Frankie Schneider\u2019s mother had him tied up in their backyard, a rope bound tightly around his ankle, the other end looped around the base of an oak tree, urine-stained sheets flapping on the clothesline.<\/p>\n
\u201cMom, we have to do something,\u201d Marcia called out from the bathroom when she saw the boy next door, only five years old, tied up again that summer. \u201cSomeone needs to talk to that crazy woman.\u201d<\/p>\n
The Schneiders had rented the house in Normal, Illinois, late that spring of 1965. There was a girl who was Marcia\u2019s age, 14, and another boy a couple of years older. Frankie\u2019s siblings and some neighborhood kids were playing baseball in the empty field behind their yard, which contained a disparate assortment of junk: a stack of cinder blocks, four tires with varying amounts of remaining tread, a rusted, formerly yellow Tonka truck, a snow shovel leaning against the chipped siding. Occasionally, Frankie would toss back a stray ball that found its way to him. If he dared to sit or even stand still, his mother would yell out through the kitchen window, \u201cNo rest for the wicked\u201d or, more directly, \u201cMove your ass, Frankie.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d Corrie said, tiptoeing behind her daughter to get a better view of the neighbor\u2019s yard. \u201cIt\u2019s not really our business.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow would you like to be tied up outside all day like some dog?\u201d<\/p>\n
Corrie grew frustrated, mostly because she knew her daughter was right and that she\u2019d have to speak with the mother, despite how much she hated confrontation. \u201cVery well,\u201d she said, checking herself in the bathroom mirror, \u201cbut you\u2019re coming with me.\u201d<\/p>\n
Twice Corrie\u2019s size, a face dotted in perspiration, silver-black hair pulled into a ponytail, Francine Schneider opened her door halfway and looked at her neighbor, lifting her head in a half nod that Corrie interpreted as let\u2019s see what the immigrant has to say before I kick her backwards off my porch.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cHello, Francine,\u201d Corrie said, reaching out to hold Marcia\u2019s hand, which she swiftly jerked away. Corrie had surmised that having Marcia with her would offer some kind of protection, expecting that the woman who thought it was fine to shackle her young son to a tree in the summer heat would somehow have the moral compass to refrain from harming Corrie in front of her daughter. \u201cI wonder if you could untie Frankie so he and my boy, Michael, can play. It\u2019s quite warm today and they\u2019re welcome to come inside.\u201d Then adding, \u201cI made some lemonade.\u201d She had not.<\/p>\n Even here at this moment, Marcia found herself embarrassed by her mother\u2019s Dutch accent\u2014her own accent long ago fully Midwestern American. She had stopped inviting school friends to her house, making excuses like, My little brother has the shits and the house stinks like a sewer, or My mother may be dying\u2014maybe not\u2014but either way you can\u2019t come over and also don\u2019t call the house later, or My father will be home.<\/em> Her friends felt the opposite. They told her they liked it when her mother answered the phone and would call out: \u201cMarcia, de telefoon is voor jou,\u201d<\/em> a phrase they would repeat to her when she got on the phone. To Marcia it was cringeworthy, a constant reminder that they were different, not from this place, strange. Marcia wanted to blend in, to look and sound like a normal American, and that wasn\u2019t going to happen if anyone heard her parents utter a single syllable.<\/p>\n She examined the interior behind Mrs. Schneider. There was a brown couch in the living room with a large rip in one of the upright cushions, an empty plate and glass on a tv tray table, a handful of popcorn kernels scattered on the vinyl hallway flooring. A radio was playing in the kitchen, a man\u2019s voice above a muted commercial jingle for a local grocer telling ladies to stock up on Swanson frozen dinners. The girl, Donna, stepped into partial view, her bare arms crossed, leaning against the opening to the kitchen. She was pretty, which had surprised Marcia the first time she saw her outside briefly a couple of months earlier. She had long, brown hair nearly down to her waist, a face dotted with freckles. She went to the Catholic grade school but would be starting high school with Marcia in a month, according to her mother. If she didn\u2019t wind up in prison or the circus first, Marcia thought.