by Quan Barry
Once we were all accounted for, the Claw took over the proceedings. In the sunlight, It looked like a snowy mountain peak, something over fifteen thousand feet that you could easily die on and was high enough up that your climbing party wouldn’t repatriate your body. “Coach Mullins perving on a senior girl changes everything,” said Jen.
“Take a chill pill, lady,” said AJ. “I called this meeting.”
“To say what?” charged the Claw via Its mouthpiece. “That well-typed note you slipped under the main office door wasn’t going to light any fires.”
“What note?” asked Abby Putnam.
“I slipped a note under the principal’s door saying that a male teacher needed to keep his pants zipped,” explained AJ.
“Why?” asked Abby.
AJ turned a rock over with her toe. A raft of bugs bubbled up into the light. “I dunno,” she said quietly, remembering that day and how Huck Finn had set her blood on fire. “General mayhem, I guess.”
“It was a good plan, but it needed specifics, so I gave it some.” The Claw continued with Its oral arguments. “Look. Obviously, none of us here is banging the guy,” Jen pointed out. Her Claw sat atop her head like a member of a security detail, daring anyone to disagree or make a sudden move.
“Says who?” said Mel Boucher. In keeping with the Claw, the Splotch on Mel’s neck felt it was high time It too was given a proper name. The Splotch preferred something vaguely upper class, maybe Imogen or Tabitha, but collectively we overpowered It. We hereby dub thee le Splotch. Seconded, so moved.
Why not la Splotch? thought le Splotch, but we told it to shut up.
“Just look at him,” argued Jen. “Where the hell is his mouth?”
“You mean because of his beard,” said Boy Cory. “You’re a beardist.”
“You can call it that if you want to,” countered Jen. “Personally I think it’s an affront to grooming.”
“It’s very ZZ Top,” said Julie Minh, trying to square the circle.
“It probably smells like ZZ Bottom,” said Jen.
“How’d you even know AJ wrote a note in the first place?” asked Becca Bjelica.
The Claw gave her the stink eye. C’mon, Becca. What power summoned you to this meeting in the first place? Was she really so far behind the curve she couldn’t see that the boundaries of our minds were beginning to blur, that if you weren’t careful, interested parties might see what you were up to?
“Look, contrary to whatever note got written, I agree that none of us is banging Coach Mullins,” said Abby Putnam. “So why are we here?” She popped a raw brussels sprout into her mouth and started chewing, which she’d still be doing ten minutes later.
“We beat Beverly 8-0,” said Jen. “Eight. Freaking. Oh,” she repeated. “And I think, thanks to the Coach Mullins affair, this is only the beginning.”
Julie Minh perked up. She was still a month out from completing her own personal Home Ec project that she’d been working on like a dog every G period, but she liked where this conversation was headed as she intuited it could line up nicely with her own long-term interests.
“Waddya want from us?” asked Little Smitty, cutting to the chase. Ever since tying on the sock up at Camp Wildcat, she’d also taken to smoking, except that instead of smoking Parliaments or Marlboros, she smoked cigars. It was gross and smelly, but we were all also fascinated by her new habit. Where did she even get them; how could she stand it; did you inhale? Little Smitty stood there at our Gathering, our own George Burns. Already her teeth gleamed dully like the teeth of a nonagenarian.
Both Jen and the Claw smiled at the question. Finally, someone who got it. “All I’m saying is: make it happen,” said Jen.
“Make what happen?” said Girl Cory. “Sleep with Coach Mullins?”
“With whoever.”
The cricket infestation at Danvers High seemed to have worked its way outside to the great outdoors. For the next sixty seconds, that’s all we could hear. At least they were having a good time.
“In the Malleus Maleficarum, there is a lot of sex talk,” offered Heather Houston.
“Specifics,” said Jen.
