Exit 185



"Exit 158.  Looks like home."

 

Highway 9 leads past the bird sanctuary, three gas stations, and a used car dealership before turning onto Evergreen Terrace.  Mom still lives in the house we moved into seven years ago.  It's clearly become a home for her, and I've got a little nostalgia for the place myself.  It was next door that I earned my first money, babysitting the neighbor kids.  I parlayed that into a decent career in my high school years.  Tomorrow is graduation day for many of them, and I'm here with my husband Buckman to take in the ceremony.

 

The Simpsons'  house, next door, is visible for blocks.  There's a party on the front lawn, but I've got to see Mom first.

 

Mom is there to greet me, as is Homer Simpson.  He and Mom are inside watching the playoff game over cold beverages.  Buckman seemed hesitant to shake his hand, as if they recognized each other from somewhere.  Mom's just glad I made it here safely, just like she's glad I survived basic.  They both agree that Buckman is right for me, because he's a strong military type, and I need someone to protect me, and gah...Lisa and Bart told me about their overprotective Mom and old-time Dad.  At least I know my mother isn't alone in that regard.

 

Next stop, the Simpsons' lawn, to touch base with Lisa and her friends..  Lisa and Allison are performing solos back and forth.  They've been doing this for years; they always enjoy it.  Bart and Janey Powell are facing off in a dance contest, which his girlfriend doesn't appreciate.  Wendell Borton and Ralph Wiggum are playing "Dash Dingo", apparently battling to a standstill.  Marge Simpson and Ned Flanders are running the show their way--no alcohol, which explains why Homer had to seek refuge at Mom's--but they're competent.  It's all amusing, catching up with them, and many of them actually seem impressed with us.  That's the kind of attitude a drill sergeant is there to eliminate.

 

This scene is being played out all over town, most of them less dorky, more dangerous.  We saw three of them just on the drive over.  Buckman is amused by this, having no experience of public school.  None of these kids have a clue.  The girls tell me about all the bully girls and burnouts and thugs and wannabes.  Nothing's changed in this regard, just more creeps being loosed on society at large.  I fear for the girls sometimes, until I remember Lisa's drive, intelligence and passion...Janey's irrepressible spirit and toughness...Allison's sweetness, calm, and effortless artistry.  All these things will be on my mind tomorrow at their ceremony.

 

"Langdon Richard Alger."

 

The creaking voice of Harlan Dondelinger fills the huge auditorium as we walked in, with a little less force than it did when it called my name eight years ago.  I placed the name, but had no time to connect it to anyone.  Row upon row, mom and I look for any row with three empty seats, only to be told time and again, "Those are saved."  One row is entirely empty--Cletus and Brandine anchor it at one end, so there's no question those seats are taken--but we find Homer and Marge Simpson near the back.  Two seats, saved for us this time.  Maggie is there, and Bart took his finals last week, so he made it in.  Bart had such a massive crush on me once, just like Langdon -  that's where I know that name from--

 

"Ruth, Laura, thanks so much for coming."

 

"Pleasure, Mrs. Simpson.  Lisa was one of the few kids I babysat that I didn't have to threaten with martial arts."

 

"Wendell Philip Borton."

 

"So that's the homecoming king?"

 

"Can you believe it?

 

"No.  I don't.  You want to explain?"

 

"Well, the short version is, former recluse and wallflower, meets straight-A girl, she gets him off junk food, getting him to quit vomiting in the process, starts running laps with him to get the both of them into shape, and tutors him a little.  They grow up to be homecoming king and queen, the end."

 

"And you babysat her?"

 

"For a while.  Her mom was my teacher.  That's her and her husband.  Hey, Naomi, Professor Taylor!"

 

Mrs. Taylor waves back, with recognition and hopefully with some admiration.

 

"Michael Alfredo D'Amico."

 

Buckman has his only suit on, at least the only one he purchased himself.  A Class "A" would be too much for a high school graduation, I told him.  He knows of the Simpsons, but he isn't quite sure what our connection is to them.  We've moved around a lot, but mom and Marge have kept in touch over the years, and just as Bart and Lisa got dragged along to my graduation ceremony, I feel honor bound to attend hers, and maybe Maggie's when that day comes.  Buckman wasn't present for Bart's graduation, so he doesn't know how crazy Bart was for me back in the day.  Probably for the best that he doesn't.

 

"Tiffany Angela Delroy."

 

"So who are your friends here?"

 

"These are the Simpsons.  Their middle kid's the co-valedictorian."

