Just Because

Will Robinson fascinated me from the moment he moved next door last summer. The day the Robinsons came to 24 Pleasantview Drive, I was outside helping my dad paint the garage door. Dad showed me how to make each stroke nice and even. As the warm August wind blew, I brushed my hair back with my arm. Dad said, “Debra, why don’t you tie that hair back?”

When the Robinsons pulled up next door in their brand new, ‘58 white Cadillac DeVille, Dad quickly put down his paintbrush and stopped smiling. He crossed his suntanned arms and watched the Robinsons get out of the car.

Mr. and Mrs. Robinson got out first, waving to Dad, who stared in silence. As if nothing had happened, they stood arm-in-arm, smiling and looking at their new, grey house with white shutters. Will and his younger sister got out next, watching their parents. Will bent down and whispered into his sister’s ear. She laughed hysterically.

Will’s father had been featured in The Boston Globe a month earlier for being one of the first colored men to receive a Harvard research grant. Dad said that the neighborhood was going downhill.

I rarely saw Will outside that summer, but when I did, he sat on his front steps and silently drew in a giant sketchbook. When he came outside, I would sometimes be lying on my lawn trying to read Pride and Prejudice, the summer reading that Sister Margaret required for tenth grade. Other times, I would be helping Mom pick weeds out of the lawn. As soon as she saw Will outside, she’d say, “Debra, I’ll fix us some lemonade.” She’d quickly retreat to inside the house. No lemonade.

When fall came, I saw Will almost everyday on my walk home after school. At about three o’clock, Will’s public school bus pulled away from our street corner as my bus pulled in. I would slowly walk behind him toward our homes, wearing my white blouse and plaid navy skirt with the St. Catherine Preparatory crest on them. As Will walked home, sporting a collared shirt, cardigan, and slacks, he always hummed, and the giant sketchbook was always held close to his chest.

One day, Will’s bus wasn’t pulling away when my bus arrived. I thought his bus must have been running late and walked slowly down the street as usual. The orange autumn leaves crunched under my black saddle shoes with every step. I thought I heard leaves crunching behind me, so I turned my head. Nobody was there. A sudden cool breeze made me wish that I had brought a coat with me to school. As I walked, I saw squirrels fighting over acorns, and the Marshall’s golden retriever panted loudly as it lay tied up to the single, leafless tree in their yard.

Soon, I heard the faint sound of humming. I turned my head and saw Will walking down the street behind me, holding the sketchpad in his arms. I began to walk a little faster, tripping over the cracks in the sidewalk. I turned my head once more to make sure that Will hadn’t seen me stumble. Unfortunately, our eyes met, so I quickly turned my head back and, without meaning to, ran the rest of the way home.

The keys fumbled in my hands as I unlocked the front door. I slammed the door shut after I entered the foyer and buried my face in my hands. After a minute, I took a deep breath. Mom was sitting on the edge of the couch in the living room, engrossed in Father Knows Best. I leaned my back against the door and decided that I could never walk home from the bus stop again. Before I could head to my bedroom, however, I heard a knock behind me.

Mom heard the knock, too, and began to get up from the couch. “I’ll get it!” I called to her.

She thanked me, sat back down, and was again entranced by the black-and-white picture on the television screen. I put my hand on the doorknob and looked over to my mother. Her eyes were still focused on the program. I slowly opened the door just enough to peak my head through. Will stood before me holding his book bag in one hand and his sketchbook in the other.

If the neighbors saw Will on our steps, I wouldn’t make it to my sixteenth birthday. Mom went into the kitchen to refill her teacup during the commercial break. I motioned for Will to come inside. He stood there for a moment and crossed his arms. I motioned again, and he reluctantly came into the foyer and followed me upstairs. We were halfway upstairs when my mom called from the kitchen, “Debra! Who was at the door?”

I whispered to Will, “I’ll meet you in my room. First one on the left.”

“You’re joking?” he whispered back as I pushed him up the stairs.

“Just one of those Jehovah’s Witnesses again! Said no thanks!” I yelled back while Will continued to my room.

Mom walked to the bottom of the stairs and, holding her teacup, asked, “They came back again this week?”

I shrugged and replied, “Dad says they won’t stop unless someone greets them with a rifle.”

Mom shook her head as she walked away. I continued up the stairs. Facing the closed door to my room, I couldn’t believe what I had just done. On the other side, Will was probably standing there wondering how crazy I was.

I entered the room. Will stood looking at the framed photos on top of my dresser. I softly closed the door behind me. He so seemed out of place next to my purple walls, floral comforter, and lace curtains. He turned around and asked, “Why’d you bring me up here?”

I stood near my door in silence, unsure if I should sit.

Will put his book bag and sketchpad on the floor. I sat down on the pink, cushioned chair in front of my white vanity. He sat on the edge of my bed a few feet away. I turned my head and saw his reflection in the vanity mirror. He stared at the bedroom door, waiting for it to open at any moment.