Heather cleared her throat. She was currently taking Sex-Ed at the Unitarian church her family attended. Basically, it was a way for upper-middle-class parents to outsource The Talk to professionals. Just last week the married couple who were also licensed relationship therapists and ran the group had introduced the class to street lingo, phrases like “going up the dirt road” and “pounding the beaver.” Heather’s glasses had fogged up just at the mention of certain words. Secretly she was looking for suitable opportunities to use said talk in a conversation with her peers to demonstrate that she was in the know. “Witches are reported to have sex with all kinds of creatures,” she said. “The Devil, his associates, their familiars.”
“What’s a familiar?” asked AJ. Her braids were gently swaying in the breeze like some kind of macramé wall hanging.
“Each witch has an animal spirit who’s kinda like her helper,” said Heather. “She can become them and travel around as them, or they can bring her information.”
“And she has sex with them?” said Becca Bjelica, screwing up her face in disgust.
“Sometimes,” said Heather. She thought of a filmstrip the Sex-Ed class had watched two Sundays ago, the man fully mounted on the woman, his balls utterly unappetizing, like something you’d see on a rottweiler.
“Forget the animals,” said Jen. “All I’m saying is sex is power. Me and Becca are the only ones here having it regularly. Am I right?” The Claw looked us all over for signs of wantonness. In turn we also glanced around for noticeable displays of whoredom. “Show some imagination, people,” Jen continued. “A little well-placed whoopee could take us all the way to States.”
Sue Yoon snorted with laughter. Obviously, somebody had been watching too much of the Newlywed Game with Bob Eubanks.
Abby Putnam was still chewing her brussels sprout. She held a finger up in the air, signaling for us to wait a second until her mouth wasn’t so full. In the meanwhile, Jen plowed ahead.
“Do the math. The average American girl loses her virginity around seventeen. What are you guys waiting for?”
“Boys,” said Julie Minh. She said it so eagerly we all laughed.
“That’s what I’m telling you,” said the Claw. “You don’t have to wait. It’s 1989, ladies. Reel ’em in.”
For a moment out in the sunlight in the freedom of the woods among our friends, it was actually an empowering message. Suit up and reel ’em in. To be told we didn’t have to stand around and hold an aspirin between our knees, that we could want it just as much as any teen boy did and live to tell.
Julie Minh got up off the ground and walked into the middle of the Gathering. She put her hand out. More crickets. Then Jen caught on and joined her in the middle. Mel Boucher was next, le Splotch bright red like the bum of a female baboon in estrous. In time, we all joined in, Becca Bjelica, in a tight pink Izod stretched across her chest, last of all.
“Field field field,” said Julie Minh.
“Hockey hockey hockey,” we answered.
Abby Putnam swallowed whatever was left in her mouth. “Aren’t we here to talk about Coach Mullins?” she said.
“I slipped a note under the office door saying a certain male teacher couldn’t keep it zipped,” said AJ, recapping, “but then Jen went to town and wrote a note saying Coach Mullins is banging someone.”
“And we won eight nothing,” said Jen. The Claw added, “Case closed.”
“Sheesh,” said Abby Putnam. Like most of us, she was currently off again with her on-again, off-again boyfriend Bobby Cronin. As always, her life didn’t feel too much different without him. “Friends,” she said, “all I can say is don’t do anything you don’t wanna do.” She popped another brussels sprout in
her mouth.
“Absolutely,” repeated Jen. “I couldn’t agree more.” And we knew she meant it.
Yeah, don’t do anything you don’t wanna do. As a life motto, it wasn’t the worst. Maybe we knew Jen meant it because maybe we sensed that the Claw had been doing a little rooting around in our minds. Or maybe we trusted her because Jen was a teen girl just like us. She knew firsthand about all the dirty little things we so desperately did want to do with the right someone but couldn’t scrounge up the gumption to even think about until now.
* * *
—
Saturday night Emilio did it again. Individually and in twos and threes, with our families, with each other, and sometimes with BOYS! we all somehow ended up together at the North Shore’s premier agricultural event of the year, the Topsfield Fair.