<\/p>\n \u201cSorry, he pissed his bed again,\u201d Francine said to Corrie. \u201cWe don\u2019t reward that with lemonade. That\u2019s not how it\u2019s done here. Nice to see you again.\u201d The door began to close before the sentence was finished, Donna tilting her head to exchange a look with Marcia.<\/p>\n \u201cThat woman is a Nazi in a dress,\u201d Corrie whispered to her daughter as they crossed into their yard, coming from a woman who had endured occupation by actual Nazis.<\/p>\n \u201cHitler without the mustache,\u201d Marcia added, turning to make the Nazi salute in the direction of the Schneider\u2019s house.<\/p>\n \u201cStop, not funny.\u201d<\/p>\n That evening, her husband paid a visit to Mr. Schneider, a school janitor at Epiphany Catholic School who was working on his truck in their driveway, returning with a look of accomplishment. \u201cThat should take care of it,\u201d Jan told Corrie.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat on earth did you say?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSimple: I told him they can\u2019t tie up their kid in the yard for everyone to see.\u201d He shook his head. \u201cNot fit to be parents, those people.\u201d<\/p>\n #<\/p>\n Marcia almost collided with the girl. She was at her locker the first week of high school pulling out a thick book for her next class, a text simply titled Biology<\/em>, which apparently took four people to write. When she turned, she stepped into the path of a speed-walking Donna Schneider, who stopped abruptly, a bright-orange school folder under her arm. She had on a plain sleeveless cotton dress with a skinny vinyl belt tied around the waist in a droopy bow. \u201cHey, neighbor,\u201d she said, recognizing Marcia.<\/p>\n There was something about Donna that Marcia connected with\u2014the defiant look behind her puffy eyes, being part of a peculiar family. They were going to be friends, she concluded. \u201cDid you borrow that rope from your mother?\u201d she asked, motioning to her belt.<\/p>\n At first Donna wasn\u2019t sure how to take the comment. She decided it was funny. \u201cRight out of the fucking gate with that? Okay then.\u201d She lifted one of the belt\u2019s ends that hung in front. \u201cThis is from her indoor rope collection. Soon to be a Normal fashion trend.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNice.\u201d<\/p>\n The bell began to ring. \u201cShitballs, do you know where you\u2019re going?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBiology.\u201d Marcia pointed to her book cover. \u201cThe study of living organisms.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat excludes half the people here.\u201d Donna turned and disappeared into a sea of bodies crisscrossing the hall.<\/p>\n #<\/p>\n Lunch tray in hand, Marcia scanned the cafeteria for a place to sit, finding a spot on the end of a table where Donna was sitting with a group of freshmen girls who were gathered together for protection like a herd of exposed deer in a barren Illinois corn field.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s with the boys and all the long hair?\u201d one asked.<\/p>\n \u201cYum. Fine with me,\u201d said another.<\/p>\n \u201cNot the football jocks,\u201d Donna said. \u201cDid you notice? Look at them.\u201d She nodded her head to the side in the direction of a table filled with players. \u201cHair shorter than a priest\u2019s favorite altar boy.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI can\u2019t believe we\u2019re not allowed to wear pants,\u201d another said. \u201cWe\u2019re not at Epiphany anymore. What bullshit.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy epiphany is I won\u2019t ever use algebra in real life,\u201d said another.<\/p>\n \u201cThey make them have short hair above the ears. And wear ties to games or something.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s so the old male teachers can stare at our legs. Pervs.\u201d<\/p>\n Could these girls be the same age as Marcia? Some, with their braces showing, rail-thin arms, and underdeveloped breasts, looked like children. She felt older than all of them. She had for a long time, really. It\u2019s not that she didn\u2019t like to talk about boys or music or hair or clothes. She just felt different from most girls, like she was in between two things\u2014one in the past, the other yet to happen. Maybe it was simply because she wasn\u2019t from this place. Maybe she\u2019d be a different person if she still lived in the Netherlands, living a different life, moving toward a different future, as if there could be two versions of Marcia, the same person but not the same life.