 

My life on Evergreen Terrace seems several lifetimes ago.  After I got my diploma, I enlisted in the Army--thanks to my dad, an easier test than anything I took in high school.  I wound up learning how to fix and maintain any fighting vehicle the Army could invent.  I saw the country again, just like when I was a kid.  Most of all, I met the guy I'm crazy about, the guy I want to grow old with.

 

"Rebecca Ann Olson."

 

Buckman was in Armor School, and one day made an offhand comment about Stan Lee.  Knew as much about the Human Torch as I did about Iron Man.  It led to so many arguments over superpowers and symbolism that we couldn't help but spend as much time together as possible.  He wasn't an army brat like me, so I showed him the movie theater, showed him all the places to find a cheap, good lunch off base...and then showed him the place where Dad proposed to Mom. 

 

Of course, Mom had to approve, but he charmed her as easily as he did me.  His dad taught him to fix TV sets and computers, so he's got a decent fallback position.  She doesn't have the best record romantically, so she's leery of just about everyone, but she also knows I can be just as hardheaded as her.  We both know when to be firm and when to take the path of least resistance--at least we hope so.

 

"Janine Victoria Powell."

 

"Now *she* was a handful.  I just hoped Lisa had a homework assignment if I was sitting them, otherwise she'd be playing football indoors, or video games until all hours, maybe singing karaoke.  She kept asking what Dad did in the service, she was intrigued."

 

"Sounds like someone I know."

 

"You got that right.  At least this way if she gets her hands on some high-powered weapons, she'll be supervised.  I like her though.  Lisa and Allison told me she was their bodyguard, like their bully insurance.  In return, they gave her Spanish tutoring, help on math assignments, that kind of thing.  She's a smart kid, she just had bad study habits.  They fixed that, she's graduating with a 3.5."

 

"Did she teach the girls to stand up for themselves?"

 

"Well, they're in high school now.  Everyone that pushed them around is looking at a life of minimum wage.  They've learned other ways to stand up to bullies."

 

"Lisa Marie Simpson."

 

All four of the Simpsons stand up and holler as Lisa strides across the stage.  Number one, or at least a share, in her graduating class, just as I always knew.  The sky really is the limit for Lisa.  She'll be delivering the speech this afternoon.  All of the faculty--not to mention everyone in the audience--is bracing for a long, angry screed guaranteed to inflame passions on whatever she wants to discuss.  Can't take that away from her--she's earned the day--but she's made her share of enemies among the faculty.  Knowing Lisa though, she doesn't mind in the least.

 

"Allison Esther Taylor."

 

Naomi Taylor is up and applauding wildly, while her husband sits and clap politely.  It's a most appropriate scene for them, a buttoned-down professorial sort and an outspoken public school teacher.  Since she and Lisa were co-valedictorians, they made a compromise--she allowed Lisa the honor of the speech, while she composed a theme for today's graduation, which she'll also be conducting; she's been working with the school band for months.  Word has it she's headed to Washington to play in the National Symphony.  That's amazing; I heard her play the saxophone almost a decade ago, and even then it was a moving experience.  I can only imagine how far she's taken her ability now.

 

"Alexandra Cher Whitney."

 

"So who's she?"

 

"Ah, she's kind of bad news."

 

That's not true anymore.  Years ago she was known for her skills with chemistry, but she's cleaned up her act.  Or at least Martin Prince cleaned up her act for her.  In any event, Buckman has quite the wandering eye for even moderately attractive girls, and there's nothing moderate about Alex.  She knows what a trusting soul he can be--not to mention how he knows he outkicked his coverage in this situation.

 

"Clancy Ralph Wiggum Jr."

 

"So this is the next Broadway star?"

"That's him.  Dad's the chief of police."

 

"His mortarboard's on wrong."

 

"Dondelinger's fixing it, see?"

 

Serving as bodyguard was always the better part of babysitting Ralph.  Jimbo's dirtball friends were always giving him a rougher time than they had any right to, what with being three times his size and everything--but if having the city's top cop for a father didn't put a little fear into them, they knew better than to pull anything around me.  Chief Wiggum has a brother on the NYPD, so if Ralph ever makes it into a top acting school or a big-time theater role and needs looked out for, he's covered.

 

Lisa gives a speech to thunderous applause--notably applauding with considerably low vigor is Mayor Quimby--and once she's done, Allison is calmly in control of all sections of the band.  Buckman agrees the civilian world is in respectable hands.  The world is ready to confront all of them.  Some of them are scared to death.  Still others are ridiculously overconfident, ready to conquer all that is before them, without a clue how tough it's going to be.  But Lisa, Allison and Janey are ready to accomplish great things.  I've strongly believed that for years.  Of course, that's hardly an objective opinion.

