by Will Walton
B)Joe’s old, handed-down black Rubber Soul tee
C)jeans, inevitably
D)my brown loafers with the tassel laces Matt likes
E)my regular old red Converse
F)nothing because I’m calling the whole night off on account of how guilty I feel about lying to Mom
G)come clean to Mom, say I’m sorry, and when she asks why I lied, just say, “I don’t know. I don’t even really understand it myself.” That would be the truth, sort of.
I pull on a fresh pair of jeans, a darker pair that I like, and unfold the Rubber Soul shirt from my drawer. Joe doesn’t miss the shirt much anymore since he’s outgrown it, but it used to be his favorite. After I slide out of the polo I wore to school and slip into the tee myself, I start to think it might be my favorite shirt, too. It looks great on me—not too baggy, which is a hard find for someone who’s a string bean like me.
In the bathroom, I say “Okay” to my reflection, pull a comb from the drawer beneath the sink, and rake it over my scalp a few times before replacing it. I look good—not great or anything, but good. Good enough to decide that it would be a waste if I didn’t go. I dig my hands into the crumpled heap of sheets on my bed and pull out the cordless phone.
The phone rings only once before he answers, like he’s been waiting.
“Hello?” His voice is loud, and I swear there’s a smile in it.
“Hey.”
“So we’ll pick you up in an hour?”
I smile back.
“We’ll be picking Lana up later,” I explain to Mom, just in case she happens to glimpse the inside of the car and see my lack of a date. “Like, after Mr. Gooby picks me up.”
“Sounds good.” Mom doesn’t ask me which Mr. Gooby it will be. Instead, she licks her thumb and, before I have time to protest, wipes it against my lip.
“Mom—” I jerk my head back.
“Well, I’m sorry, Tretch-o, but it looks like you’ve got a smudge of toothpaste or something.”
“I’ll get it,” I say, and scratch furiously at the corner of my mouth.
“Are you nervous?”
“Mom, no. Geez.” But the thing is—I am. I look out the window. “I hope Dad’s home soon,” I say, though I’m seriously totally hoping he doesn’t get back from work until Matt’s swooped in and successfully vamoosed with me in tow.
“I think he’s stopping in at Jim Cho’s to grab some takeout,” Mom says. “He called a few minutes ago.”
Perfect, I think. Now come on, Goobys, come on. At that exact moment, like I’m magic or something, they round the corner onto Watercress Road. I’m feeling crazy enough that I do this little half-jump/half-shriek thing that makes Mom tip her head to the side in a nurturing but get your act together kind of way. My hand is on the doorknob. “Okay, I’m out,” I say. “They’re here. That’s them. I love you, Mom.”
“Love you, too, Tretch-o.” And then, I swear to God, she’s crying. Not in a suddenly-sobbing kind of way, but her eyes are definitely filling up.
“Mom!” I take a step forward. Then, sure enough, oh my God it’s my eyes, too. Everything goes all misty. “Mom, you can’t start crying because you know it always makes me start.”
“Oh, Tretch,” she says. “Get out of here. Go on before you get messy.” She flaps her hand at me like a bird’s wing. “Go, go.”
I spin around and pull the door open—“Okay-bye-I-love-you-bye-I’m-going-now”—and step out onto the porch, pulling the door closed.
The Goobys’ red Volvo makes its way down Watercress. For all of five seconds, as the Volvo slows to a halt, I practice breathing exercises. I don’t stop until Matt pushes the door open.
“Yo,” he says.
“Yolo,” I respond, and he gives me that you’re such a goof look. I smile, and he smiles, and I don’t realize that I’m totally lost in it until he says, “Tretch, I love this driveway as much as you do, but we got places to be.”
“What?” I try to look shocked. “You mean you don’t want to hang out by the mailbox all night long?” I slide into the backseat beside him. “What could be better than that?”
Landon is laughing in the driver’s seat. “Hey, Tretch,” he says, twisting in his seat, beard dragging across his shoulder. “How ya been, bud?”
“I’m good, Mr. Landon. Never better, in fact. Love the beard.”
“Glad to hear it, and thanks!” He puts the car in reverse to back out of the driveway. Matt purses his lips and inflates the space beneath his nose with breath. Then he lets it go. “I’m nervous as all get-out,” he whispers.
