out the lyrics to our favorite song. Abbey sang the song with more conviction, as though she had a lot more that she didn’t want to take anymore.

  The video ended, and we both collapsed onto the couch and finished our lunch. After, I went into the kitchen and grabbed a couple cans of pop from the fridge. Hanging on a magnet, on the side of the refrigerator, was a note from my mom reminding me she was working late that night and that there were frozen dinners in the freezer. At the end of the note she promised a home-cooked meal soon.

  Abbey was often envious of the lack of parental supervision at my place, especially when it came to dinner. She was jealous I got to eat whatever I wanted. Even if my mom left dinner for me in the fridge, if I wanted to eat S’mores for supper, I ate S’mores.

  “You eat dinner on the couch while watching TV?” Abbey had asked me one day.

  “If I feel like it,” I answered.

  “You’re so lucky. My mom makes me eat with her at the table, even if my dad isn’t home yet. And I can’t even put my elbows on the table.”

  I ate on the couch while watching TV because my friend didn’t know the loneliness that crept inside a person while eating dinner among empty chairs.

  But I had forced a smile. “Yep. I am lucky.”

  I walked back into the living room and handed one of the cans to Abbey.

  Abbey didn’t take it. “My mom said I drink too much pop.”

  “Your mom’s not fucking here.”

  Abbey smiled and grabbed the can from my hand. About eight videos later and a sore neck from head banging, Abbey had to go home.

  I walked her to the door. “Let’s ride our bikes tomorrow.”

  “Where to?”

  “I don’t know. Somewhere far.”

  “Last time we did that we were almost too tired to ride back,” she reminded me.

  “That was because of the wind,” I explained. “It was blowing against us on our way back.”

  Abbey considered this. “Okay. If it’s not very windy tomorrow, we’ll ride our bikes far.”

  Chapter Two

  ABBEY ANSWERED HER door the next morning. “I can’t ride far today.”

  “W
hy not?”

  “I’m going to my aunt’s house and have to be home early.”

  “Damn it.” I kicked the ground. “I packed us a lunch and everything.”

  “We can ride to the Hideout and eat it there.”

  “It won’t be the same. I wanted us to ride far and pretend like we were lost in the middle of nowhere, and the only food we had was what we could find.”

  “Isn’t that what the Hideout’s for? So we can pretend to be somewhere far away in a place only we know?”

  “And Derek,” I said.

  “But he’s cool. I don’t mind sharing our Hideout with him.”

  I wasn’t sure who else knew about our Hideout. Aside from Abbey and me, Derek was the only other person I’d ever seen there. But anyone with an interest in exploring deep into the field, behind the big Nabisco building that sat across the street from a park, would have no trouble finding the spot near the railroad tracks we loved so much.

  About a hundred yards beyond the brush lay the tracks and an area covered in gravel, which Abbey and I had declared our spot. It was the place we’d first met Derek sitting on his rock, smoking his cigarette and, seemingly, deep in thought. But when he looked up and nodded his head at us, and asked, “How’s it goin’?” I knew he was gonna be cool.

  There was a wooded area just east of the tracks, thick with trees and a small creek. Abbey avoided going there as much as she could, but when she did venture into the woods, she never delved as deeply as I did. She preferred staying out in the open field.

  Abbey and I didn’t consciously go searching for a place just for us. We were hanging out at the park across from the Nabisco building and heard the faint sound of a train’s whistle.

  We’d been goofing around in the tennis courts, competing against each other over who could hit the ball the farthest over the fence. I had always won, even though I’d let Abbey have the better of the old, worn rackets—the one with the tighter strings.

  She still could barely hit the ball over the fence.

  But every time I smacked the ball, it shot off my racket, like a rocket, over the fence. And I’d give my best Tom Hanks impression from the Bachelor Party, imitating his tennis home runs by tossing my racket in the air and cupping my hands around my mouth, producing sounds of exhilarating crowd noises.