He wasn't about to wait for Bob Newby, Bob who still had the Mobo safety wheels on his bike, but something about the shout of his athletically-challenged friend halted him in his steps, and he let out a very tolerant huff and jammed the tails of his brightly-colored shirt deeper into the waist of his shorts.
"Hurry up!" Jim bellowed, "Or I'm gonna beat you to the social and eat all the drop cookies!" A smirk made its way over his face; if there was any way to bring his slowpoke friend up to speed, it was mention of cookies. He omitted to mention that it was his mom who was bringing the cookies, and as such he'd consumed more than his share of the dough while Bob got dressed and didn't have much appetite for them anymore, but as predicted, screen door banged and Bob came dashing out, hair askew, socks around his ankles.
Jim scowled. "Your mom's gonna know we went swimming."
"Not if you don't tell her."
"You look like you just came out of a tornado, pull your socks up. And tie your shoes."
"You're the one with a wet head," Bob retorted, and Jim scrubbed a hand through unruly blond locks with a defensive squint.
"The wind will dry it. It won't do much for yours, your bike's not fast enough!"
"Eat my dust, Jim Hopper!"
The two took off down the grassy driveway with as much speed as their eleven-year-old-legs could pump from their bicycles, and the twisting streets took them circuitously to their destination where the mothers, sisters, and wives of Hawkins, Indiana bustled about to set up the most glorious picnic of the blistering summer of '53.
"Bob! Jim!" a voice called, and the boys slowed, pedals hitting the back of Jim's legs as he turned to see his mother hurrying over, drying her hands on her apron, a scowl etched between carefully shaped brows. "I told you boys to be here half an hour ago."
"Very sorry, Mrs. Hopper, we got distracted. We were just..." Gulping, Bob trailed off, glancing over at his friend's still-wet hair.
"Susan's cat got out and we helped her to catch it. This is sweat," Jim volunteered, brushing at the dampness behind his ears. "We were being good neighbors."
"Susan's mother told me she has measles," Mrs. Hopper began pointedly, but Jim interrupted, "Exactly why we were being good neighbors. Nobody should be running around after a cat when they've got measles."
Mrs. Hopper's mouth opened as if she were about to follow that up with something much more pointed, when a feminine call came from across the yard and she shook her head at the boys instead, managing, "Help us find rocks to weight the tablecloths, I've got to help Eleanor with this pie."
"You got it, Mrs. Hopper!" Bob returned with great gusto, and the two pushed their bikes into the shade and began to hunt rocks, mumbling to one another under their breaths.
"At least your dad didn't see us," Jim murmured. "He'd have both our hides."
"My dad? I'm more scared of your mom," Bob returned with a shudder. "She terrifies me."
"Why?" Jim scowled. "She's just my mom. Your dad's the chief of police."
"My dad can whoop me and send me to bed without supper for sassing him. Your mom can withhold cookies if she decides my hair isn't right. You tell me which is worse."
"Got one." Jim held up a fist-sized rock triumphantly from where he'd prized it from the dirt beneath the tree. "C'mon, we gotta get the dust off."
"Is she here yet?" Bob whispered, ignoring his friend, craning his neck around to stare at the continuous stream of arrivals to the picnic. "I bet she's wearing that yellow dress with the big bow."
"Would you shut up," Jim complained. "I've heard about nothing but Chrissy Carpenter's yellow dress for three weeks now."
"She's a perfect angel and she's mine," Bob proclaimed, round face sober. "You are my wingman, and you are going to help me win her eternal love."
"I'll help you take those dumb safety wheels off your Mobo and then maybe she'll at least look at you," Jim retorted. "Girls are dumb, I don't get why you want her to like you. If you get a girlfriend then we can never go swimming or slingshot Susan's cat. Because girls ruin all the fun."
"She can play the piano," Bob sighed, and Jim snorted.
"So can Mrs. Reynolds."
"Ew, Mrs. Reynolds smells like mothballs. Even on Sundays."
"Exactly. All girls eventually grow up into someone like Mrs. Reynolds, or my mom. So if you want to listen to her play the same song on the piano all the time, go ahead, but I'm gonna -"
Just then, a polite beep announced the arrival of yet another family, this time by car, as a burgundy Riley RMA pulled its way slowly onto the lawn, several individuals already making their way over to greet them. Bob gulped.
"Its her. Its the Carpteners."
"Here we go," Jim jeered under his breath, and Bob elbowed him.