I nod. “It’s gonna be great.”
“By ‘it,’ do you mean the movie, the meteor shower, or the romantic conquest?”
“Can I opt for all of the above?”
Matt nods, and I realize maybe I should have said “You’re going to be great” instead. Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe I could say it now. I could say he looks handsome, which he does, and I could list off every charm he possesses. I could assure him that everything he says is witty and smart in its own way, that the way he views everything through a set of glass-half-full eyes makes him kind of heroic. I could say he’s a great storyteller. I could say that maybe sometimes he could be a better listener, pay closer attention to things, be more sensitive. But I don’t say a word. We sit in nervous silence on the way to Amy’s house.
So much for my giving great advice.
Of course, when Amy Sinks appears, she looks amazing.
“Wow-ee,” Matt says. “Just look at her.”
Landon turns around in the driver’s seat.
I’m looking at her as she struts over.
“Well, does one of you boys want to sit up front? Chauffeuring two people around is bad enough, but chauffeuring three—that’s just demeaning.”
That’s my cue. I don’t even have to wait for Matt to look at me with his pleading eyes. “Oh, yeah,” I say. “I’ll hop up there with you, Mr. Landon.”
“Thanks, Tretch-o,” he says. It’s funny how everyone seems to think that’s a good nickname for me. Like I need a nickname for my name, which is already a nickname, which is already a nickname.
I respond, “No problem-o,” which I think is pretty clever. “Now, you guys will get some”—I cup my hand around Matt’s knee; is that suspicious?—“quality time together pre-movie.”
It’s pretty wild to be a witness to your best friend’s first date. And I can’t help but think about what Mom said back at the house: You boys are going to have to learn not to depend on each other quite so much.
I wonder if Landon thinks the same thing, if he gave Matt a similar lecture. I can’t quite picture it—but I guess there’s gotta be at least two sides to every parent.
“I don’t know how quality it’ll be in the backseat of your pop’s Volvo,” Landon says, flashing a glance at Matt in the rearview.
When I step out, I hold the car door open for Amy. Her hair is still in the Mabel’s ponytail. But she’s got on a new pair of jeans and—this slays me—a Rubber Soul T-shirt. Like, how many teenagers in Warmouth have Rubber Soul T-shirts? Granted, hers is kind of feminized, but it’s still, like … awkward.
She’s also slurping off the last bits of a Popsicle. Like, first off, who eats a Popsicle in the middle of winter? And, second, who doesn’t bring enough for the whole party? And, third, INNUENDO MUCH?
“Hey-o, Tretch-o,” she says. Her lips are red and shimmery. “Nice shirt.”
“Yeah,” I say.
She giggles. “We’re like the same person.”
“I know, right? Tasty Popsicle?”
“Tasty Popsicle. Here, you can have my joke.” She hands me the Popsicle stick. I read it as I walk around to the front seat, trying to ignore Matt’s cheesy “Hey, Amy, you look nice,” and her “I like to think I clean up fairly well.”
The joke on the Popsicle stick is this: What do you find in the middle of NOWHERE?
I turn the stick over in my hand for the answer.
&
nbsp; The letter “H.”
Ha.
I slide into the passenger seat next to Landon, who is introducing himself to Amy. They shake hands. “It’s nice to meet you,” she says, and it’s the first time I’ve seen her act even a little shy. There’s kind of a weird silence as we pull out of her driveway, so I ask, “Y’all want to hear a joke? What do you find in the middle of NOWHERE?”
I watch Landon as he considers.
“How about an art house theater?” Matt suggests, and Landon reaches back and pops him in the knee.
“Hey!” Landon says. “I take offense.”
That cuts the tension pretty well because everyone starts laughing. Then the conversation starts to flow. Nobody even cares to hear the answer to the joke.
Matt’s other dad, the one he actually calls Dad, is already at the Old Muse, preparing his introduction. When Amy finds out we’re not seeing the original 1933 King Kong but its 1976 remake, starring Jessica Lange, she’s super excited.
“Oh my God, I love her,” she proclaims as we stand in front of the movie poster outside the Old Muse. It’s the original poster design, too, with the appropriate tagline—For Christmas—in red letters at the bottom.
