Object of Desire by William J. Mann

picked up.”
    â€œI don’t know, Peggy, she—”
    Nana had come into the kitchen, beaming at Dad. “Sebby,” she said.
    â€œMommy, that’s Tony,” Aunt Patsy corrected, behind her as ever.
    â€œHello, Ma,” Dad said, leaning in to give his mother a kiss.
    Anthony Sebastian Fortunato, better known as Tony, except when his mother got him confused with her dead husband and called him Sebby. Dad was a real estate salesman, living on commissions, which were sometimes very good for long stretches of time and sometimes very bad for even longer. His brown tie was loosened and his shirt collar open, his jacket apparently left in the car. Armpit stains showed through his thin yellow poplin short-sleeved shirt.
    â€œHey, Danny,” Dad said. “How’s it feel to be fourteen?”
    â€œSame as it did to be thirteen,” I lied, and I think my father knew. Dad could read stuff like that, where Mom was simply clueless. He just gave me a smile that seemed to say it all.
    â€œShe’s got to be with Chipper,” Mom was saying. “She’s been spending entirely too much time with him.”
    â€œI just saw Chipper come home,” I said. It felt good to be able to offer some real information. “Becky wasn’t with him.”
    â€œThen where the hell is she?” The vein on my mother’s forehead was pulsing, the way it always did when she got really anxious.
    â€œPeggy, calm down.” Dad was unknotting his tie and sliding it out from under his collar. “She’s probably with Karen or Pam. She’ll be here. Becky’s good for her word.”
    â€œWell, this place needs balloons,” Mom said, the vein still throbbing. “What kind of a birthday party doesn’t have balloons?”
    â€œI’m too old for balloons,” I said.
    â€œYou’re not too old! I’m too old! You’re having balloons, Danny, and that’s it!”
    â€œOkay, okay.”
    The doorbell rang. It was the first of the guests. I hoped it would be Katie, but it was Desmond Drysdale, red haired and freckled, the only boy I’d invited, the only boy I was really friends with, in fact, if anyone could really be friends with Desmond. Desmond was a comic book fanatic, which was where we connected. But while I liked my comics, I just couldn’t grasp the depth of Desmond’s passion. Over his bed he’d mounted—safely preserved in acetate and held within a plastic container—a rare mint edition of Silver Surfer Number 1. Previously, that place of honor had been occupied by a crucifix.
    Next to arrive was Theresa Kyrwinski, tall and gangly, followed by Theresa Dudek, with the lazy eye. The phone rang suddenly: Joanne Amenta’s mother calling to say that Joanne had a stomach bug and so she wouldn’t be coming. Mom breathed fire through her clenched grin as she gave the news to the rest of the party: “What a shame for poor Joanne to get a stomach bug so quickly that they weren’t able to call and let me know earlier so I wouldn’t have wasted time wrapping Hershey’s Kisses for her.”
    Finally, at exactly one minute to four, came Katie.
    â€œSorry,” she said, trudging up the walk, a present under her arm. “I tried to get here sooner but—”
    â€œWhatever,” I said, annoyed.
    Katie went on. “My mother took me to the mall after Sears, and we—”
    â€œI said whatever.”
    But I couldn’t stay mad at Katie. This might be the last time I saw her. I took the gift from her hands.
    â€œShouldn’t you wait?” she asked.
    â€œIt’s a tape. Who is it?”
    â€œWait until you open the others,” Katie protested.
    I didn’t listen. I tore off the silver wrapping paper and laughed out loud. “Meat Loaf!”
    Katie was grinning.
    â€œI want you,” I sang.
    â€œI want you,” Katie echoed back, the way we did on the