<\/p>\n She looked at her plate: fish fingers, baked beans, instant potatoes, a roll, a patty of butter covered by a tiny square of waxed paper.<\/p>\n \u201cFresh caught from the Illinois River,\u201d Donna said to her.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s like they\u2019re all trying to look like The Beach Boys or something. Not the football team, the normal boys.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIs that the one with Herman Hermits? Yum.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s a band\u2014the wrong band\u2014not a person. And please stop saying yum.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s actually not bad,\u201d Marcia said. \u201cThe fish, I mean.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, you thought that was fish?\u201d Donna said. \u201cWhere are you from again?\u201d<\/p>\n A short-haired football player suddenly stopped in front of them carrying his lunch tray, the team at the table beside him watching and snickering. \u201cWould any of you attractive freshmen ladies care for a finger?\u201d He waited a beat, then angled his plate to reveal a lone remaining stick of breaded fish, remnants of baked beans and instant potatoes anchoring it in place.<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d Donna said, \u201cbut you can have my<\/em> finger.\u201d She raised her forearm, elbow on the table, and flipped him off.<\/p>\n \u201cTouche,\u201d the boy said, half-smiling at her. He tilted his plate perpendicular. The fish finger slid down in slow motion, landing with a splat on the table between Marcia and Donna.<\/p>\n \u201cOh, my god,\u201d Marcia said after he left.<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s Brian Aronson,\u201d Donna told her. \u201cJunior. My brother is on the team. His dad\u2019s the coach. You just met the douchebag quarterback.\u201d<\/p>\n #<\/p>\n Michael and Frankie were underneath the kitchen table, which served as their spaceship. Attacked by aliens, shooting lasers from their fingers, they ran into the living room where Jan was taking a post-work nap on the sofa. Corrie tried to stop them, but too late.<\/p>\n \u201cGod bless it,\u201d Jan said. He sat up and rubbed his eyes with the palm of one hand. \u201cFrankie, I liked it better when you were tied up in your yard.\u201d<\/p>\n The boy stopped in his tracks and stared blankly ahead.<\/p>\n \u201cJan.\u201d Corrie gathered the boys by their shoulders and began to usher them back into the kitchen.<\/p>\n \u201cMichael,\u201d Jan said, \u201cwhat the hell happened to your pants?\u201d<\/p>\n For his first day of kindergarten, Corrie had dressed Michael in new clothes\u2014a light yellow button-down short-sleeve shirt and plain-front green- and brown-checked pants, the latter of which had two half-dollar-size holes in the knees.<\/p>\n \u201cSee,\u201d Michael explained, \u201con the merry-go-round the kids pushed fast, they were pushing and it was faster and I couldn\u2019t hold on and I slid. It really, really hurt. It did, Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, you\u2019re okay now,\u201d Jan said. \u201cWhat did that cost us?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s fine,\u201d Corrie said. \u201cI will sew some patches. Good as new. Dinner will be ready soon.\u201d<\/p>\n Marcia appeared from the hallway. \u201cI hope it\u2019s not fish.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThere she is,\u201d Jan said. \u201cHow was high school?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBig,\u201d she said. \u201cStill navigating.\u201d In this version of her life, the American version, she recognized that she was the first in her family to attend school past the age of 14. In post-war Netherlands, her mother and father simply didn\u2019t have that option. Boys from poor families went to work\u2014her father a housepainter like his father\u2014and the girls helped with chores and errands or cared for younger siblings.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019ll find your way in no time,\u201d Jan said. \u201cJust stay away from the boys.\u201d<\/p>\n Corrie bent over so she was eye level with Frankie. \u201cWould you like to stay for dinner?\u201d He shrugged while Jan gave her a look. She stood up. \u201cWho knows what the boy eats at his house.\u201d<\/p>\n Marcia perked up. \u201cCan I ask Donna if she wants to eat with us, too?\u201d<\/p>\n A short while later, there were six people squeezed around their small kitchen table.