“This version of King Kong was released on December 17, 1976,” Landon explains. “So we try and show it every year around Christmastime to pay tribute. It was a pretty big movie for Ron and me.”
“Was it your first date?” I ask, and immediately I’m embarrassed.
Because of course it wasn’t. Matt’s dads aren’t that old.
Landon smiles. “Well, I was twelve and Ron was nine, so neither one of us was quite there yet. But it scared the bejesus out of both of us when we were kids. And we did see it again together in college.”
“On a date?” Amy presses, and I’m kind of glad she does because I want to know more.
Landon nods. “Yes, on a date. Well … shall we entrée?”
Landon pulls the door to the Old Muse open, and I feel like my world is about to open up. When I step through the door I realize it’s a world of dimly lit, popcorn-smelling, conversation-buzzing, alcoholic-beverage-serving excitement. The line to the bar/box office is extreeeemely long, so apparently this whole annual King Kong showing is a big deal.
But, Jesucristo, the inside of this place—it’s amazing. The front hallway from the entrance is designed like an alleyway, with red brick walls and stuff, and there are these really awesome life-size, cardboard cutouts of famous movie characters stationed along the way, as if they’re all saying, “Welcome to the Old Muse!”
“Welcome to the Old Muse!” says Samuel L. Jackson from Pulp Fiction. “Welcome to the Old Muse,” says Cher from Moonstruck. “Welcome to the Old Muse!” say Audrey Hepburn and Sidney Poitier and Anne Bancroft and …
“Jessica Lange!”
Amy weaves her hand inside the cardboard elbow and stands like she’s expecting someone to take a picture. I think it’s annoying until I spot one of Jimmy Stewart and go kind of nutso myself. It’s from the scene in It’s a Wonderful Life when Jimmy Stewart, as the mega-down-on-his-luck George Bailey, is walking on the bridge all drunk and desperate. I can tell it’s from that scene because his lip is cut from the bar fight and there’s snow in his hair.
It’s a Wonderful Life is probably my favorite movie of all time.
Landon takes out his iPhone and says, “Here, all of you pose.” So we gather around George Bailey. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Potter,” I say in my best Jimmy Stewart voice (which is not as good as Joe’s Jimmy Stewart voice, but, oh well) as Landon snaps the picture.
“Should we wait in line, Pop?” Matt asks, but Landon shakes his head. “Nah, we’re VIPs tonight. Let’s go in and get seats.”
Immediately, we file through the theater door. I follow Matt down the aisle, not realizing what I’m doing until I get to our row of seats. “Oh, pardon me,” I say, stepping back to let Amy cross in front of me. Of course she and Matt will want to be next to each other. But she smiles, shaking her head, and says, “Oh no, Tretch, after you.”
I stand my ground, firmly but also unsure. “Uhh … okay.” As I move down the row toward the seat next to Matt, I can’t help but think, Oh God, oh God, what have I done?
Because, of course, now I’m sitting between them.
I do a sideways glance at Matt to see if he’s angry or not, and I honestly can’t tell at first because he’s all leaned forward in silence, staring at the blank movie screen. Seconds pass, I think a whole minute passes, and I can’t even say anything because there’s this weird static in my head. On the one hand, I might have messed things up—but it wasn’t really my fault, was it? After all, Amy had said, “After you.” And, on the other hand, hey—
I am sitting next to Matt. And I will be for the next, uh … “Hey, how long is this movie?” I ask. Matt turns his head. He’s smiling all big. He’s not a bit upset.
“Oh, like, two hours, I think,” he says. “Not too long. Why, you gotta pee?”
I shake my head. “Oh, no. Just curious.”
For the next two hours, I get to sit next to Matt in a dark room.
From down the aisle, there’s a smooching sound and I turn. It’s a reflex, I guess, to turn when you hear smooching. I see Ron is bent over Landon’s upturned face. It’s a quick smooch, but Matt goes, “Oh my gosh” and rolls his eyes. “Hi, Dad,” he says. “Dad, meet Amy.”
Immediately, Ron does this funny thing where he reaches to me for a handshake and says, “Nice to meet you, Amy.”
I laugh, but Matt is not amused. “Dad—”
“Kidding, kidding. Nice to meet you, Amy.” Ron smiles at her, and she laughs and accepts his hand. “Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Ron.” They shake, and Ron winks at me. “You’ll have to excuse my joke, Tretch. I’m extremely nervous about giving this speech to a full house.”