 

***

 

Organization isn’t her strong suit, but, she has to admit, the suitcases look like they were packed by an actual human being.

 

She sits on her bed and lets out a satisfied grunt.  Eighteen years of a life weren’t easily summed up and stowed away, but, looking around at her suddenly-empty old room, Janey felt a sense of closure.  The memories were sweet, but a part of the receding past.

 

Janey was ready to move on.

 

So’s everyone else she knows – Lisa’s headed off to Princeton on a full ride scholarship; Allison’s going to Washington to be educated at the National Conservatory for the Arts, with a seat on the National Symphony (Tenor Sax, second string) already waiting in the wings.  Alex is headed to RISDI, then to Italy for an exchange trip to learn costume design.

 

Janey’s headed to UConn, where she’s slated to play for the Lady Huskies.  What happens after that, she has no clue.

 

“Do you want to play for the WNBA?” her father asked one day while they were killing an endless number of moths as they fluttered from her closet. 

 

She still hadn’t decided if she wanted to.  She loved the game but craved respect – and that was something women who loved b-ball hadn’t yet achieved. 

 

Janey knows her own strength without question: she can dance for a day without tiring.  She can kick a ball further than anyone on her soccer team, and was a leader on her swim team for all of high school.   Dondellinger hadn’t expected to be confronted with an entire team of feisty, physically-strong able-minded women, but between Allison, Lisa, Alex and Sherri and Terri, he had enjoyed four years of stress-inducing but highly profitable local press attention.

 

"I've thought about it.  I've thought about a lot."

 

"So what did you dream about?"

 

"Changed every day.  One day it was playing ball, another it was the clarinet, sometimes..."

 

Janey unearthed a dusty, well-worn Malibu Stacy Summer Fun Set.

 

"And sometimes it was Stacy."

 

"If I remember right, it was Stacy more than anything else."

 

"Yeah, when I was eight.  This thing's vintage!  You can sell this on eBay, make some nice cash."

 

"How much would someone pay for this?"

 

"I'd say thirty bucks to start."

 

"You're serious?"

 

"I'd have to check it out on the Net."

 

"This matters to you?  Since when?"

 

"Well...it's a pretty recent thing." Janey was hesitant.  She knew Alex, ever the fashionista, had set her sights on being the hottest name on Rodeo Drive.  She was a comparative underachiever except on the field, the court, the diamond...still, she knew Mr. Wise at J.R.R. Toykin's was in his sixties.  If Alex knew the human fashion world, Janey had more than her share of knowledge about style on plastic.  She punched out another moth and dug up a flat basketball under which rested several McBain action figures.

 

"Ahem.  I distinctly recall you telling me you had no idea where your brother's McBains were."

 

"Uh...right.  I must have just forgotten."

 

She gathered the McBain figures into a box.  You can't be successful in the toy biz if you can't market to girls and boys alike, she thought.

 

"What about the ball?"

 

"Keep it.  If it isn't inflated, don't see it doing me much good in college."

 

The ball and the playhouse.  Her two sides, her past and her future unearthed from a long-forgotten corner.  She felt ecstatic, confident.  Today is about the future  - the next two months and what she would do with them.  Anything beyond that was an impossible, unfathomable stretch of time.

 

 

"Janey!"

 

Her mother's voice bore a distinct Georgia lilt, in contrast to her father's harsh monotone, a product of three generations in Springfield.  She knew more about Janey than her daughter knew.  Her lapses in schoolwork frustrated her to no end, especially when contrasted with those terms filled with good grades.  She was proud to see her off to higher education, but it was tempered with a massive concern.

 

"Everything ready?"

 

"Dad loaded everything.  Back seat, trunk..."

 

"You *will* be keeping up your schoolwork.  You won't have me, or your father, or your friends to keep you in line anymore."

 

"You met Coach Auriemma, right?"

 

"Yes.  I did meet him.  You've got me."

 

"I'm telling him to double your wind sprints the first week.  You haven't been practicing as much recently."

 

"You ain't serious."

 

"Business school.  You do have plans, right?  We're not just throwing all this cash down a rat hole, right?

 

"You've got my word, Mom.  I've been designing stuff for years.  I'll be able to market them now.  Maybe I could even revive that thing of Lisa's that Stacy Lovell screwed up."

 

Mrs. Powell sighed.  "Well, if you can't dream big, at least dream bizarre.  Take a look at this house.  You know the way back, if nothing else."

 

"I'm coming back with my shield or on it."

 

She tucked her hair behind her ears, gave a curt nod to the peach walls and headed out the door, toward Exit 158 and a new home in the East. 

