“-talk to her,” John says, shaking his head. I respond with a noncommittal hum not really knowing what he said but able to guess. My eyes flick between my sketchpad and her, Margaret Jean Taylor, though I’ve heard some of the girls call her Maggie. My pencil slides lightly over the coarse paper. Her dress is yellow today which is notoriously hard to shade. The puffy sleeves especially. I prefer the blue dress she wore last Thursday. The draped sleeves and rounded collar framed her in such a way anyone could have thought her a princess. And the colour reflected into her eyes, bringing out the green side of hazel, making her seem like an angel. Yellow on the other hand-

“Hey!” I shout.

John holds my sketchpad out of reach and looks me dead in the eyes. “Mate, you can’t spend your life avoiding your problems by drawing them. Just go talk to her, it can’t be that hard.”

Easy for him to say, John is one of those people who can talk to anyone about anything. I get tongue-tied just talking to the teachers. Sometimes I wonder how it is that we’re still friends, you’d think he’d get bored of me or frustrated at my inability to hold up my end of a conversation…

“Earth to David. Did you hear anything I just said?”

Oops. I stare at him blankly and he sighs. “I was saying, tomorrow’s the start of summer holiday. You won’t have another chance until the fall and who knows what’ll happen by then, what with the problems between the Yanks and the Russians. Her dad could get reassigned and she could be gone. You’ve gotta-“

“The embassy,” I blurt.

“Huh?”

“The embassy. That’s where she lives. I don’t have to talk to her today because I know where she lives. So I can talk to her later, on a day that's not today.”

“You’re going to talk to her this summer,” John asks.

“Mhm.”

“You are going to go to Maggie Taylor’s  house and talk to her, this summer.”

“Sure.” I reach for my sketchpad.

John sighs again and hands it to me. “You’re a terrible liar.” He grabs his bag and heads off to class. I look for Margaret, Maggie, but she’s gone. It’s my turn to sigh. I grab my rucksack and follow John. Maybe I’m not lying, maybe I will talk to Maggie this summer. I chuckle. More likely we’ll return for the fall semester and she still won’t know my name.

~~~~~

Summer comes and John goes with his family on a holiday to America. He’s hoping his dad will take him to see the Dodgers play. He’s been obsessed with them since they beat the Giants 14-2 last month. I don't care much for baseball but I’m glad he won’t be here to nag me about talking to Maggie. I haven’t gotten up the courage to walk over to her house yet, a fact I carefully keep from revealing in our letters. But as much as I am glad John isn't here to bug me about her, I’d almost rather deal with that than endure a summer without him. Mum got so tired of having me “moping” around the house that she kicked me out until dinnertime. I’ve been walking and drawing for about an hour with nothing but some half-finished sketches to show for it.

I turn the corner and realise where I’ve wandered. Through Weston and all the way to Empire Street. Maggie’s street.

I’m suddenly very aware of my heartbeat and the sweat under my collar. Not 70 feet away is Magie’s house. It’s a pretty blue with crisp white trim and a big window in the front. I wonder if she’s home. John would tell me to go see. But what if she is and she answers the door and I can’t say anything? What if she doesn’t even recognise me? What if her mum or her dad answer the door, what would I say? A series of small crashing sounds jerks me back. I look down at the pavement. My pencils are scattered across the sidewalk. I realise my hands are shaking. Wiping the sweat off my palm I gather my pencils and quickly turn away. Back down the street, hurrying towards home, never mind there’s still at least an hour till dinner.

I slow down as I near the park, still shaky inside but feeling like a coward. I couldn’t even walk down her street. How will I ever actually talk to her? She’s so smart and beautiful, never mind that she’s American. I mean what could we have in common? What would we even talk about? I wish John were here, he’d know. Maybe he was right, I’ll probably never be brave enough to talk to her.

~~~~~

Days later and I can’t sleep. I’m thinking about Maggie’s house. I try to draw it but can’t remember if there were shutters on the window or how many steps up to the door. I surprise my mum by getting up early and packing up my easel and paints.

“Where are you going so early?” she asks.

“I’m going to go paint a house I saw a couple of days ago.” She raises an eyebrow and I shrug. “I like the colour.”

She gives me a snack for later and lets me go.

I’m fine for the first couple of blocks but as I near the house I start to get jittery. I almost trip twice. When I turn onto Maggie’s street, my heart is beating so loud, I swear it will explode. I take a deep breath and force my feet to keep moving. This isn’t scary. I don’t even have to talk to anyone, I just have to paint. Yeah, paint the house of the most beautiful girl in the country, a girl who barely knows I’m alive.

I try to see if I can see Maggie through any of the windows as I set my easel up on the sidewalk opposite the house. It doesn’t look like anyone is home. I feel slightly ridiculous. But I sharpen my pencil and do a light sketch of the house, shading in the shutters and drawing the piano inside the big window. It helps me relax and by the time I pull out my paints Maggie could have kissed me and I wouldn’t have noticed.

