Friday, April 13, 1990, 4:30 PM
I arrive at my apartment building on the northern outskirts of Seattle after walking home from school with my best friend Mike Bailey. We are just in time to see a small moving van pull away. I was aware of a vacant apartment in the building, so I assume I have new neighbors.
Mike and I have been friends for as long as I can remember. Virtually all the trouble I get into involves Mike. It isn't his fault any more or less than it is mine. It's just that we spend so much time together that, if there's trouble, both of us are likely to be involved.
We both believe that the minimum wouldn't be the minimum if it wasn't good enough, and our grades reflect that attitude. With a little luck, we will graduate in a few weeks. College scholarships are out of the question and our parents are working class folks who provide all we need but don't have the funds to invest in our continued education. Lacking other prospects, I enlisted in the Army under a delayed entry program that allows me to graduate and then attend basic training a couple of weeks later. Mike doesn't want to go in the military. He has a summer job with an uncle in Spokane who sells farm machinery. If he likes the work, he plans to stay on. Meanwhile, we have time for a little more mischief before our departure. Mike heads for his apartment and then returns a few minutes later.
My family lives in a basement unit of a building that is built on a slope so my bedroom window is very close to ground level. Mike meets me just outside and waves to my younger sister who has the bedroom next to mine. She waves back with one finger. Mike laughs, returns the gesture, and she disappears inside with a grin.
"Look what I have," he announces as he pulls a large string of firecrackers out of the paper sack he's brought with him.
"Cool!" I exclaim. Firecrackers are impossible for us to resist. Mike's are small ones that provide lots of gratifying noise but pose little danger unless one detonates prematurely in your hand.
Mike produces a box of matches from the pocket of his jacket as I begin to separate the little explosives from the fuse material that strings them together so we can light them one at a time.
Bang!
"All right!" exclaims Mike as the first one goes off with a bright flash.
Bang!
Bang!
"What are you morons doing?" yells a shrill voice from somewhere up above.
I look upward and see a gorgeous creature leaning part way out the window two floors above us. I have never seen her before. I'm guessing she must be my new neighbor. From the looks of her, things could be a lot worse.
"What does it look like we're doing?" I ask with a grin as I study her more closely. Flaming red hair frames a frowning, but beautiful, face. She has a slim torso with nicely proportioned breasts that add shape to the pullover sweater she is wearing.
"Why don't you imbeciles go somewhere else and do that?" she snarls.
I have no idea why I do what I do next. Lighting another firecracker's fuse, I toss the small explosive device straight up into the air. My timing is perfect. Just as it reaches the level of the third floor, it detonates about ten feet in front of her face.
"You fucking asshole!" she screams, loud enough that I suspect her parents aren't home.
Mike starts laughing and gives me a thumbs-up.
For the second time in about fifteen seconds I do something completely illogical. With my hands on my hips, I lean back a little and look up into a face that is flushed with anger.
"That's no way to talk to your future husband," I say calmly.
"What?" she screeches.
"You heard me," I reply with a grin on my face.
"I wouldn't marry a troglodyte like you if you were the last person on earth!" she yells as she slams the window shut and disappears back into her apartment.
Troglodyte? I'll have to look that one up.
"What's with you Jim?" asks Mike, looking at me like I have three heads.
"I...I'm not sure," I answer, feeling a little bit bewildered by what I have just done. "I think I'd better go up there and mend some fences."
"You're kidding, right?"
"Actually no, I'm not."
"She's pretty good looking, but I'm betting she's gonna rip your face off," he says with a wide grin. "I'm going home. Call me later if you survive."
"If my body is found in the hallway up there, you'll read about it in the papers," I answer with a grin of my own.
"Later Dude," he says with a wave of his hand and then takes off in the direction of his apartment that is a couple of buildings over from mine.
Twenty seconds later I am in the entryway of my building, studying the mail box labels. Her apartment is directly above mine but on the third floor. My apartment number is 103 so I know hers has to be 303. The name on the label says 'Flynn' in hand-printed capital letters. Sounds Irish to me. Goes with the red hair and the nasty temper.