 

 

***

 

The hill (hill, singular – this part of Springfield is truly flat) is bright green in the hazy sunlight. They’re biking with exaggerated ease through the park, headed to a rendezvous with their boyfriends near the summit.

“Milhouse is going to make this difficult,” Lisa sighed.

“He’s Milhouse. Nothing he does is ever quiet.”

Allison held back a smile at Lisa’s frustrated sigh; it wasn’t anything Lisa hadn’t told her before. The relationship between Millhouse and Lisa had been floundering along since junior year, and with Janey fully absorbed in basketball, soccer and baseball teams, Alison had developed into Lisa’s main sounding board.

“So you’re going to lower the boom, eh?” Lisa shot her a miserable look as they ascended a steep peak. “Why’re you so scared? You’ve been thinking of breaking up with him for months.”

“I’m not scared – only apprehensive. Thinking is different from doing,” Lisa pointed out. “He’s not a bad person – that would make this so much easier. It’s just that he’s so…”

“Pathetic?” Allison blurted out, which earned her a swift glare from Lisa.

“Needy. And when I get to Princeton I want to concentrate on my classwork.” Lisa’s knuckles suddenly turned white on the handlebars.

“Are you okay?”

“Just tense,” Lisa said curtly. “My mother’s planning this huge going-away party for me and I’ve been consulted for every small detail. She can’t even put the words ‘going’ and ‘away’ together in the same sentence without crying since Bart moved to Las Vegas.”

That sounded like paradise compared to the competitive Taylor household, but Allison reminded her, “Your mom didn’t want you to go away for school. Everyone who knows her knew that.”

Lisa smiled to herself. “I had to. Springfield isn’t exactly Venice.”

Allison could relate – similar reasoning had, after all, brought her to Washington. She paused and took in the dark green grass, the cool breeze, the surprising mildness of the early summer afternoon. Ignoring the acrid scent of tires burning in the distance, the park seemed nearly perfect. “Would it sound weird if I admitted I missed this place?”

“You’ll miss it more than I – but then again, I don’t have a Wendell to come home to.”

Allison couldn’t wipe the smile from her face. “I do have him...” They got off of the bikes, then put them to rest off the beaten pathway.

Lisa chuckled, her head lolling back slightly in the cool breeze. “We have to write each other every week,” she insisted suddenly, taking the picnic basket from her basket. “I think I’ll need you more than ever. Especially after…”

“Hey Lis,” Milhouse’s voice rang out from over the hilltop, “do you need me to carry that?”

Allison saw Lisa tense up.  "No need, Milhouse."  She turned to face her friend and began to jump in place and shake her head, as if preparing to jump out of an airplane.  "Princeton, Milhouse.  The Ivy League", she said quietly, before starting up the hill.  Allison hurried after her, reaching their designated location where Milhouse and Wendell were already set up.

The couples paired off.  Everyone's body language gave the impression of awkwardness, especially that of Milhouse, who overcompensated with even more unctuous politeness.  Wendell and Allison quietly headed for a shade tree to discuss the future.

"Can't say this isn't a great city on the right day.  I know it isn't Capitol City..."

"Or Washington, D.C."

"Right.  So...I should have known this was going to happen.  I'm going to study music, you're going to the U...I'll e-mail you with all the news..."

"It's okay."

"It is?"

"I knew why you wanted to have a meeting today.  I'm fine with it.  We had a nice run, and it's not over, but...you know...it's a new phase and everything."

"Right, new phase."  Allison was unprepared for this reaction and consequently had trouble finding a response.

"You were a really good tutor.  I wouldn't be at this place without you.  It's just...maybe we can pick up after a few years."

"You're right.  This is probably for the best."  She still had not overcome the shock.  "Is there anyplace you'd like to go one last time?"

"Uh...we'd have to bring Milhouse along."

"Why's that?"

"He just won 50 bucks off me in Texas Hold 'Em."

Milhouse and Lisa were proceeding about as well as Lisa had predicted.  Milhouse was, at least for the time being, eschewing college for an entry-level position selling real estate alongside Cookie Kwan.  While he was already modestly successful--against the likes of Gil and some stubbly faced twentysomethings with squeaky voices--none of this was nearly enough to sway Lisa into a promise of maintaining further contact.

"You're ashamed of me!  You of all people!"

"Milhouse, you know that's not true.  But if you're embarking on a career here..."

"Even your Mom didn't want this!"

"She may not have, but she understands!  Why can't you?  This is a once in a lifetime opportunity!"

"I'm too close to fail now.  What am I supposed to do, move with you?  Cookie will have me blacklisted!"

