Jenny Seay

"Can you read the addresses?"

I unroll the passenger window of Sarah's red Ford Festiva, craning my neck to make out the numbers marking each brick bungalow we roll past.

"1825, 1827, 1829..." I recite the ascending sequence of odd numbers, squinting until I spot a small square house sporting the address scribbled on the scrap of paper in my hand.

"There it is, 1835!" I thrust my index finger out the window, causing Sarah to brake hard. We jolt against our seatbelts, straps creaking in protest, while behind us a rusted brown Toyota slows to a halt.

Sarah's eyes shift from the house on our right to the rearview mirror. "I'll go around," she says, zipping forward, darting through an alley at the end of the block. We circle back to the quiet street, this time parking about half a block away. Sarah kills the engine, and we exchange glances. This is the first of many attempts to stalk the latest object of Sarah's affection, Jerome Ratliff. I want to ask Sarah why she has chosen me to be her accomplice, but dutiful friend that I am, I play along, trusting she knows what she's doing.

"So now what?" I ask.

Sarah slides low in her seat, disguising her thin face with round-lens sunglasses. "We wait. And watch." She jerks her head across the street, where a few cars up, Jerome's purple Geo Storm is parked. "I'm hoping he'll go out. Then we can follow him."

At school, Jerome is famous for barreling through the parking lot in his little car, cruising over speed bumps while blasting loud techno music. I wonder if Sarah will be able to keep up if we get the chance to follow him through the streets.

We sit in silence for the next half hour. Sarah picks the edges of her nails while my eyes adjust to the growing dusk. I shift my gaze from car to house--car to house--impatient for Jerome's emergence.

"I think we're wasting time," I say. "How much longer until you think he'll come out?"

"I dunno," Sarah responds. "You can't expect it to be instant."

We sit without words for another half an hour before I've finally had enough.

"This is silly," I say, crumbling the scrap of paper into a ball, all ready to toss it out the window, when Sarah hurriedly grabs my wrist.

"Don't," she says. "We might need it in case we come back later."

"But we KNOW where he lives."

"I don't care. I like to have it written in case we forget."

I unfold the scrap, flattening the creases on the dashboard's surface, and hand it across to Sarah. She inhales the scent of dried ink, and instructs me to stick the address in her glove box. I do as I'm told, tucking it between Sarah's proof of registration and a half-empty pack of spearmint gum.

"You hungry?" I ask, and Sarah nods. The car roars back to life, and we take one last lingering look toward Jerome's residence. As the summer drags on, Sarah and I will memorize every brick, every speck on the window shades, and every fleck of paint missing from the front porch railings. But for now, this stalking business is relatively new, and being impulsive teenage girls, we haven't yet built the attention span to do it well.

Sarah pulls away from the curb, disappointed to glide past the lifeless purple car. I wave at Jerome's house, unaware that this excursion, initially intended to combat boredom, will soon become a staple of our Saturday evenings.

(2005-07-26)

Also by Jenny Seay

Personal paparazzi
It's no secret that the lives of celebrities are constantly monitored
(2005-02-22)

Just do it
It's a take-charge philosophy, a radical value system with independence and creativity at its core
(2004-09-14)

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