After a while, I get hungry and absentmindedly reach for my snack. My hand comes away empty and I now have a vague memory of eating it earlier. I look up and realise the sun is already on its way down. My stomach grumbles loudly and I realise just how hungry I actually am. I pack up, more than a bit annoyed at not being able to finish but feeling better about my promise to John. Maybe I will actually talk to Maggie this summer.

~~~~~

I can’t go back Tuesday because it rains all day long but I go every day after. I finish the first painting then do smaller ones of the family’s Packard Darrin and perfectly manicured flower box. And I haven’t seen the family once. I’m putting the final touches on the flowers and running out of ideas when I see movement inside the house. I give a start and immediately think of packing up. But I stop myself. I bend down to wash off my brush and surreptitiously watch through the big front window.

A redheaded woman opens the cover of the piano that lives in the sitting room. She turns, obviously listening to someone then walks out of view. A few seconds later Maggie walks over to the piano and places sheets of music on the stand. I give a start and spill my cup of water on the sidewalk. I frantically try to clean it up before Maggie sees. I’m shaking again. When I look back at the window she hasn’t even glanced outside. I’m so shaky I can’t paint but I watch her piano lesson, and after a while, I calm down, enough to recognise the piece she is playing. It’s a pretty popular Satie piece. The name is something in French and it means “I love you,” or something. I listen for a bit, then get an idea.

I turn back to my sketchpad and open a new page. I fall into a rhythm with the music. Letting it absorb me completely. Outlining the window and the shutters to the pulsing beats. Sketching her fingers flying across the keys to the resonating chords. Spending too much time detailing her draping curls and getting the curve of her lips just right. It’s only when the piano stops that I pause. The sketch is good, maybe another half hour and it’ll be ready to paint. I connect the dots. If the piano has stopped that must mean Maggie’s lesson is over, which means she’ll be coming to the door to see the teacher out, which means she might see me. I panic and shove my supplies away. Paint smears all over the inside of my art bag. I collapse my easel and bolt down the street.

~~~~~

I’m still beating myself up for running away yesterday and determine that I will stay put this time. But she’s not there. I wait a while but don’t feel like starting a new project. I wander around a bit then go home.

Thursday is the same. No piano lesson, no Maggie.

Friday. No Maggie but a second car is parked on the street in front of the house. I decide to set up my easel while I try to figure out what is going on. A couple of uniformed men stand outside the house, one by the door and one by the car. They look very official, but I can’t help feeling sorry for them. Their pickle and khaki-coloured uniforms look hot and stuffy. One of them catches me looking at him and narrows his eyes in suspicion. I whip my focus back to my sketch pad. After a few minutes, the door opens and a man steps out. He’s covered in the same pickle colour but wearing a coat that looks even stuffier than the button-ups the others are wearing.

“We’ll let you know if we hear anything else, Mr Ambassador. In the meantime I’ll leave Sergeant Morrison and Corporal Lance here to ensure you’re well protected,” the man with the coat says to a man I can only assume is Maggie’s dad.

“Thank you, Colonel Major. I appreciate you taking the time to inform me of these recent developments,” Ambassador Taylor responds. I bury my head trying to make sure he doesn't recognise me. A few seconds later I hear the click of the door. I poke my head up and see the man in the coat, Colonel Major, speaking to the two soldiers. One of them follows him to the car while the other, the one who caught me looking at them, stays behind. They drive away in a puff of grey smoke.

I keep sketching hoping to see Maggie or hear something else but nothing happens.