"I'm sorry.  If it means anything I'll be too busy studying to...you know..."

Milhouse shot her his trademark scowl, but it was soon interrupted by the shrill squeal of a siren.  Springfield's finest was in evidence at the bottom of the hill.

"My car!"  Milhouse's grief over his terminated relationship gave way to automotive concern.  He ran halfway down the hill before spotting Lisa's bike, which he mounted to ride down to his vehicle and the officer's parked beside it.  He knew the officer's identity instantly.

"Lewis!  What did I do that you're writing a ticket?"

"Hey, Milhouse!"

"What's going on?"

"Milhouse.  You know you're not allowed to park this high up a hill, this far from the road, in the heart of the family picnic area."

"Nobody told me anything like that!"

Wendell and the girls had joined him at the bottom of the hill and were curious.  "I told you that wasn't legal", he snapped.

"Since when are you an expert on traffic laws?" Milhouse turned back to Lewis for a final appeal.  "You've known me since first grade, you can give me a break this time."

"'Fraid not, Milhouse.  That's a fine of 45 dollars now or 75 by mail, now what's it going to be?"

Allison looked disappointed, Wendell enraged, and Lisa merely confused at Milhouse's inescapable predicament.  He promptly turned over nearly all of his winnings.

"Five bucks.  I've still got five dollars."

"We'll always have the gazebo.  I'll e-mail you as often as I can."

"You're driving home.  I don't care what the agreement was before."

Allison and Lisa hopped on their bikes--Milhouse had left the spokes on Lisa's slightly dinged in his mad dash down--and headed back home.  While they maintained strong feelings for the friends they were leaving behind, these last few minutes had confirmed their decision to study outside Springfield as the right one.  The first stars in the night sky and the streetlamps painted a word-picture of everything they would miss--and everything they would not.

"I want pictures of the Lincoln Memorial.  The Smithsonian.  I want to see what's changed."

"All right.  I want to see...what's in Princeton, anyway?"

"I'll let you know when I get there."

**

The way out to to the Taylor home bypassed the middle school.  Allison had few good memories of the creaking building, as nearly every girl bully in Springfield started her apprenticeship on its grounds.  About a block before she reached the building, while she thought to herself how this may be the last time her tires would cross this street, she happened upon Janey getting in some cycling of her own, on a tandem mountain bike at her mother's recommendation for strength training.  It was appropriate.  Their friendship, crucial during all these years, was coming to a temporary halt.  Her new life would be free of bully-proofing in the form of Janey, Lisa, her mom and dad...everyone she knew.  And she was terrified.

"Hi Janey."

"Allie."

"It's really happening.  Year after year.  We didn't go two days wiithout thinking about it."

"Yeah.  I'm pumped.  It's what's gotten me through.  You see our schedule yet?"

"I did.  You come to Georgetown on Groundhog Day.  I'll be in the stands."

"I'll be looking for you.  Make a clever sign."

"Yeah, yeah...You won't have anyone from Springfield going to UConn, will you?"

"Not to my knowledge, but it's possible."

"Right...You haven't thought of transferring, have you?  Maybe get more P.T. at Maryland?  GW?

"Allison, you're going to be just fine.  You're supposed to be nervous when you start in a new place."

Allison let go a nervous chuckle.

"What's funny?"

"That's what my mom told me before my first day of school."

"Yep.  We're on the same wavelength."

"Remember Francine?"

"Of course I remember Francine.  She got her teeth back eventually."

"There's a lot of Francines in the world.  They didn't go away with high school.  What if there are more of them at the Conservatory?"

"You really think they're more intimidating than that jerk in the stands this year?  You weren't scared of him."

"That was different.  He shouldn't have said that about you."

"You've got nothing to worry about."

"So why am I worried?

"Hop on, Allison.  I want to show you something."

Allison complied, a touch confused, but without saying a word.  Janey hopped into the front seat, gave Allison a quick glance, then took off down the sidewalk.  She began casually, then sped up after a block.  She then turned a corner and rushed toward the main drag, now at top speed.  Allison's silent apprehension turned to terrified screams which got louder as Janey crossed against a light, even with several yards between them and the nearest car.  When they returned to the school, Allison, while clearly irate, could only glare at Janey while trying to catch her breath.

"Was there a reason for that?!"

"You were scared, weren't ya?  You were.  Not alone, but not in control.  There are worse things than being alone.  You're going to be alone, but you're going to be in control from now on.  You're smart enough for it.  Aren't you?"

Allison nodded.  She was rattled but understood nonetheless.