<\/p>\n \u201cPancakes for dinner?\u201d Donna said. \u201cFar out.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe say pannenkoeken,\u201d Jan said. \u201cIn the Netherlands we make them with things like cheese and spinach and bacon. You try.\u201d The thin pancake was almost as wide as the plate, its edges curled up by design, a mound of steaming ingredients in the center. \u201cThe next one you\u2019ll have chocolate syrup, berries, powdered sugar. Lekker.<\/em> That means delicious.\u201d<\/p>\n Marcia rolled her eyes. \u201cDon\u2019t eat it if it\u2019s weird.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBetter than your fish fingers,\u201d she said. \u201cKind of wish I had the munchies right about now.\u201d She looked at Marcia to see if she caught the reference.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t want it,\u201d Michael said.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat, honey?\u201d Corrie asked.<\/p>\n He pointed to his plate. \u201cSpinach.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPopeye eats spinach. Look, Frankie likes his.\u201d The boy stabbed and tore at the food with his fork, the tips of his nails black with trapped dirt, using his fingers to balance the pancake concoction on its way to his mouth. \u201cHow about one with chocolate instead, Michael?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJust eat it,\u201d Marcia said. \u201cI swear he gets anything he wants.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou eat it,\u201d he said. \u201cYou\u2019re stupid.\u201d<\/p>\n Jan reached across the table and smacked his fork tines on the back of Michael\u2019s hand, a piece of chopped spinach sticking to his skin. \u201cEnough. We don\u2019t talk like that.\u201d<\/p>\n While Michael whimpered and Marcia and Donna fought back giggles, Corrie served glasses of milk.<\/p>\n \u201cNot too much, Frankie,\u201d his sister said. \u201cMy mom doesn\u2019t let him drink anything this late.\u201d<\/p>\n Jan nodded. \u201cDon\u2019t want to see you tied up with the dogs again, son.\u201d<\/p>\n #<\/p>\n That night Jan lay in bed smoking a final cigarette of the day.<\/p>\n Corrie sat on the foot of the bed in a short nightgown, rubbing cream into her legs, feet, arms, hands, her back to him. \u201cI can\u2019t believe our little Marcia is in high school already.\u201d She had given birth to her daughter at her in-law\u2019s home in The Hague. She was visiting during the day, baking bread and preparing a large pot of vegetable soup for a family dinner, when Corrie bent over in pain, grasping her stomach, her water breaking down her legs. It was no given then that premature babies would survive. A midwife delivered Marcia, but the baby had to be admitted that day to a small maternity hospital, where she spent her first days on the planet in a crude room for premature babies, lying in a cot that could be tipped in front or back to raise or lower the head and feet, its canvas lining containing pockets for hot water bottles to keep the baby warm, the room\u2019s radiator turned up high, humidity provided by a large iron pot of low-boiling water on a gas stove.<\/p>\n Jan put out his cigarette. It was a warm September night. The windows were open, but the air was humid and stagnant.<\/p>\n Corrie eased into bed, her skin tacky from the cream and humidity, a top sheet clinging to her. \u201cShe has her period already, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n He rolled onto his side and turned off the lamp on his nightstand, unseen smoke hovering above them.<\/p>\n #<\/p>\n The following month Donna talked Marcia into attending a Friday night football game in Peoria. The school would be bussing students to the game, which seemed the more alluring part of the offer to Marcia.<\/p>\n \u201cWe can watch my brother sit on the bench,\u201d Donna told her.<\/p>\n \u201cSounds riveting.\u201d Marcia had never attended an American football game and found it odd that a sport not played with feet would appropriate the name of a game played all over the world where feet were actually fundamental.<\/p>\n To pass time before the busses left, they walked into town, cutting across the Illinois State University campus, which had dropped \u201cNormal\u201d from its name the previous year\u2014no longer normal<\/em> the joke went. Music blared from a dorm room window, the girls singing along, We\u2019ve got to get out of this place if it\u2019s the last thing we ever do<\/em>. They pretended to blend in with the college students, cutting back and forth across the quad as if late for class, its trees ablaze with yellow and orange leaves of fall, Donna ogling a group of boys\u2014men?