The remaining soldier stands at the door, clearly guarding the house. His hair is dark but his eyes are a warm brown. Like the colour of the oak chest at the foot of my bed. He turns those eyes on me and when the light catches them, they glow orange. I turn away and try not to shudder.  I try to finish drawing the Colonel’s jeep from memory. It’s not as good as I would like. The proportions are off and some of the details are missing. Every now and then I look over and the soldier is still staring at me. A squirrel skittering across the street distracts him for a second but then his attention turns back to me. Sweat beads under my collar. After waiting a few more minutes to see if Maggie will show up in the window again, I pack up. He watches my every move. I make myself go slowly like he doesn’t exist. But when I turn the corner at the end of the street, I bolt.

~~~~~

Mum makes me run errands with her on Saturday and Dad has this thing about Sundays being family time even though we don’t actually talk to each other. It’s torture. I eventually resign myself to drawing in my room. I add colour to some of my earlier sketches and write John. I don’t tell him about my drawing trips but I do mention seeing American soldiers and ask if he knows anything about it.

Monday can’t come soon enough and I barely have time to hear mum say something about how isn’t it great that she kicked me outdoors cause she knew I’d like it and how I should do this more often. I race to Maggie’s house as if over the weekend she might have disappeared. The dark-haired soldier still stands guard in front of the house in his pickle-green pants. I set up a bit farther down the street so I can still see the window but I won’t have to be directly in front of the man. It doesn’t help. From the moment I turn onto the street his eyes are on me. His suspicion burning with the heat of the sun. I kill time drawing him but the piano teacher doesn’t show up. Eventually, I get too hot and I trek back home.

I’m thinking of giving up, of telling John I tried and leave it at that but then I remember the doubt in his voice when I said I’d talk to Maggie this summer and I decide to give it a few more days. Besides, it gives me something to do until he gets back.

I head over, set up and half-heartedly open my paints. The dark-haired soldier is there. I suppose he and the other soldier must switch places every now and then but I haven’t seen the other man since Friday. A few minutes go by and I’m already getting bored when I see the red-haired teacher through the window. Maggie appears and sits down at the piano. I smile and my heart flutters. I dip my brushes and start painting.

She’s wearing the blue dress with draped sleeves. Her softly curled hair tied up in a matching blue ribbon. The light catches on a simple silver necklace and throws fractured rainbows across the room. Soft music floats out of the piano like butterflies. I paint them into the wallpaper behind her. The music stops too soon. Maggie disappears and I pack up.

On the walk home, I think about last Tuesday when I first saw her through the window. I didn’t think she could get any more beautiful but I was wrong. I wish I could sit and paint her forever, I know I’d never get tired of it. More than that I wish I had the guts to do something more. To walk up the front steps, knock on that crisp white door and actually talk to her. I sigh. Maybe next Tuesday. Wait, Tuesday? Tuesday! Tuesdays are when her piano lessons are! I give a little shout at the realisation then stop. I have to wait until next Tuesday to see her again. A thick wet cloud fills my chest, pressing in, and tinting everything with grey.

~~~~~

The days go by slower now that I know I have to wait for Tuesday to see Maggie again. At least before there was the hope of seeing her every day. Now there are only six very long, very real days in-between this Tuesday, and next. I busy myself answering a pile of letters from John. Apparently, he’s having a great summer watching the Dodgers smoke every team they play. Even with his enthusiastic play-by-plays, I can’t bring myself to care much.

~~~~~

Maggie only gets more beautiful as the summer ripens. I even allow myself to picture us together, walking in Berkeley Square, sharing ice cream, maybe even taking her to see one of those American Westerns playing in the movie theatre.

It’s a rainy Thursday when John’s latest letter answers the mystery of the summer: the soldiers at Maggie’s house. John tells me that President Truman made Russia angry when he promised to give a lot of money to Turkey and Greece earlier this year. He says that the USSR is trying to find a way to get back at America and some fancy diplomats have had to come home because they found poison in the wine or their toothpaste. It makes no sense to me since you’re not supposed to swallow toothpaste but John says it’s true so it probably is. And besides, he’s the one in America, he probably knows everything there is to know about the whole thing. Despite my doubts, I worry about Maggie and her family so I decide to look for communist spies while I paint.