"Here."  Janey produced a red basketball uniform from her backpack.  "Lisa got my clarinet, and Gabe got my home jersey.  You've got this one, your very own Panther throwback.  I know you and Lisa did this, so I want something to remember you by.  Something I can take up to Storrs.  Next week at Lisa's party, understand?"

While Allison remained slightly rattled as she watched Janey pedal into the Springfield night, she now had a better feel of what she was up against.

 

**

 

Most of the boxes were staying right where they were.  Sure, the scene was typical of a large-scale move, with Allison, Harold and Naomi filling cardboard boxes with everything that fits and accompanying memories that would fill several times that.  But only a few would be making the trip to the nation's capital.  The rest would remain in storage, discreetly packed away into closets and alcoves.  These were the childhood awards that once adorned the walls and shelves of Allison's side room, each one adding to her legendary skills in the classroom or on the saxophone, each one now past its utility.

"You're absolutely sure there isn't an English program where you're headed?"

"Dad..."

"She's a composer.  She can find a lyricist."

"I still want homework.  Read something once in a while.  Give me an analysis."

"Harry, some of the greatest intellectuals have been dismal failures.  We both know what she's best at."

Allison tried hard to maintain her composure.  She knew how bittersweet this ordeal was for her father, who felt teaching was in her DNA.  She enjoyed her parents' give-and-take, since she knew they both had her welfare at heart.  Still, this was a new level to the competitive pressure she constantly felt.  She had no idea how she would fare alongside the country's best sax players.

"Some great so-called artists have also been dismal failures.  Don't forget that."

"She's proven herself.  Music isn't something you can intellectualize.  You can only create it.  Like that guy's beat poetry at the U.  You said yourself he was a born wordsmith--and dancer."

Allison could no longer contain herself and singsonged, "I know who that is!"

"You wouldn't know who it is.  This was right after I got my position here."

"How was he built?"

"He was kind of overweight."

"Hair?"

"Cue ball."

"Voice?"

"He sounded like that cartoon dog you used to watch."

"That's Lisa's dad."

Harry was flustered.  "Okay then...what does he do for a living?"

"Nuclear safety technician."

"So he got his degree."

"Sounds like it."

"She still should have done better on that anagram game."

Allison would not let that remark slide.  She produced a recent photo of herself with Lisa at graduation.

"Co-valedictorians, Dad."

"You both take a good picture."

"She never lost her passion to play sax.  I did once.  She brought it back when Grandmama..."

"I know.  So did he."

Naomi unearthed a letter written by Rabbi Krustofsky.  It was a slightly faded congratulatory note for her first honor roll, as well for her exemplary behavior.  It meant more to her than anything comparable from Skinner or Dondelinger.  They too often seemed content to trot her out--or Lisa, or Martin Prince, or any other high achiever--to satisfy higher-ups with the fiction that they were producing results.  The rabbi felt otherwise--he had seen the Taylors as kindred spirits, and had been known to engage in literary conversation with Harry.  Most of all, nobody else in Springfield could understand the conflict of a man with a scholarly background and an artistically gifted child. 

"Remember what he told you about his son, Harry."

Harry learned about the estrangement from his clown son, the hostilities over futures and dreams, the rabbi's warning not to make a similar mistake.  He was cornered and knew it; the story about Krusty hit home.  His pride kept him stubborn, but Naomi was an expert in breaking his ego down.  Allison always suspected her father was more appreciative of her musical skills than of her potential to follow in his footsteps.  Finally, she had proof.  All she needed now was something for tomorrow night.

"Red Badger's head.  First prize, short story, age 7.  Got it!"

"Got what?"

"Something I've been looking for."

 

**

Wind whistled through her beloved peach tree, but Lisa didn’t quite feel the cooling breeze when it reached her bare feet.  She sat upon the patio swing, a red-bound agenda on her knees as she crossed out and rewrote the day’s plans.

 

9:00 – confirm plane tickets

9:15 – breakfast

11:00 – party supplies bought.

 

Lisa fiddled with the chewed-up eraser topping her pencil and considered letting out a primal scream.  At least it would stop her stomach from turning into an acid-coated knot.

 

“Hey, smelly,” Bart greeted her as he exited the back door, beer in hand.

 

“Mmmm,” remarked Lisa, concentrating too firmly on her notes to give her brother much notice.

 

“Whatcha working on?” he wondered, sitting beside her and peeking over her shoulder.

 

Seventeen years of experience forced Lisa to grab her agenda back and hold it out of Bart’s range.  “It’s nothing important.  Just some notes for tomorrow.”

 

He eyed her critically.  “Are you okay, Lis?”

 

She hooked the pencil onto her agenda.  “I honestly can’t say.”

