Into the Wild Nerd Yonder

by Halpern, Julie

  “Of course. I made them for you. But don’t eat too many. I want to give some to the Crudhoppers when they get here.”

  A sound goes through my head like a car slamming on its brakes and skidding forty feet. Of course they knew the Crudhoppers were coming over. Why else would they want to be here? God forbid it be to enjoy my company.

  There is no way of keeping them out of the basement now. So much for my nostalgic sleepover. Shit.

  chapter 12

  MY EXPECTATIONS OF RELIVING OUR joyous youth fizzles with every application of Bizza’s extra-black eyeliner. I don’t know how I could have thought that things could go back to stupid movies, karaoke, and Ouija board sessions. We’re big girls now, and anything social must involve boys. Girl power be damned.

  “I think I OD’d on tassies.” I excuse myself as if to go to the bathroom, and then creep down the stairs toward the basement. As I open the basement door, I hear Barrett on the phone in the kitchen.

  “Yeah, we have practice tonight. But if it doesn’t go too late, maybe we can hook up.” He notices me, and he shifts his position to hide his words. “I gotta go. Talk to you later.” He laughs. “Me, too.” He hangs up quickly and says to me, “Hey, why aren’t you upstairs with your friends?”

  “Whatever. Who was on the phone? And don’t say no one because it was obviously someone. And most definitely a girl.”

  “Nancy Drew’s got nothing on you, Jessie. I don’t know how you figured it out, seeing as you had a fifty percent chance of getting the gender right.” Barrett is so trying to cover something up.

  “No need to be a butt. Who was it?”

  “A girl. Someone from school. From work. Uh, that girl Chloe.”

  Total avoidance of eye contact. Barrett picks at a hangnail.

  “Chloe Romano?” Chloe Romano has one of those names that you have to say in entirety every time, partially to differentiate her from the million other Chloes at our school, but mostly because she is not one of those people you ever get to know in any sort of personal way. She’s more abstract prom princess/honors student/all-around-gorgeous, plastic, generic teen. So why is my brother getting his boxers in a bundle about her?

  “Chloe Romano,” he answers as a yes. “She helped me get my job at the theater. And we might be going out sometime.” He opens and closes random drawers in an effort to distract me.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Please don’t make me say it again.” He’s got his back to me, drawers now shut.

  “What could be so bad, Barrett? It’s not like you’re going out with the prom princess.”

  He turns around with a “Surprise!” grin.

  “No way!” My eyes bulge. “Chloe Romano? And my punk rock, Mohawked brother? You’re shitting me.”

  “Keep your voice down.” He moves closer to me so he can talk at a near whisper. “The ’Hoppers are gonna be here soon. And I don’t want anyone to know. It’s not exactly cool for me to be going out with the prom princess.”

  “No kidding. How did it . . . happen?” I punctuate the word like I’m touching dirty underwear.

  “I don’t know. We had a class together. Shared some notes. She said she could get me a job at the movie theater. She was in my car. She smelled really good and had on an incredibly short skirt and . . .”

  “TMI, Barrett. So you like her?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I mean yes. I like her,” he admits with a sheepish grin.

  “And she likes you?” Not that I would doubt that anyone could like Barrett. He is any girl’s dream. I just never thought of the prom princess as any girl.

  “Hey. She called me. Is that so hard to believe?” He’s defensive, but I can tell he wants me to be okay with this.

  “No. I mean, not from her side, but I didn’t know you liked girls like that. You always dated the freaksters before.”

  “Well, maybe I’m tired of getting punctured by lip rings and trying to outcool each other. Chloe doesn’t care about any of that.”

  “And she does have those legs.” I laugh.

  Barrett waggles his eyebrows up and down. “So don’t tell anyone, okay? Let me figure out what it is first.”

  “Okay. But if she starts coming over here and tries to teach me a cheer or some other crap, I can’t promise anything.”

  “Cool. So why are you down here and not upstairs with your gal pals?” He relaxes and regains normal volume.

  What am I going to do when Barrett goes off to college? He’s always so good at taking my mind off my stupid life when we talk about his. “They’re”—I pause guiltily—“getting ready for the Crudhoppers’ practice.”