\u2014flinging a frisbee around, Marcia imagining she was on her way to attend a lecture on something like abnormal psychology or ancient history. She wanted to be the first in her family to attend college, but she doubted her father would see any point to it. Though she only lived a few miles from campus, it felt as far away as the moon\u2014something she could see every day but couldn\u2019t possibly reach.<\/p>\n Downtown, they approached the local Walgreen drugstore, the city\u2019s self-aware motto painted on the building\u2019s exterior brick wall: Normal, Illinois, Where Everything is Just as It Seems<\/em>. Inside, the store had an airless smell, with narrow, packed aisles, and a flickering fluorescent ceiling light above the checkout. There was a small section in back where a lone male pharmacist worked. Dressed in a dark tie and white coat, he glanced at Marcia and Donna without expression. The other side of the store featured a large counter area with wall-mounted mirrors spanning its length, backless swivel stools bolted to the floor, frayed strips of duct tape splayed across cracked vinyl seat covers, a still-in-use soda fountain front and center. The girls sat down and ordered cherry colas from a gray-haired woman who wore glasses attached to a chain around her neck. They watched her pump syrup into two Coca-Cola-branded glasses, add carbonated water from the fountain, scoops of chipped ice, straws.<\/p>\n \u201cHave you ever tasted anything better?\u201d Donna said.<\/p>\n Next, they browsed magazines. Mick Jagger was on the cover of Tiger Beat<\/em>, which exclaimed \u201cOH BABY!\u201d and \u201cSO GROOVY!\u201d on either side of his boyish face, the lower corner declaring that The Byrds were America\u2019s answer to The Beatles and The Rolling Stones and The Hollies and The Kinks and The Animals.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll take The Beatles over everyone,\u201d Marcia said. \u201cPaul is so cute.\u201d<\/p>\n Donna looked at the page Marcia held up. \u201cGeorge has a crooked smile.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t laugh. My dad doesn\u2019t want me listening to their music. Or any rock and roll, for that matter. Says it\u2019s all screaming. “When you have your own car, then you can choose the radio station,” <\/em>she said, exaggerating her father\u2019s deep voice and accent. \u201cMakes for some boring car rides.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYour dad\u2019s a little weird,\u201d Donna said.<\/p>\n \u201cYour mom\u2019s not exactly June Cleaver.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d Donna agreed. \u201cWe\u2019re more like The fucking Addams Family.\u201d She found a magazine with a male bodybuilder flexing on the cover, muscles oiled to a shine, his tiny, dark bikini trunks bulging. She pointed to his groin, touching it with her finger. \u201cHave you ever seen one?\u201d<\/p>\n Marcia\u2019s face went red.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve seen pictures,\u201d Donna said. \u201cThis one time I answered the phone in my parent\u2019s bedroom and had to take a message, so I opened the nightstand drawer and there was this magazine with a naked couple on it and the guy had this huge, you know, and the woman had her hand around it and the guy was like oh yeah. It was hilarious.\u201d<\/p>\n Marcia took a breath. \u201cOkay, promise you won\u2019t tell anyone? This is so creepy. A couple of months ago I was walking out of the bathroom and my dad was just standing in his bedroom with his pants open, like he was waiting for me to walk by or something. He said now that I was starting high school, he wanted me to see one so I\u2019d know what to expect.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJesus Christ,\u201d Donna said. \u201cJesus fucking Christ. That\u2019s the grossest thing I\u2019ve ever heard. I thought my<\/em> family was nuts.\u201d<\/p>\n There was more she could have said, dim memories from her childhood in the Netherlands. She looked at the floor. \u201cYeah,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s get out of here before I puke.\u201d They put the magazines back and began walking toward the door. Donna stopped suddenly and snatched two pieces of Bazooka bubble gum from a shelf loaded with assorted candy, gum, and chocolates, wrapping her fist around the plunder. \u201cTake some,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n Marcia\u2019s eyes widened. \u201cI thought thou shalt not steal.