I take the steps two at a time until I reach the third floor. Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I stand directly in front of the peephole and rap softly on the door to apartment 303.
Nothing.
I knock a little harder.
Still nothing, so I knock louder.
"Fuck off!" comes a shriek from the other side of the door.
"Aw come on!" I explain. "I'm sorry about the firecracker thing."
"I'm calling the cops!" she yells.
That gets my attention. With few exceptions, fireworks are illegal in the state of Washington. Retreat seems like a wise move under the circumstances so I turn and head down the stairs with as much dignity as I can muster.
When I arrive at my apartment, I pull a dictionary off the desk in my bedroom and look up the word 'troglodyte.' Mister Webster provides several definitions, none of them flattering. The most likely one she was applying to me is 'a person of degraded, primitive, or brutal character.' While I don't agree with her characterization, I am impressed by her vocabulary.
I spend the rest of the weekend trying, without success, to catch another glimpse of the red haired beauty. A couple of times I spot a man and woman I believe to be her parents but she is nowhere to be seen.
On Monday morning, I position myself in the entryway of the building across from ours where I am reasonably well hidden and can observe any comings and goings from my own building. I don't know anything about Ms. Flynn but she seems to be close to my age. If she is still in school, she should make an appearance soon.
I don't have long to wait. In less than five minutes a late model black Nissan pulls up In front of the building and she emerges onto the porch with a couple of books in her arms. She is more stunning than I thought. Shapely legs emerge from a knee-length skirt and carefully tended hair flows down to the middle of her back. She is breathtaking.
Seconds later she jumps into the passenger seat. I note with relief that the driver is a girl. It doesn't mean there is no boyfriend, but it gives me hope. And then they are gone.
I don't have a car. My parents can't afford to buy one for me and I've never been able to accumulate enough cash from various summer jobs to buy one for myself. I walk to school unless the weather is miserable and I am forced to take the bus.
When I arrive at school, I detour through the student parking lot. There are two black Nissans, either of which could be the car of interest. On the other hand, maybe they don't go to my school at all. There are a couple of private schools in the area. Kicking myself for not making note of the license plate number, I enter the building and go to my locker.
At the lunch break, I head down the hallway toward the administrative offices where honor roll lists for the current year are posted on the wall outside. My name won't be on them but I am hoping that Ms. Flynn is a good student. If her name doesn't appear, I will have to find a way to get a roster of students for the whole school. For a variety of reasons, such lists are closely guarded by the staff.
I hit the jackpot. 'Jenna' Flynn is a straight-A student.
"Yes!" I blurt out as I pump the air with my fist; drawing the attention of one of my teachers who knows damned well I am not reacting to the appearance of my name on the list.
"You're kidding, right?" asks Mr. Fellows, my history teacher, with a wide grin. We like each other well enough but I am lucky to maintain a C-minus in his class.
"Just checking on a friend," I answer with a smile of my own and then head down the hall toward the lunchroom so I won't have to answer any more questions.
Our school is huge. There are more than four hundred kids in my senior class so I am not surprised that I have not encountered Jenna Flynn before. Plus I take the easiest classes I can get away with and I'm certain she takes only advanced placement courses. I also don't know how long she has been at the school. For all I know, she could be a recent transfer student.
Lunch consists of sliders and fries; my personal favorite. Mike's too. We have the same lunch period so I join him at a table near the door. The school needs three periods to accommodate more than twelve hundred students in three grades. I am pretty sure that Jenna isn't assigned to my lunch period or I would have noticed her before. Either that or she eats lunch somewhere else.
"I don't see any bandages," Mike quips. "How did it go?"
"She wouldn't answer the door and she threatened to call the cops."
"Stay away from her then. She's bad news," Mike advises.
"I can't do that," I reply. "I'm smitten."
"Oh for Christ's sake," exclaims Mike, shaking his head in disbelief. "So now what?"
"I'm going to stalk her," I answer with a grin.
"Great. Add a felony into the mix."
"I don't mean stalk her in that way, but I need to find out more about her."