  “Jessie!”

  “I didn’t say anything! They already knew!” I moan.

  “See, this is what I’m talking about. This ‘scene.’ What kind of band are we if we can’t even play music? I’m so glad I got the job at the theater.” He hoists himself onto the kitchen counter. “It’s totally gonna be my excuse.”

  “Excuse for what?”

  “To get out of the band.”

  I gasp. The Crudhoppers have always been part of my tween-to-teen existence. They’re what gave me an in to the cool punk scene at school, not that I really wanted it, but it was a good thing to have. I practiced with them or watched them practice or went to their shows. They were my biggest excuse for seeing Van. Without Barrett in the band, I have zero coolness connections. I refuse to count Bizza and Char. I want to tell Barrett how this will affect me, but what can I say? This is Barrett’s thing, and I’m just the tagalong kid sis. Now that Bizza and Char are with the band, so to speak, they won’t care if Barrett’s out. I’m sure they can get plenty of rides from Van. With or without me.

  The Crudhoppers’ practice is as I expected. Between every song is a lot of yammering and jabbering (old-lady speak for “talking out of one’s ass”) from Bizza and Char. A second ago, Van hopped off his drums, sat on our groovalicious basement couch, and patted the seats next to him for Bizza and Char to join him.

  “Are we practicing or what?” Barrett has no patience and gives me a “see?” look. Not wanting to look at the couch activities, I fill in for Van on drums for what may be my last time, once Barrett makes his announcement. I count out the beats and do a decent job keeping up, trying to keep my focus on the music and not my guy-crazy friends.

  At around 11:30, Doc Mom peeks her head in and swirls her finger in the air—her sign for “It’s time to wrap it up because your dad and I are going to bed.” There is also the two hands waving frantically, which means “the neighbors have complained and threatened to call the police.”

  After ten minutes of the clanging and buzzing of putting away the instruments, Van finally notices. “What? Practice over already?”

  “Practice? You played two songs.” Barrett is angry, but I can tell he’s acting angrier than he really is. He clenches his fists, which he never does, for buildup. I think this is it.

  “I know them fine.” Van waves Barrett off. “Don’t freak out, man.” The other Crudhoppers stop what they are doing. What’s the guy version of a catfight?

  “You don’t know shit, Van.” Barrett’s emphasis mocks the absurd coolness of Van’s name. “My kid sister plays better than you, and she’s played drums half as long as you have.” Why does he have to drag me into this? I couldn’t be further than I am right now from being one of Van’s hoochies. “You don’t take this band seriously,” Barrett continues, with his fists clenched tightly, “and you never will.” Eric and Pete nod in agreement.

  “Then maybe your kid sister can fill in for me permanently.” It hurts having Van refer to me as a kid sister. From Barrett, it’s a protective term of endearment. From Van, it just makes me young and anonymous.

  Pleading cries of “No! You’re so good!” come from Bizza and Char. I wonder if they’re so upset because they really want Van to stay in the band or because they really don’t want me to be in it.

  “I have a better idea.” Barrett states this like he just thought
of it. “Why don’t you stay and play your half-assed drums, and I’ll leave the band?”

  Eric and Pete plead, “Come on, man,” and “We can work this out,” but through Barrett’s anger I can already see relief.

  “I’m out of here,” Van declares. “Are you girls coming?” He stomps up the basement steps without waiting for Bizza’s and Char’s answers. I know his “girls” don’t include me.

  “Jessie.” Bizza steps up to me, and I believe almost for a moment that she’ll do the right thing and continue on with our sham of a sleepover. All the harder the slap in my face when she says, “Will you let us in when we get back? We won’t be gone that long.”

  What am I supposed to say? “Young ladies! While you are guests in my house you will abide by my rules. No smoking, drinking, or spitting. And absolutely no leaving the house at midnight to go off with some guy ho who I still have an unexplainable crush on!” Of course I actually say, “I guess. But if you’re not back by two, I’m going upstairs to bed and you can just sleep outside.” I try to be tough, but Bizza gives me a giant squeeze. “Thanks, Jess. We owe you.” I can only imagine what currency Bizza thinks she can pay me back with—betrayal? Annoyance? How about complete and utter lack of respect? She’s rich with that.