The Topsfield Fair was the nation’s oldest country fair. It was established in 1820 and had run every year except during the height of the Civil War and World War II in the town just north of Danvers. The Topsfield Fair had a little bit of everything. Livestock and monster trucks and giant pumpkins big as tractors, the Tilt-a-Whirl and fried dough and carnies with tattoos of buxom ladies snaking up their necks, pies and preserves and live music and a whole outdoor amphitheater filled with cud-chewing ruminants, 4-H and the Future Farmers of America and people wearing overalls unironically. Oh, and there were also BOYS! BOYS! BOYS! galore. Of course, this also meant there were GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! galore, GIRLS! with big wide-toothed combs suggestively sticking up out of the back pockets of their Gitano jeans, but hey, where there were GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! there were BOYS! BOYS! BOYS! so really who could complain?
Nevertheless, Jen Fiorenza was complaining as she cruised the rabbit pavilion with Boy Cory and Little Smitty and a big pink comb snugly tucked in her back right pocket, the urea smell of all those desperately cute bunnies housed in one place admittedly a tad bit overpowering. “Pee-yew,” said Jen, waving her hand in front of her face. “This is probably what England smelled like during the Plague.” Sadly she wasn’t too far off the mark, though nobody knew it yet.
Little Smitty had an unlit cigar balanced behind her ear and was trying to avoid anyone associated with Smith Farm. Smith Farm had an entrant in that year’s pumpkin contest, a real beauty named Berta, weighing in at a sturdy 362 pounds. Truthfully, Little Smitty had pitched in her fair share of effort to help grow Berta. She felt a discernible pang of pride in her solar plexus each time she laid eyes on the giant gourd, but she kept her feelings well under wraps as she feared she was just a hop, skip, and a four-hundred-pound pumpkin away from officially being dubbed a hick. On the other hand, both Little Smitty and her little sister, Debbie, had rabbits in competition in the 4-H tent, and all the world loves a bunny. Debbie’s was a black cashmere named Rabbit Einstein that had patches of silver fur around its eyes, giving it the appearance of wearing glasses. Little Smitty’s was a blond lionhead lop who looked more like a house cat and was aptly dubbed Marilyn Bunroe. Jen, Boy Cory, and Little Smitty were standing beside Marilyn Bunroe’s cage when Abby Putnam appeared with AJ Johnson, Girl Cory, and Sue Yoon.
“Hey losers,” said Jen.
“Hey Jen,” said Sue Yoon, addressing the rabbit, whose mane of yellow hair did indeed look Claw-esque. The rabbit blinked at her with its watery eyes and sneezed.
“Hardy har har,” said Jen.
“I thought you’d be here on a date,” said Abby Putnam. She was eating a caramel apple on a stick. It was the healthiest thing she could find.
“She got stood up by Brendan Wallerham,” offered Little Smitty. If, with a single withering glance, the Claw could physically give someone a swift backhand across the face, then the Claw did so to Little Smitty. “What?” said Little Smitty, tenderly rubbing her cheek. “Boys suck. You said so yourself.”
“Hey, there’s Heather and Julie Minh,” said Boy Cory, eager to change the topic.
The two came into view. Heather was eating some sort of deep-fat-fried candy bar on a stick, and Julie Minh was holding the hand of her little brother, Matthew. It probably would’ve been more humane to have the Prophet on a leash, the way some parents roped up their toddlers, but in the heavily judgmental eyes of the world, he was probably too old for that. Instead, Matthew was pulling Julie Minh along like a sled dog, his head whipping left and right with visual overload, as it was his first time at the Topsfield Fair. Judging from the way he seemed to be thrashing around uncontrollably like Animal the Muppet, it might also be his last.
Mr. and Mrs. Kaling weren’t too far behind, looking tired as always. Mrs. Kaling had entered an apple-rhubarb pie in one of the bakery competitions, but her rival Mrs. Hooper had taken home a red ribbon while Mrs. Kaling was going home with nothing but an empty pie plate.