“I’m really sorry for scaring you on the walk home,” said Will. “I didn’t mean to. I’ve been living next door for three months and didn’t even know your name. Till your mom said it back there. Will Robinson.” He got up from the bed to shake my hand, but all I could do was stare at his outstretched hand like an idiot.

He sat back down, looked at the floor, and continued, ”My family moved here from New York.”

I slowly stood up from my pink chair and walked towards the sketchbook that lay on the carpeted floor. I bent down and picked it up as Will watched me. I sat back in the cushioned chair. “May I?” I asked.

Will nodded. I opened the massive sketchbook. Inside the book were hundreds of sketches of people. As I flipped through, each drawing impressed me with its precision and detail. The people were young and old, male and female, and colored and white. They were standing, sitting, eating, laughing, and crying. They were all so real.

Will didn’t watch me flip through the book. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed biting his lips and looking at the bedroom door.

I stopped at a sketch of an old white woman sleeping behind a counter and laughed. I showed Will the picture, and he laughed too. “Mrs. Wilson. Owns the best five and dime in Brooklyn.”

Will watched me flip through the book for a few minutes. He got up from the bed, took the sketchbook from my hands, and sat back down. “Mind if I sketch you?” he asked.

I wished there were locks on my door. Mom might have heard us and could burst in at any moment.

I got up from the cushioned chair and walked over to the kids’ record player that sat on top of my dresser. An Elvis record was already in the player, so I moved the needle to play Blue Suede Shoes. The song began to play on full volume. “You can do anything, but lay off my blue suede shoes!” I sang with Elvis as I sat back down on the cushioned chair.

Will laughed and asked me to face the vanity mirror. Marilyn Monroe wouldn’t have said no, so I didn’t either.

My back faced him, but I could see his reflection in the mirror still sitting on the edge of the bed. He reached down and grabbed a charcoal pencil from his book bag. In the mirror, I saw the usual pile of dolls and stuffed animals on my bed. My face was turning red. Even better, my hair needed to be brushed and there were two new pimples on my cheek.

“Just sit there with your hands in your lap and look at me in the mirror,” Will said.

“Should I smile?” I asked

“Yup,” he replied.

I faced the mirror and smiled at his reflection as he began to sketch. He looked up at me. He then looked down at his sketchbook and continued to draw. After a few minutes of silence, I asked, “How’s it look?”

“Looks great so far,” he said.

Five more minutes went by, and I asked, “How about now?”

Will looked up from his sketchpad and said, “Almost done!”

The bedroom door swung open, and to my horror, my mother stood in the doorway, now wearing her pink apron over her sundress. Will dropped the sketchbook on the floor. I was unable to speak. She walked over to the record player and lifted the needle from the Elvis record, cutting Just Because short. She turned to Will and said, “You aren’t finishing anything. Get out of my house. Now.”

Will nodded, got up from the bed, grabbed his book bag, and looked at me as he left the room. My mother stood over me in silence with her arms crossed. We could hear Will’s hurried steps down the stairs and the sound of him closing the front door. I said to my mother, “He was only sketching me.”

She began to cry.

“Your father will deal with this situation when he comes home from work.” She left the room, slamming the door behind her.

I imagined my father grabbing his rifle from his bedroom and shooting me without blinking. He’d do the same to Will.

I finally sat up from the cushioned seat and walked toward the sketchbook that lay on the ground. I lifted it up and sat on the edge of my bed. The sketch wasn’t finished. In the drawing, I was sitting in front of the vanity, just like a few minutes before. My face looked blemish free and my hair looked perfect. He drew himself drawing on the bed as a reflection in the mirror.

Before my father came home, I sat on the edge of my bed and flipped through Will’s sketchbook. I eventually heard the front door open downstairs. A few minutes later, I heard the hurried steps of my father coming upstairs. My bedroom door opened, and there he stood. He paused for a moment in the doorway and said, “Never been so ashamed of my little girl.”

He looked at the sketchbook in my hands. His face was turning red as he approached me. The slap came next. I swear my face was still sore the next day.

As I sat on my bed crying, he left the room. I ripped the page out of the book and approached my vanity. After wiping my tears with my arm, I opened the desk drawer and grabbed a piece of tape. I stuck the drawing in the middle of the vanity mirror. I took a few steps back, crossed my arms, and nodded at the sketch.

When I was let off at my stop the following day, Will was waiting for me. “You left this at my house, “ I said as I handed him the sketchbook.

Will saw the slight bruise on my cheek and looked at the ground.

He looked up at me and said, “I want you to have that drawing, Debra.”

I wished there was something I could give him in return.

I watched Will flip through the sketchbook and reach the place where the drawing had once been. He stared for a moment at the empty space. He closed the book, tucked it under his arm, and asked, “Can I please walk with you?”