  I flop down on the basement couch and watch Barrett say good-bye to Eric and Pete. “Sorry, guys,” he says. “It hasn’t been working for a long time.”

  “The ’Hoppers won’t be the same without you, man.” Eric’s handshake with Barrett turns into a backslap hug. Do guys think this makes them look more manly?

  “Yeah, man, I mean, where will we practice?” Pete smacks Barrett’s back and gives him the ’Hoppers secret shake.

  “Later.”

  Barrett sinks down next to me on the couch. “I guess it’s just you and me, Jess,” he says, shutting his eyes. I know he means right here at this moment it’s just the two of us, but I can’t help but feel like maybe Barrett’s all that’s left. Have I lost my two best friends to punk? And what about when Barrett leaves for college? Will it be just me?

  I fall asleep on Barrett’s shoulder until I hear giggly knocking coming from the outside door that leads into the kitchen. I take the stairs two at a time so they don’t wake up my parents.

  Bizza and Char reek of cigarette smoke, and they barely notice when I open the door for them without speaking. I walk upstairs to my bedroom, and they quietly follow until we’re all inside and the door is closed. Silently, I put on a T-shirt and climb into bed. I roll into a ball, pull the blanket over my head, and face the wall.

  “Jess,” Bizza whisper-yells. “We had so much fun!”

  “You can tell me about it tomorrow. Go to bed.”

  I drift off to their inaudible whispers and shuffling sleeping bags. When I wake up early Sunday morning, they are both sound asleep. I look at Bizza and Char and remember the countless sleepovers together, when we used to set up haunted houses and puppet shows, Barbie beauty pageants and couch forts. Next to them now are piles of black clothes, heavy boots, and mall punk accessories. Even though we slept together in the same room, there isn’t an ounce of togetherness left between me and the two of them. I still can’t help but wish there were.

  chapter 13

  WHEN BIZZA AND CHAR FINALLY wake up, it’s already time for lunch. My family plans to go on a bike ride all afternoon, so I have a good excuse to make them leave.

  As they pack up their stuff, Char says, “Thanks for covering for us last night, Jess. We never could have gotten out if we stayed at Bizza’s house with that jacked-up alarm system they have.”

  “No problem,” I say, but not in a happy-go-lucky, “no problem” way. More of a “like I had a choice” way. I’m definitely confused as to how Char even fits into this whole Van equation. As much attention as she gets from guys, she’s always been good about not getting, or at least not acknowledging, attention from my guys. And this my guy is now sort of Bizza’s guy, so I doubt she’s going along with this for the Van benefits. But why isn’t Char saying anything about how weird this all is? Still, she baked my favorite treats (not just for me, but I partook), and she did thank me. These are my best friends. I can’t just dismiss that.

  I get no thank-you from Bizza, but instead, “So what time will Barrett pick us up tonight? How about around eight?” I just love how Bizza can ask a question and give me the answer at the same time.

  “I don’t know if we’re still going. I mean, with the breakup of the Crudhoppers and all.” Seeing as the hurt party is my brother, my hesitation should make sense.

  “Come on, Jess, it won’t be any fun without you.” Bizza tries to look all sweet, but who is she kidding? She’ll be so busy jonesing for the attention of others that she won’t pay any attention to me. Plus, it’s really hard to look sweet with a buzz cut and runny eyeliner.

  “Please.” Char squeezes my hand. Her mystical kindness makes me think that maybe it will be okay. Maybe even fun. And I do have a new skirt I’d like to debut.

  “I guess I’ll go. But why don’t you just get Van to drive? He seems to love driving everyone around.”

  “We can’t ask Van. It’s his party. He’s got, like, guests and shit to worry about,” Bizza says as she ties and buckles her boots.

  Guests and shit. How could I be so naive? “Okay. We’ll come get you around eight, I guess.” I say “around” just to give myself a little bit of power. I’ll make sure we’re at least ten minutes late. Ha!