 

“Wanna talk about it?”

 

She cast a bemused glance at her brother.  “Really?”

 

“Sure,” he shrugged.

 

She met his eyes.  “Mom’s making me crazy.  We’ve got a girls’ day out tomorrow leading up to the party, and she wants everything to be perfect.” Bart laughed aloud at the idea of perfection being connected to their family name.  “It’s not funny.  Maggie’s already hostile to the idea of getting our hair done and having tea.”  She poked Bart in the ribs, “this is all your fault.  I don’t think she’ll EVER get over what you did the week you graduated.”

 

“Hey, it took a long time to dye those doves green!”

 

Lisa chuckled, in spite of herself.  “Milhouse’s nails were neon-colored for two weeks afterwards,” she sobered slightly, remembering her boyfriend.  “Have you seen him lately?”

 

“Yeah.” Bart sipped his Duff.  “I saw him at the Kwik-E-Mart a couple of hours ago.  He seemed sorta down, but he’ll live.”

 

Lisa felt a tiny swipe of relief.  “Good.  I don’t bear any ill-will for him.”

 

Bart sighed.  “He should’ve seen it coming.”

 

“I didn’t even see it coming until last year – how could you have known?”  Lisa crossed her hands upon her lap in a maidenly fashion.

 

Bart shrugged.  “Milhouse is needy.  He was like that with Samantha and it drove her out the door.  And I’ve known you since you were born, and what you’ll stand for in a guy.”

 

“You make me sound insensitive.”

 

“No, you know where to draw the line,” Bart informed her.  “You don’t want him to take over your life.  School’s what you need to concentrate on.” 

 

“You would know about that.  How did finals go?”

 

Bart squirmed.  “Uh, well…”

 

“Bart!” Lisa hissed, “you did take your finals?”

 

“Yeah, I did – but it’s the last set I’m gonna take.”

 

She gaped at him.  “You’re dropping out of school?”

 

Bart winced.  “I only went ‘cause I wanted to get away from here.”

 

“Mom’s gonna kill you!” Lisa gasped.

 

“She knows I’m not the school type.”  Bart countered.  “And in the end she’ll be really happy.  I’ll be moving back to Springfield…”

 

“You’re coming back home?” Lisa murmured.

 

“I’ve got a job lined up with Down With Buildings.  Me and Milhouse are gonna get a place together until I can convince Brandee to take a transfer.”  He tipped back the rest of his beer.  “Think of it this way – mom’ll be too busy fussing over me to worry about what you’re doing over in Columbia...”

 

“Princeton.”

 

“See, you’re going where you need to go, and I’m going where I need to go.”  He nodded his head sharply, just once, settling the question.

 

Lisa never could let well enough alone.  “It’s sort of sad, Bart.  You worked so hard to get away from here.”

 

“Sometimes,” he told her, “no matter how much space you try to put between yourself and your roots, you’ve gotta come home.  You end up where you belong, Lis.”

 

She shivered, just a little, and turned to the northern sky, and her plans for a new life far from Exit 158.

****

The party’s in full swing by the time I arrive with Buckman in tow.  Marge welcomes us at the door, takes our coats, her eyeliner already caked from crying.

 

“You look wonderful, Laura.  Army life seems to agree with you.”  Missus Simpson is terminally polite as always, hovering over us all and making sure everyone’s having a good time (but not too good of a time) and that the snack table’s always full. 

 

“Once an Army brat, always an army brat,” Buckman jokes, patting the small of my back possessively. 

 

“I wish I could say it agreed with us,” Marge says, a little wistfully.

 

“Your family was in the army!” Buckman’s jaw drops.  “That’s why your husband looked so familiar…”

 

“Actually, it was the Navy,” Marge corrects.  “Homie was stationed on a submarine for a few months.  He didn’t enjoy it at all,” she smiles.  “He’s a bit of a rebel.”

 

I don’t even bother to suppress my smirk – having accidentally walked in on Mister Simpson in mid air guitar session, I’m inclined to agree with her.  “You’ve been keeping him away from the appliances, right?”

 

Marge sighs.  “I try,” she murmured, then brightened.  “MAGGIE!   Say hi to Laura!”

 

Maggie – who had been hovering by the chips and dip with a couple of the Nahassaphimapettilon kids – glanced up, her mouth crammed with chips.  “Mgphs!” she uttered, choking them down, then heading up to us with a pained smile on her face.  “Hello, Miss Powers…”

 

“Private Powers.”  Buckman winces – not the married name debate, my squared shoulders say.  Not now.  “Sweetheart,” I pointed him toward a cluster of guys gathered around the TV set, “don’t you want to go play with some boys your own age?”