"My heart is in my throat! What do I do?"
"Help me finish these rocks, you goon," Jim grumbled. "We still have to find a bunch more. I've found the only good ones."
"She's in the yellow dress," Bob breathed, sounding a little faint as he twisted around, Jim with his back still to the family as Mrs. Carpenter alighted, aided by Mr. Carpenter, and several ladies lent a hand to carry in the eatables, the fellows in their Ivy Leaguers leaning over to pull a few folding chairs from the boot.
"Yellow dress my ass," Jim began, smacking Bob on the back of the head, and in the act getting a glimpse of the lass in question, a young girl with golden hair tied in an enormous ribbon, her dress a gathered smock of pure sunlight, the bibbed collar tied with yet another huge bow. "Huh," was as eloquent as his comment went after that, and he returned to digging rocks. "Your dad won't let you have a girlfriend. He was frosted that one time that you even asked him if you could bring a girl back to the house to trade cracker jack."
"I gotta sit down," Bob announced, to which Jim retorted, "You're already sitting down, you big pansy. Are you gonna help me dig these rocks or not?"
Bob was spared answering owing to the extraordinary circumstance of a girlish voice piping in, "Whatcha doing, boys?"and Chrissy herself smiling down at the two from beneath the sunny crown of her hair, dimples seeming to be put on especial display for these two alone.
"F-finding... finding... some – uh-" Bob began, and Jim finished stoically, "Digging rocks for the tables because my mom said to."
"Your mother's so sweet," Chrissy responded without missing a beat, gathering up that bright yellow dress and seating herself in the dust next to the two, poking a stick carefully at the dirt with an interested expression. "Can I help? My mom said I had to keep out from underfoot until she and Mrs. Gillespie had cut all the pies. Then she said I could help serve."
Bob was sitting with his mouth agape, words stopped in his throat, cheeks growing redder and redder with each passing minute, but Jim, cooly ignoring him, returned, "Oh, you can help alright, you can dust off the ones we find. But be careful. Don't get too much on your fingers or it won't scrub off."
He surprised even himself with how cordial he sounded. Conversation came easily after that, the little girl prattling about her lovebird, and how it could sing three songs, and that she was teaching it to sing with her when she played piano, and also about how school was going to start again and how she hoped she could be one of the junior cheerleaders for the ball team. Jim said next to nothing and yet watched her, every movement graceful, her words a lilting background sound in his head and suddenly decided that maybe girls weren't so bad, so long as you didn't have them butting in where they weren't wanted and trying to get you to stop slingshotting the cat. She certainly was something to look at, to watch her just... do things.
Bob still said nothing and finally excused himself to hurry across the yard, looking very much in danger of passing out. Jim rose at last, and offered Chrissy his hand.
"We should scrub up at the pump, we got enough rocks. I'll pump for you." Gathering the armload in his shirt, the two walked across the lawn and Jim deposited the heap on the nearest table, shouting, "Bob! Put these around, will ya?" and then turning to begin pumping the water for Chrissy. She scrubbed as prettily as she spoke, small, dainty motions, working the dirt from her fingertips and from tiny, almond shaped nails like it were some kind of special choreography, and Jim realized he was pumping with an entirely unnecessary vigor by the time she was finished, a light sheen of sweat having broken out across his brow.
"Well." He offered a lopsided smile, letting go of the pump handle with a clank, and to his surprise, the girl returned the smile. "Let's go find Bob," Jim suggested. "He's got the hots for you and I think had to go lay down."
"The - the what?" Chrissy's face was suddenly overcome with confusion. "Bob?"
"Yeah. He thinks you're peachy."
"Well... well that's nice of him," the girl stammered, a flush creeping up her cheeks. "He never said."
"He's got a real way with words when he tries," Jim continued, shrugging, thumbs finding the waistband of his shorts. "Not me. I blurt out whatever's in my head."
"But I like that," Chrissy affirmed, candor in her blue eyes. "A boy who's honest."
"Honest? Pff." Jim snorted, chin tipping towards the sky. "I never said I was honest. I'm the best liar there is. But when I'm talking about how I feel, I tell the truth."
"And how do you feel?" the girl began, shyness edging her tone once again. "About... about me?"
"About you?" He contemplated for a long moment, before taking her hand and giving it a swift peck, like he'd seen in the movies. Chrissy Carpenter. Huh.
"You're not half bad," was all Jim said.