Chapter 1

The evening Celeste Carey began writing her story across my heart started out much the same as other Thursday evenings in Faith Junction. Thirty-five years later, I have the lantern of hindsight to illuminate the happenings of that summer, but back then, I proceeded blindly, feeling my way in a hormonal haze, unaware of how far from ordinary my life was about to become.

That night, the night of my first encounter with Celeste, as I stacked dishes and helped my mother clear the table, the DDT truck's engine announced its presence on my block. Such a truck was a common occurrence in 1964, spewing pesticide and leaving us mosquito free for days. Nowadays, knowing what we know about the dangers of such gases, it is hard to believe we welcomed the arrival of the truck, but we did. We ran to it willingly, drawing in the sweet scent, trusting that no harm could ever come of such an activity.

I quickly finished placing silverware on the counter. Up and down the block kids scrambled for bikes and, at fourteen, I was no exception. Though I longed to find a car instead of a Schwinn in my garage, the warm summer night and the sweet smell beckoned.

"Back soon!"

I raced outside and managed not to trip over my too-large feet. As the screen door banged shut behind me, my mother's voice rang in my ears, "Don't stay in that cloud too long, Luke D'Angelo. Who knows what it might do to you!" Most neighborhood parents were saying the exact same thing to their children, many tacking on, "Don't forget to come home when the streetlights come on!" Accompanied by these mild warnings, we followed the vapor-spewing vehicle as it made its slow pass through our streets.

The sound of windows slamming down to keep out the poison gas followed me as I fell in behind the pied piper of a white truck on its second visit that week. Only a few days ago, I caught up to the vehicle, abandoned my bike, climbed onto the back and perched above the jets, lord of the DDT soon-to-be-dead flies. Usually, I preferred to pedal blind, deep in the spray of gas where you could not keep your eyes open for long in the irritating fog. I tried to linger as long as I could, dropping back and coming up for clean air now and then. Tonight, I followed the truck off my block and wound up on a road that led away from my surroundings to undiscovered territory.

The voices and shouts of the rest of the kids and teens faded behind me. They had fallen back, letting the truck continue on its route while they awaited the next arrival of the evening; the Bungalow Bar ice cream man. For some reason I pressed on. After a bit, I slowed to get my bearings. Being recently transplanted to Faith Junction, nothing was familiar in this part of town. I speeded up and kept pedaling, lingering in the dreamy fog imagining that this was how London might be.

Out of nowhere in that dense haze someone laughed beside me, a laugh that tinkled melodically and made me want to know the owner. I looked left, then right, my childish fantasies pushed aside in favor of adult ones. The fog hung too thickly to make out who rode there. All I could tell was that someone female inhabited the cloud. My heart raced and my imagination flew. I slowed my pedaling and thought I could see a slim shape ahead, arms extended to the sides, riding without hands. A daredevil girl. No one I knew.

She laughed again and I realized she was laughing for the pure joy of the ride. She had no idea I was watching her, nor did she seem to care. This disappointed me and I plotted to get her attention. Perhaps I could sneak up on her and shout above the noise of the truck, give her a scare.

Suddenly, my front wheel hit a huge hole and I launched over my handlebars into the air. My bike clattered to the ground and I landed hard on the asphalt, tumbling to the curb. The DDT truck moved away, taking the girl with it in its wake.

Damn.

I watched her recede as I rubbed a skinned knee. The DDT fog dissipated slightly and left me to the aromatic remains that lingered in the Faith Junction air. Then, to my surprise, the girl fell back from the truck and turned in my direction. She rode toward me. She was not familiar. Once again my heart came alive at the sight of her slender shape. I felt a stirring inside as she pulled up next to me.

"You all right?" she asked.

I blinked twice. This was no ordinary girl. Surely someone would have told me about such a creature. Blonde and trim, she was as near perfection as I could ever imagine. I was new to town and had met many girls already, but none were in her league. I made a mental note to cross-examine my newfound buddies the next day. She had to be near my age yet our paths had not crossed. How could that be in such a small place? I nodded at her, not able to find my tongue, angry at my ineptitude, embarrassed by what was occurring in my shorts. She hooked her thumbs in her front pockets and my eyes lingered on the curve of her hips. She woke something primal in me.

She spoke softly. "You have to stay focused to ride in that fog. It's not much different from a real fog."

"I've never been in a real fog."

She possessed the most beautiful skin I had ever seen. She wore white short-shorts that exposed tan and taut legs. Above the shorts a red and white checked top was tied at her waist, Ann Margret style, exposing a flat belly. I stopped myself from staring and knew I was as crimson as her shirt. She tilted her head at me. A golden wave of hair caressed a heart-shaped face.

She said, "It's time for me to go get some chores done at the farm. The plants need watering."

I wished I had put on a clean T-shirt and a pair of pants instead of the faded madras shorts and stained white shirt that hung on me. I wished I could think of some words that would make her want to linger. I wished there were something I could do to raise myself above appearing a dullard, but nothing came to mind.

She was radiant. There was no other word to describe her that evening in the fading light.

She laughed that high tinkling laugh again and dug into her pocket. Shyly, she handed me a small jar with a metal cap. I let her drop the container into my palm. The glass was cool and comforting in the summer heat. I held it up to the light and found my tongue.

"What is it?"