 

He mock-sighs.  “Yes, dear,” and pecks me on the cheek, joining the cluster.  I turn back to Maggie and give her a quick squeeze.  I’m amazed by her height.  “Geesh, Maggie how old are you now?”

 

“Almost eleven,” she says, with great dignity, making me feel ancient.  God, Bart was ten when I first met this family; now he’s twenty-one.  “How’s the Army?”

 

“I like it,” I say.  “Bart told me you’re into motocross now?”

 

She nodded.  “Mom keeps trying to talk me out of going pro…”

 

“Not until you finish school!” Marge scolds, her eavesdropping naked to the eye. 

 

“Your mom’s right,” I tell her.  “You need something practical under your belt.”

 

Maggie smirks.  “This family’s so not practical.”

 

I ruffle her hair fondly.  Maggie’s always been too daring for this crazy town, and it’s a sentiment I relate to.  “One day you’ll get out, kiddo.”

 

She scoffed.  “That’s what my mother thought.  Then BOOM, one day she woke up with a lifetime sentence.”

 

I glance over Maggie’s shoulder – Marge had drifted into a conversation with Sarah Wiggum.  “Your mom’s happy with her life...”

 

“Yeah, but…”

 

“You’re afraid history’s gonna repeat itself?”

 

Maggie shrugged, which is pre-pubescent slang for ‘whatever.’  “You’re not your mom any more than I’m mine,” I tell her. 

 

“Yeah, I guess.  You’re not exactly a steroid-addicted, bitter divorcee.”

 

I wince.  Mom’s a very changeable person, a very passionate one, and the bodybuilding adventure had been an oddly disastrous side-step for her.  “We’re both cool people.  We’re wicked cool people.”

 

Maggie smirks.  “You’re an awesome person, Laura.  I always wanted to be like you.”

 

I tap her on the forehead with my index finger.  “You still have a way to go for that, young padwan.  Study hard.”

 

She snorts.  “Have you seen the lady of the hour, by the way?”

 

“Not yet.  Is she up in her room?”

 

“Of course,” Maggie snorts. 

 

“I’ll go see her then.  I gave your mom my email.  Stay in touch?”

 

“Try to,” Maggie says, smirking out at me from behind ‘whatever’ mode.

 

“Hey, Mags,” It’s Puuma Nahasaphemapettilon, waving a five dollar bill, “mom says we can go down to DVD Dormitory and pick up a couple of flicks.”  She stops.  “Hey, you look familiar...”

 

“I ought to – I’ve changed your diaper a few times.”

 

She flushes.  “Laura.  You look…way old.”

 

I flush in return.  “Thanks, kid.”

 

“Let’s go, Maggs,” she insists, pulling Maggie toward the door.

 

“I’ll stay in touch,” Maggie promises.  “See you!”

 

I head upstairs, taking the time to knock.  “Who is it?” Lisa asks.

 

“Your favorite sitter.”

 

A shuffling noise, and the door opens.  Predictable, Lisa’s surrounded by Janey, Alex and Allison, who’re lounging about in their semi-formal wear.  It’s stifling there – Homer and Marge still haven’t sprung for an air conditioner. 

 

“Hey, Laura,” they mumble, exhausted by the heat.

 

“Just came up to say bye – I’m headed back to Fort Knox tomorrow.”

 

“Fort Knox?”  Predictably, that draws Janey’s attention.  “Are they shipping you someplace?”

 

“Nah – Buckman's teaching operation and maintenance,” I smile.  “Digging the badger on your lapel.”

 

She laughs.  “Noted,” she mock-salutes me.

 

Lisa and Allison watch us with amusement – both were ambivalent about my entering the service.  Alex, meanwhile, is in her own Versace-lined universe, beyond my reach. 

 

“Necklines are WAY too high this season,” she notes, dog-earing her copy of Vogue.

 

“Too high?  I froze my way through practice last month,” Allison complains.

 

I zero in on Lisa.  “Hey, you look a little down.”

 

“Down?  I’m thinking,” she replies.

 

I decide to leave it alone.  I want to remember them as they are – young, ready to face the world, ready to take any and everything on.  “This,” I tell them, passing out slips of paper with my info jotted onto it, “is my contact info.  Write me.  I’ll write you back.”

 

“Sounds like a promise I can keep,” Lisa states.  I have a feeling from her tone that she’s made too many recently, or, perhaps, has been trying to free herself from them.

 

“Do you all promise to write me?”

 

“Yes, Miss Powers,” they sing-song.

 

I smile, because it’s all my doing.


The End