  “You’re the best, Jess,” Bizza calls absently as she and Char leave.

  Barrett walks into my room and mimics, “You’re the best, Jess.”

  “Shut up. You’re still driving us to the party, you know.”

  “Why should I drive you to the party? I’m not even going. They should ask their boy toy.” Barrett studies his reflection in my dresser mirror.

  “He has ‘guests and shit’ to worry about,” I mock Bizza with a dead-eyed imitation. “Besides, you have to go! I don’t want to be alone with those two goobs.”

  “No can do. I have my very first official date with Chloe tonight.” He brushes his mohawk out of his eyes and tries to flatten it against the side of his head.

  “Chloe Romano?” I ask, still in denial that my brother is hot for a popular chick.

  “Must you ask me that every time I say her name?” He is obviously deliberating some hair decision.

  “What are you doing next? Blue? Purple? Pink?”

  “I was thinking more like gone.”

  “Like, all gone?”

  “Yep.”

  “Like, Mom-will-shit-a-brick gone?”

  “Yeah, well, it isn’t Mom who has to deal with the upkeep. And the cost of hair dye. And the time it takes for me to get ready in the morning if I want the ’hawk to stand up perfectly straight.”

  I used to think it was so cool and brave for Barrett to have a Mohawk when no one else at school did. Now that Bizza took it one step further, I don’t think it’s quite as cool. “It’s just hair,” I say. “Do what you want.”

  I stand next to him and look at us together in the mirror. Barrett’s evolving hair and my straight brown hair. Sometimes I wish I could be as brave as Barrett (and, I hate to admit, Bizza). But most of the time, I think my straight brown sitting-at-the-shoulders, same-as-it’s-been-for-the-past-five-years hair is perfect for me. If only everything else could stay the same.

  chapter 14

  GETTING READY FOR THE PARTY AT Van’s is bittersweet. In the past, just the thought of going to Van’s house made me tingly—being so near to everything he touched, the possibility of seeing his used laundry somewhere (although, he probably doesn’t have much laundry if he always wears the same clothes), and my über-fantasy of him taking me up to his bedroom. Now I have to worry about the possibility of him taking someone else up to his room. I’m not an idiot. I know Van has been with a million girls, but they’ve all just been anonymous punk chicks with whom I have zero connection. Now the chance that the girl going to
his bedroom is my oldest and (gag) dearest friend seems all too real. I can only hope that way back in Bizza’s pea brain, she has a spark of recognition that I like Van. I’d say something, but I’m scared that she actually does know and she’d use some of her magical Bizza wiles to make me feel like somehow I’m in the wrong. The most I can hope for is that at the right moment, the memory will magically snap her out of her hoochie state and she’ll run down the stairs, away from his lusty lair, and back to her best friend where she belongs.

  Yeah, and maybe I’ll shave my head today.

  My party skirt looks as cute as I thought it would. I found some iridescent reflective fabric, perfect for an alien costume (or a doomed punk party). I love the way it seems to change color depending on what colors are near it, like a chameleon. I slip into some sequined flats (I might as well go sparkly all the way), and knock on the bathroom door to retrieve Barrett. He decided he’d rather drive me than force me to get a ride with some freak (not that that was even an option), and after that he’ll head out into unknown, cheerleading waters.

  My knock pushes open the door to reveal Barrett leaning over the sink, clippers in hand. All but a tiny tuft of hair above his forehead remains of his once-glorious mohawk.

  “Just give me one more second,” he says, and BZZZZ, the mohawk is gone. “Ta-da!” He holds out jazz hands to display his newly shorn head.

  “Back to basics, then?”

  “Good for new jobs, college interviews, and dates with prepster hotties.”

  “Don’t go changing just to impress Chloe Romano.” I’m disappointed at the thought.

  “It’s not for her, Jess,” he says as he grabs clumps of hair and stuffs them into a grocery bag. “She loves the mohawk. I think she likes the idea that she’s going out with some weirdo. But I’m tired of being the weirdo. I’m tired of living up to everyone’s expectations of coolness. I’m so over it.” He runs the water in the sink to wash away the remaining hairs. “Are you ready to go?”