something we can talk about.”
“Eh?” says Davy, but this time closes his mouth.
“Stop saying Eh?” I snap, annoyed. “Tell me something about monogamy.”
“About what?”
“What we’re talking about: only loving one person.”
“You’re the only girl for me, Jen. Honest. I reckon you’re heaps cool.”
“Look, Davy,” I say, “I’m trying to have a talk about an idea. It’s just the idea of monogamy I want to discuss.”
“Jenny, if you want to go out with some other guy, I think you ought to tell me straight. I don’t want any bullshitting around the bush.”
“Any what?”
“You heard, Jen. Now who’s this new dude? It’s not that creep Wilco, is it? ’Cause I’m telling you Jen, you can just forget it.”
“Hey, Davy,” I say, “I’m trying to talk about a, an abstract idea.”
“Bloody Wilco’s not what I’d call an abstract idea, Jenny. Do you know what he did with Inessa d’Acierno after the last school disco?”
“Oh, do shut up, Davy,” I say. “It’s just that not all societies use the monogamous model as the ideal for the man-woman relationship. You know, we are allowed to talk about polygamy and androgyny and that.”
“I don’t like the sound of those words, Jen. They don’t sound like the sort of words I’d like to talk about.”
“You don’t know what they mean.”
“Yes I do, Jenny. You’ve just told me what they mean. They mean two-timing. Cheating.”
I give up. It is easier to kiss Davy than to talk to him. I have to admit it. I like kissing Davy, but I have this vision of sort of lying around and kissing and talking about stuff that really matters. Oh well, you can’t have everything.
The phone rings.
“Oh shit.”
I run downstairs and gingerly pick up the receiver. “Jenny Kane speaking.”
“There’s a reward,” the man’s voice says.
“What reward? You mean money? What for?”
“I mean big money. For you.”
“Is this some kind of kidnap scam?” To my surprise, I find that I am suddenly quite scared, and I’m glad Davy is upstairs. “Listen,” I say, and my hands actually start trembling, like they do in dumb horror stories, “listen, I’ve got a friend here, my Poppa’ll be back soon, I mean he’s here too, just don’t—”
“Jenny, I thought we’d got past all this rubbish.” the voice says briskly. “Have you got a pen or a pencil?”
What? “Of course I have. My mother always has a message pad next to the phone.” No mother in the house, but her message pad’s still here, very reliable.
“Write this down, Jenny, and everything will be explained. In a few minutes, God and Heisenberg willing, everything will become crystal clear.”
Just to annoy him, I say, “You want me to write all that down?”
“No.” He sighs the way Poppa sighs when David says something especially dorkish. But he’s trying very hard. He keeps it under control. In fact now that I’m relaxing again I’m starting to develop quite a sense of power over him, whoever he is. “I want you to write some numbers down,” he is saying, “then some words. A quotation. Okay?”
“Why?”
“Just do it, damn it!”
“You’re shouting.”
“I’m sorry. Please? Pick up your pen and—”
I snort loudly. “This had better be incredibly good.”
“Hey Jenny,” David shouts down the stairway, “come on.” Loud hip-hop rap starts up behind him, Ice-T. I cover the mouthpiece and call back up the stairs, “It’s another one of those calls. He wants me to write down a message.”
“Wow.” David peers over the banister at me. His hair is falling in one eye. He pounds down the stairs and whispers hoarsely, “Listen, you’ve got to keep him on the line.”
I whisper back, “Why?”
“So they can trace his number and catch him at it.”
“David, you nerd! Who can trace him? No one knows he’s calling.”
“Oh. Hey, I could go next door and ring the cops and get them to—”
“Shh.” I put the receiver back against my ear just as the nameless mugger finishes saying something. He adds, “Did you get all that?”
“Sorry, I was talking to someone.”
There’s a pause. He’s trying so hard not to be nasty again. “How much did you miss?”
“All of it. Say it again.”
“We’re going to lose the envelope.” It sounds like real anxiety, almost panic, and I don’t have the foggiest what he’s on about. “All right, Jenny. Write this down: One two two, six two three. Got that?”
“122,623.”
“Precisely. Now copy down this quote: ‘But now she’s in the creek again, that woman made of flame’.” After a pause, he asks carefully, “Have you got that?”
“Yes. What’s it mean?”
“With any luck you’ll understand everything in about two minutes. Put the sheet of paper face down so you can’t see what you’ve written. Okay?”
Davy is peering at my scribbles; I shoo him away. “This makes no sense, you know.”
“I’m going to hang up, then you’ll get another call. If it works. If Heisenberg is looking down upon us.”
“Like atoms? Heisenberg’s Principle?” This Rod guy is coming on like an encyclopedia salesman—bits of strange poetry, then bits of physics. It’s all an offer on a set of Britannica, I suddenly decide, and the thought makes me feel horribly deflated. Then I discount that idea, because here’s another one of his really gross sexist remarks:
“My gosh, you’re a clever girl. How old did you say you are?”
But maybe it’s not sexist. Maybe it’s a compliment. I don’t suppose David knows about Heisenberg, and he’s two years older than me, almost. I decide to give Rod the benefit of the doubt. In fact, I’m beginning to think he’s rather cute, in a weird way.
“Fourteen. We did it in Mrs. Levine’s accelerated