“Good evening,” said Mr. Kaling. It was obvious he only vaguely recognized us as friends of his daughter. Professor Kaling was wearing a white oxford buttoned all the way up to the neck. As if to compensate he had on a pair of jeans, though in Girl Cory’s estimation the blue was a little too dark and the pants were a little too high up on his waist. Looking at him made AJ Johnson feel grateful her parents had stayed home. Last year at the fair, her dad had dressed as if he was going to a BBQ, with a big straw hat and athletic socks pulled up to his knees.
“Hi, Mr. Kaling,” said Abby Putnam. Back then, we didn’t call adults by their first names. Believe it or not, it actually made life a lot easier.
“Mom, can Heather and I walk around with our friends?” For the moment, Julie Minh didn’t sound or look like a Julie Minh but more like a Julie.
“I think we might be heading home soon,” her mother said. “It’s already past Matthew’s bedtime.” The Prophet began scratching his head. In her cage, Marilyn Bunroe also had an insatiable itch, her little hind leg going to town on one of her long floppy ears.
“But it’s only eight o’clock,” whined Julie/Julie Minh. Politely we averted our eyes. She was going to be eighteen in a couple of weeks. Hell, in a fortnight, she could legally run away and join the circus if she wanted. We couldn’t bear to watch her beg to stay out past eight.
“I would be happy to drive them home,” said Sue Yoon. Her responsible voice was a sharp contrast to her crazy Green Apple hair color. Still, it worked.
Mrs. Kaling sighed and reached for the Prophet. “Okay,” she said. “Be home at a reasonable hour.” Internally we all high-fived, seeing her mistake. “Reasonable” was one of those words, like “beauty.” It was all in the eye of the beholder. Jen Fiorenza made the mistake of conspiratorially winking at Dr. Kaling. It was going to be a hot time on the old town tonight! But thankfully he didn’t know what the wink could possibly mean, plus the Claw went on damage control and somewhat successfully managed to project into his cerebellum images of good wholesome Puritan women with only the skin of the back of their hands showing.
The nine of us were still checking out the rabbits when Mel Boucher wandered in with Lisa MacGregor. Le Splotch on Mel’s neck glanced over at the Claw perched on Jen’s head and gave a little nod of acknowledgment. It was obvious that between the two of them, le Splotch was king. It didn’t matter if Jen had been styling her hair that way since late ’86. The Claw had only recently come into Its own, plus with a good rain or a sleepless night, the Claw could easily be undone. Le Splotch, on the other hand, was deathless. Neither water nor fatigue would be the end of It. Bow down, It seemed to say. Bow down. From the look of things, the Claw was bowing. If it wasn’t full-on obeisance making It bend the knee, then it was the humidity generated by a barn full of warm fluffy rabbits.
Lisa McGregor was the girl with whom Mel had first found the reference book about the Salem Witch Trials. Today Lisa had upped her Lacoste game and was now wearing an Izod cardigan over a shirt with a tiny rider on a horse rearing up to whack something with a mallet. Secretly some of us felt the tiniest bit offended at the idea that Mel had a friend ou
tside of our social circle. Weren’t we enough? Still, Mel was the star of our group. It was she who brought us into the world of Emilio and his dark splendors. We were in her thrall. Who were we to question who she and le Splotch found worthy of association?
In the end, it all worked out. Lisa begged off after only a few minutes with us spent teasing the rabbits. She said she was going to go find some friends she knew and did Mel want to come? Not particularly. Le Splotch didn’t even watch as Lisa walked away. Stone cold! And so now we were ten.
We spent the rest of the night on rides like the Pirate Ship. When the thing flipped over and went completely upside down, Girl Cory’s gum flew out of her mouth and landed on some guy’s head a few rows up from us. Thankfully he was bald. When we weren’t spitting our gum out on people, we did things like eating stuff on sticks and trying to avoid stepping in piles of manure. Everywhere we went they seemed to be playing that stupid Tears for Fears song “Sowing the Seeds of Love,” which to Heather Houston was just as bad as “Born in the U.S.A.” and not really country-fair fare, but we got lucky while riding the Spider when the carnie blasted “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” and so we all screamed along to the best decade ever while trying not to puke: