“So can I buy you a drink?”
“Smooth, Cary Grant,” Lu Lu said, before starting to talk to someone in a better tax bracket. “But I don’t drink.”
Dalton pushed his way through the packed room. There was dancing in one corner, Kiss Me Cherry playing full blast from a very expensive stereo. Even though the party had just started, there were kids making out on the couch, a few already sprawled on the floor. There were other kids drawing with Sharpies on the ones who had passed out, and then Crowdarounds leaning over to see what was going on, making suggestions like “Head Fish Stick!” and “Mission Accomplished!” and “Brainwashed by Fack Cult!”
THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #36
Whether you’ve had too much beer or are merely suffering from bovine spongiform, never ever EVER pass out at a party. Ever.
Dalton elbowed through a packed hallway and finally made it to the kitchen, where a bunch of Euclidians were playing a drinking game called Go Ahead and Stump My Ass! They were amped up, sharing a large plastic bottle of Rush. A kid wearing a sweater-vest dribbled some down his chin before loudly pronouncing “Suez Canal!” and slamming down his empty. The rest of the players groaned as he rolled the dice again, cackling like a maniac.
Dalton walked into the dining room, where Plaths were taking turns reading aloud. The sound of poetry filled him with a momentary terror, as it always did. He feared poetry because he didn’t understand it, didn’t like how it seemed to be the province of hysterical fifties housewives, and was, in any case, quite sure it was not approved of by Barnaby Smollet. The girl who was reading saw Dalton and stopped mid-iamb. The rest looked up expectantly, shyly stroking their braids or rolling their black socks.
“Hi.”
The head Plath, a very pale, very thin girl with black tights and a pin-covered beret, said, “Hey, um, do you want to come in and—”
Three Balls ran laughing down the hallway, smashing each other with sticks and knocking over family pictures.
“You bet I do,” Dalton said, stepping into the room and closing the door. The assembled girls waited. Dalton slid the book out of the hand of the one who’d been reading. She took her place as the other Plaths sat cross-legged on the floor.
“I love this one,” Dalton said, opening to a random page, to a poem he’d never seen before. It was entitled “Snip.” The first lines were:
Quite a bonus among the azaleas
My toe instead of a turnip freed
The captain of the ship removed with ease
Hoed into the dirt like a dirty lie.
Dalton realized, to his amazement, that this woman had written a poem about accidentally chopping her big toe off. It was totally unexpected, unabashedly gross, and really sort of excellent. His voice switched from a laconic resignation to raptly enunciating the words, wanting to find out what happened. When he finished the last stanza…
The way you paused to help me leap—
Pruned anchor, sneaker fodder, empty cleat
Dirty feckless boy
Careless gardener spills
Blood amongst the seasonal greens
Sow toe, reap stump
You lightheaded chump.
… the Plaths cheered wildly. Some leaped up and clapped.
“That poem rocks,” Dalton said. “Seriously. I had no idea Sylvia Plath was so cool.”
“Who?” the pale girl said, confused.
“Sylvia Plath? Isn’t that who you guys—”
“Fred.”
“Excuse me?”
“We study the poetry of Fred Plath. Her second cousin. ‘Snip’ is his poem. We feel, as a group, Sylvia was the far lesser talent.”
The other girls nodded with reverence, looking at the publicity photo on the back of the book, a blurry shot of a guy who looked like he really knew how to bowl. Then the pale girl pulled a beer from behind a pillow and took a swig. “Anyway, want one? If we keep going like this, it’s gonna get ca razy in here soon.”
They all laughed.
“Totally tempting. I gotta say, you guys have been hiding your hipness under a turtlenecked rock, you know it?”
The girls looked at one another doubtfully.
“Definitely time to let it out. Way out. And Fred rules. But I’ve got some business downstairs I’ve been putting off.”
“Poems are pentameter,” the pale girl mused, leaning back. “They are rhythm. All of Fred’s poems are like beautiful, syllabic math.”
“Exactly,” Dalton said. “I could totally hear that while I was reading.”
Dalton waved good-bye and turned toward the basement door. He took a deep breath and then began walking down the stairs. If there was a basement, there was a keg. And if there was a keg, there were Balls. Time to face Chuff.
The concrete walls opened into a large rec room. About twenty guys played knock hockey and shot pool and pushed kids who tried to get near the keg, which sat in a blow-up kiddie pool filled with ice. Chance Chugg, decked out in eye black, a helmet, and shoulder pads, kept yelling, “He who rules the keg rules the universe!” even though fewer people laughed each time. He held on to the hose, trying to decide which cup to fill out of the dozen empties thrust toward him, finally picking a Euclidian’s. The kid wore a grateful smile as the stream of frosty beer approached the brim. When he went to take a sip, Chugg smacked the kid’s hand, spraying beer all over his face and shirt and pants.
“Chuff to Chugg… touchdown!”
The Euclidian left the cup on the floor and walked up the stairs, arms spread like bird’s wings, dripping onto the carpet.
“He who rules the keg rules a universe of dangles!”