She pursed her lips. "Something I think you could use."

The jar appeared empty. I began to unscrew the cap and she placed her hand over mine. Oh, that touch. I can still feel it today. It was as though a butterfly came to rest. I tried to stay still, but to my dismay her hand alighted in an instant. The loss cut me deeply.

Her voice was gentle but firm. "Not now."

"Don't open it?"

She shook her head. "Save it."

Her blonde hair fell in waves past her shoulders. She pushed a strand behind her ear, an ear as delicate and translucent as a seashell. I thought about how good it would feel to nuzzle her, to bury my face in her neck and draw in her scent. I was sure she would smell as good as she looked. She peered through the clear side of the container and smiled.

"It's really quite a good specimen. One of these days you'll appreciate it."

"Looks like an empty baby food jar," I said, shaking the container.

She laughed and I could swear that the cicadas stopped their thrumming for an instant.

"Appearances are deceiving. Didn't anyone ever tell you that?" she said.

Before I could answer she pushed off and began pedaling away, which caused my heart to sink. I wanted to yell, "Don't go!" I realized with a start that I did not know her name. It would only make me appear foolish to try to make her stay to find it out. Even at the age of fourteen I understood that you did not try to control a girl like Celeste. I was saddened for I did not know if I would ever see this strange girl again. That thought was unbearable.

I watched her round the corner. As she turned onto the main road that led out of town she raised her hand to the sky in what I thought was a wave. I sensed that the air suddenly grew cooler. Then, from the junction of the two streets, a cloud of fog rolled toward me. At first I thought the DDT truck was returning, but as the mist swept over me, I realized that this was a different bank of air, much softer and cleaner than that spewed by the truck. For an instant I felt like I was on my own private movie set. I could see the girl fade as great whorls enshrouded me. I tried to track her as she rode off into the distance, but she was gone, lost in smoke. She left me wishing for more encounters with her and broader shoulders with which to impress her. Thinking about it now, I can see that I raced toward Celeste that summer the way I raced to the DDT truck, with a sense of joy and an undercurrent of danger, incapable of understanding that there could ever be any negative consequences to my involvement. Youth cannot see that what lays up ahead on the horizon might not be a rosy sunset after all.

After a time, I headed for home where my mother's kitchen radio blared something about unseasonable fog being found scattered throughout our area. I climbed the stairs to my room and fell on the bed studying the jar this girl had placed in my hand. I reflected how finding an extraordinary girl riding beside me in the DDT haze was better than finding an extra prize in a box of Cracker Jack. The meeting lingered as sweet as the cherry on top of a sundae at Ben's Diner, our local hangout. Something silver ran in my veins.

The phone rang and I gently placed the jar on my desktop. The voice of my buddy, Joshua Weingrad, squawked at me.

"Twice in one hour. Do you think I'm going to go blind?"

I sighed. Josh enjoyed detailing his solo sexual exploits. He assumed I did not mind listening, as I did not generally switch the subject, but tonight I had my own agenda. I stared at the jar. If Josh were here he would no doubt try to fill it the way he did most things these days. I made a mental note not to tell him about the receptacle and to keep it hidden.

"I just saw the most incredible girl, Josh. Blonde. About fourteen or fifteen. With blue eyes and an unbelievable shape."

"Go Lukie!" he cried. "Did you nail her?"

"I'm wondering if you know her name."

"Guess that's a no. How many quarts of this stuff do you think I can accumulate over the course of the summer? Do you think it'll dry up on me?"

"She's about five foot two."

"I bet if I keep it in the fridge it would stay longer. I'm a goddamn machine. Big bazookas?"

"She's gorgeous, Josh. I want to know who she is."

"Deanna's having a party tomorrow night. Maybe your mystery meat will show up there."

"I haven't seen her anywhere before." I was embarrassed to mention that wonderful laugh.

He let out a low whistle. "I bet I know who she is."

I sat down on my bed and held my breath as he went on.

"Heck, most people don't know her but she does get out now and then when her father's not looking. Not stacked but not bad at all."

"What's her name?"

"Celeste. Celeste Carey."

Although I had never heard it, the name sent shockwaves into my groin. Something told me this must be her.

"She's too weird, man. Ask Alec if you don't believe me. Only reason I know anything about her is cause he dated her."

Alec was our third musketeer and the most adept of us at female relationships. Josh spent all his time with his receptacles as he had never had a girlfriend, though he continually tried to find one.

My mother called from below that she needed help moving a table to the backyard. With my father absent, as usual, on a business trip, Mom relied on me to help her with her constant organizing. I wished my father would spend more time with us and lately wondered if there was more to his absence than selling paper products. Beneath the domestic sea of tranquillity that my mother liked to pretend existed, I sensed turbulent waters.

"I have to go, Josh. Catch you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, douchebag. I'm working on filling a peanut butter jar. Wanna lay odds on how long that takes me?"

Later that night when I went to bed I lay restless in the June torpor. I switched off my transistor in the middle of a story about Thalidomide babies. As I tossed and turned trying to induce sleep, something caught my eye, something glinted on my desk. I raised up on one elbow and studied the pile of things scattered on the green felt blotter. Next to an old dictionary, my eyes found a half-finished model of a Corvette, a Silver Surfer comic book, some loose S&H green stamps, two forty-five rpm's and that little jar of Celeste's.