~~~~~

By the time Tuesday comes around I've forgotten about President Truman and the communist spies. I continue painting on Tuesdays for a few more weeks. My sketchbook is nearly full and John’s letters start talking about coming home. He asks about Maggie but I leave the letter unanswered on my desk.

~~~~~

I walk to Maggie’s street early, hoping to finish painting the siding of the house before she starts her lesson. The dark-haired soldier is nowhere to be found as I set up my easel and lay out my paints. A bird squawks down the street. I’m just dipping my brush when someone grabs my arm, hard. I jerk and look up. It’s the dark-haired soldier.

“It’s over you rat,” he snarls.

My heart is hammering in my chest. I try to gulp up more air to calm my shaking limbs. He snatches up my sketchbook and drags me across the street. Suddenly we're in the house and he’s pushing me into a chair. Sweat is dripping down my back, plastering my shirt to my skin, despite the fact that the house is relatively cool. I try to wipe my hands off on my pants but they won’t stop shaking. I want to jump up and run out of the house. Run all the way home and not stop until I’m safe in my room.

“I know what you’ve been doing you red rat! Think you could hide your schemes from a Marine huh?” The dark-haired soldier shouts way too loud, waving my sketchbook in the air. “I’ve seen you writing in this thing. Getting all the details, huh? I betcha got schedules in there too; when the Ambassador gets home, what time Mrs. Taylor has her coffee, when Miss Margaret’s piano lesson is.” Tuesday, I think unhelpfully. “Well, you’re not going to get away with it. I know all about what you’ve been doing and you’re going to tell me everything.” I’m frozen in my chair. I can't take my eyes off his, the ones I thought were so warm are now orange flames ready to burn through my soul. “So? Start talking!”

I can’t. I open and close my mouth like a fish gasping for breath. I would tell him whatever he wanted to hear if I knew what it was.

Footsteps make me flinch. The soldier whips his head toward the sound. I follow more slowly. It’s Maggie, coming in from upstairs. Her eyebrows furrow as she takes in me plastered to the chair with the dark-haired soldier standing over me.

“Sergeant, what is going on?” she asks.

“Miss, I don’t mean to disturb you. I thought it best to detain him in here instead of outside. This way he can’t escape.”

“Why are you detaining him at all?”

“He’s a communist spy. I caught him scoping out the house, and more specifically you.”

“Me?” She looks at me with an expression I can't quite place. It’s confused, yes but there’s something else underneath. “Wait, spy? David’s not a spy!”

She knows my name. Margaret Jean Taylor knows my name. The conversation continues but I don’t hear any of it, I just stare at her, starstruck. Maggie knows I exist. Wow.

“Here.” The Sergeant is handing Maggie my notebook.

“No!” I jump up. “You, you can’t, uh, don’t… um, don’t, don’t look in there.”

The Sergeant takes the notebook back with a cruel smile. “So you admit it. You have been spying on Miss Taylor.”

“Yea- No! It’s just, well…” My throat closes up and I can’t get the words out. My heart beats so fast and loud it feels like the Germans are still bombing the city. My eyes bore into the notebook and it’s all I can do to stay standing.

“David.” I jerk my head up to Maggie’s hazel eyes. “Just breathe.” I take a breath, filling my lungs. I must have been holding my breath because my chest burns like I’ve been underwater for too long. I gasp for more air. When my breathing steadies a bit Maggie continues. “Why can’t we look in the notebook? Despite what Seargeant Morrison says, I refuse to believe you’re a communist. Whatever’s in it can’t be worse than that.”

I can’t think. “I’m not a communist,” I blurt.

She smiles a little. “That’s what I’m saying. But if there are no secret assassination plans in the notebook.” I let out a breathless laugh at this. “Then it won’t hurt to look in it.”

I can’t stop her as she grabs the notebook and flips it open. Her brow furrows as she flips through the pages. Sergeant Morrison looks over her shoulder. “Ha! I knew it. You have been spying on the house.”

Maggie holds her hand up to silence him, still flipping. “David, what are these?”

“You.” I can’t breathe.

She looks up even more confused. “But why? I mean it can’t be the Sergeant's silly plot so-”

“I love you.”

I ball my hands into fists, nails surely carving crescent moons out of my palms. I can’t believe I just said that. Oh boy. I just told Maggie I loved her. I just told Margaret Jean Taylor that I am in love with her. Oh my gosh, oh my gosh. I want to run out of the house and not stop until I reach the ocean then run across it until I reach John’s Brooklynn stadium.

Maggie looks down at the page. Then up at the Sergeant. “David is no spy, he’s my guest. Now if I’m not mistaken you’re supposed to be guarding our house against real spies which I don't believe you can do from inside the house. So if you don’t mind…”

The Sergeant reluctantly leaves, shutting the front door a little too hard. Maggie gestures me into the kitchen. She gets me a glass of water and then sits down with the sketchbook in front of her. She’s looking at the drawing I did of her on the last day of school when she was wearing her yellow dress.

“Do my eyes really shine like that?” she asks.

I gulp down some water, nodding, then I shake my head. She deflates a little.

“Oh.”

I swallow. “Not that one.” I flip to the painting of her playing piano. “Like this.”

She stares at the painting her mouth gaping a bit. She looks at the painting, then back at me in disbelief. “That’s not me, there is no way. I’m not that pretty. That, that’s an angel.”

“Nope. That’s you.”

“Hm.” She keeps staring at the painting.

The piano teacher comes in through the back door, starting at the sight of the two of us. “It is Tuesday is it not? Unless we aren’t having a lesson today?”

Maggie looks up. “I completely forgot, I’m sorry. No, we still have a lesson.” We stand up and Maggie walks me to the back door so I won’t have to deal with the Sergeant. She opens the door and hands me my sketchbook. “It was good to see you, David.”

I nod and step out. She pauses, then starts to close the door.

“Margaret.”

“Maggie, call me Maggie.”

I smile. “Maggie, would you, would you like to go on a walk in Berkeley Square with me tomorrow?”

She smiles and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. “I would love that.”

“Miss Taylor,” the teacher calls from inside.

“Coming,” she calls before smiling at me. “See you tomorrow!” She closes the door and is gone.

“See you tomorrow.” Moment’s later soft music floats out. I smile leaning on the door listening and feeling my heart beat in my chest. Not frantic but steady and strong. The feeling follows me long after the music fades. I think about writing John but decide he can hear when he gets home, I just want to savour this feeling for now.