\u201d<\/p>\n Donna shrugged. \u201cI\u2019m not in Catholic school anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n Marcia snatched a single piece and quickly followed her to the door.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019re all going to hell,\u201d Donna yelled loudly, the bell above the door announcing their escape.<\/p>\n #<\/p>\n The game turned out to be more entertaining than Marcia had anticipated, for reasons only remotely related to football. As the Normal students departed the busses and walked en masse to the stadium, Donna pulled on Marcia\u2019s coat sleeve and asked her to come with her to the bathroom. She led her behind the concession stand and toward a remote, dark area of the Peoria campus where there was a clump of tall trees. Beyond that was a chain link fence and a single-story industrial building\u2014a factory of some kind\u2014its parking lot empty.<\/p>\n \u201cAre we peeing in the woods or something?\u201d Marcia said.<\/p>\n \u201cBetter.\u201d Ducking behind a tree, Donna pulled out a crudely rolled joint, curved slightly from being in her coat pocket all day. \u201cHave you ever tried it?\u201d she asked, holding it inches from Marcia\u2019s face, slowly waving it back and forth.<\/p>\n \u201cIs that pot? Jesus. Where did you get it?\u201d She looked toward the football stands. \u201cWhat if someone catches us?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cStole this from my brother\u2019s stash.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFootball players don\u2019t smoke dope.\u201d<\/p>\n Donna shrugged. \u201cI guess they do if they don\u2019t start. Or maybe they don\u2019t start because they do. Either way, are you up for it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat will happen to me?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYour boobs will double in size and your poop will smell like flowers. What do you mean? You\u2019ll get high, laugh, want to eat an entire pizza.\u201d Donna lit the joint, inhaled, then held it out for Marcia. \u201cJust inhale a little and hold it in. You might not even feel anything after smoking your first time.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFirst petty larceny. Now illegal drug use. I\u2019m beginning to think you\u2019re a bad influence.\u201d Marcia inhaled and immediately spun around, her lungs erupting, smoke stinging her eyes. After finding her breath, she said, \u201cGod, that\u2019s awful.\u201d She dabbed at her watery eyes with her coat sleeve, then took another hit, a seed popping with a crack as she handed it back to Donna.<\/p>\n \u201cDidn\u2019t your parents teach you about reefer madness<\/em>? Too late now. We\u2019ll be zombies before the night is over.\u201d<\/p>\n They made their way to the stands. Marcia couldn\u2019t really tell if she felt different, but she did feel buoyant sitting amidst a crowd of her classmates who were yelling and cheering, lights illuminating the stands and field, the edges of her ears growing cold in the fall air. Thanks to a second-half injury and contrary to what Donna had predicted, her brother not only played but intercepted a pass and was involved in several tackles, each time after which she would stand and scream her brother\u2019s name loudly\u2014too loudly, considering Normal was on its way to a 21-point loss\u2014swollen eyes, stoner grin. Marcia let herself enjoy the experience, clapping and repeating cheers\u20142-4-6-8 who do we appreciate? Normal, Normal, NORMAL!<\/em>\u2014eating a hot dog and Cracker Jack, drinking watery hot chocolate. She was glad that she and Donna were becoming friends\u2014stuffing notes into each other\u2019s lockers, gossiping about peers and teachers, arguing about who had worse parents.<\/p>\n After the game, they stopped at the bathroom inside the school, a group of boys pushing one of their friends into the girls\u2019 bathroom, apparently hoping to see . . . nudity? Girls making out? What he got was Marcia washing her hands, Donna telling him to fuck off. They made their way to the parking lot where four busses with Normal Community High School<\/em> in black lettering were waiting side by side, three for the students who had made the trip and one to transport the football team, coaches, and cheerleaders, all with lights on, engines running. Donna and Marcia took a seat halfway back on their assigned bus, their chaperone, math teacher Mr. Alm, counting the passengers twice, then announcing to the driver \u201cAll present and accounted for,\u201d the convoy beginning the near-hour return ride to Normal a few minutes later.