Right then, the lights start to dim in the theater.
Ron flashes a nervous glance at us. “That’s my cue.” He jets down the aisle to the little platform in front of the screen. “Hi, folks,” he says once he gets there, and immediately everyone in the audience begins to clap. Ron goes beet red. “Without further ado, I want to thank you all for coming to our special annual, wintry showing of King Kong, a movie that’s meant a lot to me ever since I was a kid who saw it—too young, I might add—in theaters, and which came to mean a lot more to me as an adult, when I was able to see it on a big screen—in an art house just like this one—with the man who would eventually become my husband.”
A ripple of “aw” sounds spreads throughout the audience. Landon smiles. Meanwhile, Ron is a brighter red than ever. “Did I say ‘without further ado’?” he asks, and everyone cheers. He hops off the stage, flies up the aisle, and pulls down the seat next to Landon’s.
Landon whispers something to Ron, and Ron smiles. I look at Matt; he’s a mix of embarrassed and proud. I look at Amy, sitting forward in her seat, her elbows on her knees; she’s excited for the movie.
The lights dim. The Paramount logo, with its mountain and halo of stars, lights up the screen. Matt leans over and whispers into my ear, “I am so glad you’re here, Tretch. Really.”
I barely even notice as Jessica Lange drifts up across the screen on a raft.
If I told you that, at some point during the movie, I fell asleep and dreamt I had climbed a skyscraper with a distressed Matt in tow, only to find myself swatting at menacing airplanes painted to look like Amy Sinks, I would be lying.
But only because I didn’t fall asleep during the movie … even though the citywide struggle to save Jessica Lange from King Kong was nothing compared to the struggle I had keeping my eyes open. I might have let myself go—but not with Matt right there, and the thought of his dads catching me nodding off on their big night.
If I had dreamt that—myself climbing a skyscraper with Matt in tow—it’s likely that it wouldn’t have ended well. I’m not sure if I ever even realized it before, but King Kong dies at the end. And as he falls to his death and l
ands in a tragic heap, blood and all, and Jessica Lange runs to him, people snapping pictures of her all the while, it occurs to me just how chaotic and mean everything can be at times. It’s not a feeling I want to have. It’s not something I even want to think about.
“Tretch loved it. He totally cried,” Matt tells his dads afterward. He’s got a big smile on, so I know he enjoyed it. Ron and Landon are holding hands and also smiling. Amy takes a look at Matt and now she’s smiling, too. They’re smiling at each other.
“Aw, Tretch,” Ron says. “Remember, it’s just a movie.” We all laugh, and I wipe my eyes a few more times. Eventually, we are the last people in the theater. I really want to get out, though. Switch gears, think about something else.
“Hey,” I say, “wasn’t there a meteor shower supposed to happen tonight?”
“Oh my God, Tretch, you’re right!” Matt exclaims. “It was even part of my plan and I forgot. Dad, Pop, I gotta take Amy and Tretch to Picnic Peak. We gotta go now. Oh my God, we might miss it! Come on, we gotta go—”
“Matt, calm down—it’s supposed to go until eleven.” Landon looks at his watch. “Oh wait, never mind. It’s ten thirty. You had better …”
“It’s ten thirty?” Matt pinches my shoulder. “Okay, people, we gotta go. Let’s get a move on. Up we go.”
Outside the Old Muse, Matt runs ahead of us like he’s taken a whiff of some Shakespearean fairy drug. I lag behind.
“Let’s go, let’s go, Tretch! Come on, it’s just uphill!”
Uphill? I think. No one mentioned uphill. Amy heaves up behind me and puts her hand on my shoulder. “Good God, Matt!” she calls out. “What is this? Cross-country?”
“You guuuys.” Matt’s begging now. We can see him through some branches, not quite at the “peak” part of Picnic Peak, but already considerably closer than me or Amy. “It’s not even that steep!”
“Matt.” I prop my foot against the base of the incline. “I feel plenty confident that there will be other meteor showers to witness in this lifetime. And possibly in the next.”
“But not now you won’t,” he argues, poking his head out between some branches. “Not while you’re standing right next to your best bud, you won’t.”