Read Online Neighborhood Watch by Cammie McGovern - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cammie McGovern
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across the front.
It’s so old I can’t imagine finding any real secrets in here. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen when she was keeping this diary, full of complaints about her brother, John, and a surprising number of mentions about our neighbors. On the second page I find Helen Baker-Harrison’s name, with a story about her dog. And then one about Barbara Baylor, who apparently offered to buy some of Trish’s “specially written poetry.” There’s even a mention of me, whom she’d seen that day at the library. Mysteriously, it says: “She seems better these days, which is nice.”
It worries me to read this, but it also reminds me of the Trish I knew. The perky, happy girl. The friendly teenager, waving from the bus stop and starting conversations. “I like the new bush you planted, Mrs. Treading! I told your husband!” she’d say. What other teenager offered such comments unsolicited? I had no children for her to babysit, no money to pay her for chores, yet she seemed eager to talk, and noticed the little things you assume teenagers don’t. Once I passed her as I walked to work wearing a new winter coat and she clapped her hands and said, “Oh, it’s nice, Mrs. Treading. A lot better than that old one!” I could hardly believe it. It was better than my old one. In fact, I’d spent an hour in the store trying it on. I fell in love and spent too much. “I’ll wear it for the next fifteen years,” I promised Paul when he saw the price. Money had become a point of contention between us after we figured out that our mortgage payments took more than half of our paychecks. Hearing her say this made me think it was all worth it.
Trish wasn’t perfect, of course. I saw her once smoking a cigarette at the bus stop, and thought: She’s a girl with secrets. She smiled and waved, folding her cigarette into the palm of her hand. “Hi, Mrs. Treading! How’s the library? Anything new?”
“Fine,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “You know, the usual.” Did she want to hear that I’d been put temporarily in charge of the mystery/suspense section? Did she pretend to care so she could laugh at me later with her friends? Sometimes she was impossible to figure out.
“I was thinking about coming down there for a book.”
What else could I say? “Oh, good! What book?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Should I tell her I could see the lit cigarette inside her cupped hand? That it wasn’t so long ago that I’d done a little smoking myself? She looked at me that way sometimes: as if she wanted to be my friend.
Now it breaks my heart to remember how much I liked Trish and how I tried not to let that show, limiting our conversations, ending them before anyone saw us. How did such a girl fall out so grievously with her parents? In her diary, the closest I can find to a clue is this: Mom is making more rules about who I’m allowed to invite home. No one from school, no one from the neighborhood. She says they need to be home anytime someone from outside the family is here.
In my own family, I was the one who cut us off from the prying eyes of the outside world. By the time I got to junior high I lived in fear of anything that might draw attention to my home life, the silent dinners we ate, the ubiquitous TV. By ninth grade, there was evidence of my father’s strange temper—holes kicked in the walls, covered with LOVE! posters that made our house look like it was wearing Band-Aids. I thought it was imperative to keep people away.
As I keep reading her diary, I give Trish credit for having the bravery I didn’t in the face of odd parents. By December, she’s turned thirteen and smoked pot with Alan, who rides on her bus. By February she’s gone home with Tommy, a greasy-haired viola player who asked her if she would mind taking off her shirt.
I waited until my freshman year in college to embarrass myself in such stupid, self-destructive ways. I arrived an innocent eighteen-year-old, and
It’s so old I can’t imagine finding any real secrets in here. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen when she was keeping this diary, full of complaints about her brother, John, and a surprising number of mentions about our neighbors. On the second page I find Helen Baker-Harrison’s name, with a story about her dog. And then one about Barbara Baylor, who apparently offered to buy some of Trish’s “specially written poetry.” There’s even a mention of me, whom she’d seen that day at the library. Mysteriously, it says: “She seems better these days, which is nice.”
It worries me to read this, but it also reminds me of the Trish I knew. The perky, happy girl. The friendly teenager, waving from the bus stop and starting conversations. “I like the new bush you planted, Mrs. Treading! I told your husband!” she’d say. What other teenager offered such comments unsolicited? I had no children for her to babysit, no money to pay her for chores, yet she seemed eager to talk, and noticed the little things you assume teenagers don’t. Once I passed her as I walked to work wearing a new winter coat and she clapped her hands and said, “Oh, it’s nice, Mrs. Treading. A lot better than that old one!” I could hardly believe it. It was better than my old one. In fact, I’d spent an hour in the store trying it on. I fell in love and spent too much. “I’ll wear it for the next fifteen years,” I promised Paul when he saw the price. Money had become a point of contention between us after we figured out that our mortgage payments took more than half of our paychecks. Hearing her say this made me think it was all worth it.
Trish wasn’t perfect, of course. I saw her once smoking a cigarette at the bus stop, and thought: She’s a girl with secrets. She smiled and waved, folding her cigarette into the palm of her hand. “Hi, Mrs. Treading! How’s the library? Anything new?”
“Fine,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “You know, the usual.” Did she want to hear that I’d been put temporarily in charge of the mystery/suspense section? Did she pretend to care so she could laugh at me later with her friends? Sometimes she was impossible to figure out.
“I was thinking about coming down there for a book.”
What else could I say? “Oh, good! What book?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Should I tell her I could see the lit cigarette inside her cupped hand? That it wasn’t so long ago that I’d done a little smoking myself? She looked at me that way sometimes: as if she wanted to be my friend.
Now it breaks my heart to remember how much I liked Trish and how I tried not to let that show, limiting our conversations, ending them before anyone saw us. How did such a girl fall out so grievously with her parents? In her diary, the closest I can find to a clue is this: Mom is making more rules about who I’m allowed to invite home. No one from school, no one from the neighborhood. She says they need to be home anytime someone from outside the family is here.
In my own family, I was the one who cut us off from the prying eyes of the outside world. By the time I got to junior high I lived in fear of anything that might draw attention to my home life, the silent dinners we ate, the ubiquitous TV. By ninth grade, there was evidence of my father’s strange temper—holes kicked in the walls, covered with LOVE! posters that made our house look like it was wearing Band-Aids. I thought it was imperative to keep people away.
As I keep reading her diary, I give Trish credit for having the bravery I didn’t in the face of odd parents. By December, she’s turned thirteen and smoked pot with Alan, who rides on her bus. By February she’s gone home with Tommy, a greasy-haired viola player who asked her if she would mind taking off her shirt.
I waited until my freshman year in college to embarrass myself in such stupid, self-destructive ways. I arrived an innocent eighteen-year-old, and
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