<\/p>\n Less than halfway home, the busses pulled to side of the road. Marcia saw Mr. Alm confer with the driver and step outside, making his way to the front bus carrying the team, returning several minutes later. \u201cListen up,\u201d he announced. \u201cThe team bus has broken down\u2014<\/p>\n \u201cJust like the game!\u201d a boy in the back yelled.<\/p>\n \u201c\u2014so each bus will have some new company. Make room, people.\u201d<\/p>\n Marcia watched as a few coaches, including the head coach, some cheerleaders in short skirts and bulky jackets, and a couple dozen players lugging equipment bags piled onto their dark bus, headlights from the bus behind them casting a spotlight on each new passenger, the jokey boy in the back introducing each like a stadium announcer.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, if it isn\u2019t the pretty freshman girls I shared my lunch with. Slide over, will you?\u201d said Brian Aronson, aka douchebag quarterback, to Marcia, who was seated near the aisle.<\/p>\n She hesitated, then nudged Donna to move closer to the window.<\/p>\n \u201cHow\u2019s that finger doing?\u201d he said, looking past Marcia.<\/p>\n \u201cFine. See?\u201d Donna flipped him off\u2014again.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re a spunky one, aren\u2019t you? We\u2019ll see what we can do about that.\u201d Coat in his hands, he slid his bag under the seat in front, which required Marcia to move her feet out of the way. \u201cAren\u2019t you Schneider\u2019s little sister? He actually played tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI was there,\u201d Donna said. The bus heaved forward as the convoy got underway again.<\/p>\n He sat back. \u201cPlayed better than me tonight,\u201d he admitted.<\/p>\n Marcia felt his body against hers, their thighs, arms, shoulders synchronized with the movements of the bus. She could have slid closer to Donna, who was soon asleep, crashing from her high, head leaning against the window, but decided not to. She watched the bus driver wrestle with the oversize wheel, shift gears with a lurch and grind, the head coach and Mr. Alm chatting in the seat behind him, red taillights of traffic dispersed on the highway in front of them. The bus yawed back-and-forth, its seats rattling and squeaking above the engine\u2019s drone and occupant\u2019s muffled conversations. Occasional bumps in the road would lift everyone in unison, dangling them an inch or two above their padded seats, briefly suspended in time, before the laws of gravity and motion took hold and returned the universe to its previous order.<\/p>\n Brian pulled his coat over his lap and arms like a blanket, closing his eyes as if intending to sleep. But Marcia felt his hand drop to his side and rest against her thigh. Then his fingers found her hand, placing it on top of hers. Her heart quickened. He curled his fingers over the backs of hers and gradually moved their joined hands to the top of his thigh, his other hand now also clasping hers. Then, shifting in his seat, he pulled her hand toward him and placed it on his groin. It surprised her, but it also seemed familiar. She knew what to do, what was expected of girls like her, as if she had been in this moment before. It didn\u2019t take long.<\/p>\n She moved closer to Donna, hooking her arm inside of her friend\u2019s.<\/p>\n \u201cAre we home?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot yet,\u201d Marcia said. \u201cGo back to sleep.\u201d<\/p>\n Despite the dark sky, she began to recognize some landmarks that signaled they were approaching Normal\u2014the farm with its silo painted to look like an ear of corn, the under-construction interstate highway that would connect the city to Champaign, Indianapolis, Cincinnati and a world beyond, the cluster of ISU dorms on the edge of campus, her world coming into focus. It was the first time she had the sense that she would leave one day.<\/p>\n The caravan carved its way through town on its way to the high school, passing the city\u2019s motto painted on the side of a brick building proclaiming that everything was just as it seemed.<\/p>\n # # #<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Neal Lulofs Frankie Schneider\u2019s mother had him tied up in their backyard, a rope bound tightly around his ankle, the other end looped around the base of an oak tree, urine-stained sheets flapping on the clothesline. \u201cMom, we have to do something,\u201d Marcia called out from the bathroom when she saw the boy next door, … <\/p>\n