There was a big projection TV against the far wall with a game on, Balls sitting around half watching but mostly wrestling or running formations. Chuff wasn’t with them. Dalton reached into a plastic sleeve of cups nesting on the floor and held one out. Chugg stared in disbelief. Dalton stared back. It got quiet in the room, someone turning the TV down. A few Sis Boom Bahs backed against the wall while other Balls stood and flexed and hiked up their belts in anticipation.
“You keep squeezing that hose like that,” Dalton said, “I’m gonna start blushing.”
Chance Chugg laughed, his big horsey teeth gnashing like he couldn’t possibly get enough air, so everyone else did as well. Chugg held his belly and wiped his nose and eyes. Then he straightened up and asked the crowd, “Can you be-lieve this guy? The stones on this fish, I SWEAR TO BOB!”
He reached over and filled Dalton’s cup. Most of the Balls sat back down.
“Don’t push it, murse,” Chugg hissed through his neckless smile, so only he and Dalton could hear. “Just ’cause I got word from above to be cool doesn’t mean I might not get too drunk and stomp your teeth for you anyway.”
Chugg was smaller and decidedly wider, and he had at least twice as many hairs on his chin as Dalton. He was too dumb to be of use for anything except brute intimidation and running into things full speed. His already limited purview would grow smaller within minutes of graduating from Salt River and continue to compress in on itself over years of unappreciated labor, miserable family Christmases, and beers with the guys on Wednesday nights until nothing remained but the vague odor of Chex Mix and a desiccated sweat sock. So it was hard to hate him too much.
“Where’s the big man?” Dalton asked.
“He’s here. Waiting.”
“For what?”
“WE PLAY ONLY ONE SPORT AT SALT RIVER!” Chugg yelled, instead of answering. He held up his beer and counted on stubby pig fingers as the entire team stood at attention.
“Baseball?”
“FOR PUSSIES!”
“Basketball?”
“FOR PUSSIES!”
“Soccer?”
“FOR PUSSIES!”
“Can you dig it?”
“YES, WE CAN!”
There was a collective whooping and slapping of high fives before the TV went back on. Dalton brought his beer upstairs and toured through the remaining rooms
. No Macy, no Mole, no Chuff. He walked out through glass doors onto a big wooden deck. Below him, Pinker Casket was setting up gear on the patio that would serve as a stage. It was made of heavy flagstone surrounding a large pool built to look like a natural lagoon.
Mick Freeley, testing a mic, test test test one two, saw Dalton, flipped him the bird, then went back to what he was doing. Dalton put one leg over the railing and dropped down next to him.
“Tarot around?”
Freeley, wearing a look of barely restrained violence to go along with his STEVEN PINKER IS A GENIUS T-shirt, gestured with his head toward the van parked on the lawn. Dalton walked over and knocked on the rusty metal paneling. No answer. He pulled the sliding door open with a creak. Tarot was lying on top of some girl, her red high heel poking out from beneath him. Not Cassie, Dalton thought with relief. Cassie wouldn’t wear shoes that cheap. Tarot turned, furious, the metal skull in his tongue flashing. “WHAT?”
He relaxed when he saw it was Dalton. He adjusted his coat and sat up.
“Ah. Iz you. Well?”
A Sis Boom Bah pushed Tarot’s leg off her and sat up as well, straightening her dress. There were red welts on her neck and wrists.
“What are you looking at?”
“Aren’t you supposed to stick to the sporty types?”
The Sis Boom Bah gave Dalton the finger.
“Tell me the plan,” Tarot said, the dark lines under his eyes thicker than usual. “Now.”
Dalton hesitated, looking at the Sis Boom.
“Go to the ladies’ room,” Tarot told her.
“I don’t need to—”
“Now.”
The cheerleader made a face but got up, straightening her uniform. She peered around the edge of the van, making sure no one was looking, and tiptoed into the house.
“I just talked to Chuff.”
Tarot looked around, suspecting a trap. “He’s here?”
“Sure, right upstairs.” Dalton pointed vaguely toward the tree line. “Anyway, he likes my plan. Loves it. Swallowed the thing whole. He agreed to a meet tomorrow. Me, you, and him. No lieutenants. Anyone else shows but us three who isn’t a civilian, the whole thing’s off.”
“Where?”
“Kids’ playground. Swing set.”
“Zo we’re meeting,” he said, the skull lolling like a chrome maggot on his tongue. “What’s the actual plan?”
“I’ll give you the fine print tomorrow. It’s a truce. You and him. Working together.”
“That’s not enough. Not nearly.”
“It’s plenty. What better way to get close to him if he’s convinced you’re tamed?”
“And why would he be ztupid enough to believe that?”
“You’re the lead singer of Casket. Being up onstage is an acting job. So act. Be convincing. You sell it to him now, you can sell the rest of him later.”
The Sis Boom Bah came back and sat on the edge of the mattress. She had fresh white powder on her cheeks and a new layer of bloodred lipstick.
“The rest will be spelled out at the playground,” Dalton said. “Two o’clock. Sharp.”
Tarot was about to protest, but the Sis Boom Bah kicked the door shut. Within seconds, there was a bout of giggling from inside.
“You don’t show up, I’m keeping your four grand,” Dalton told the cracked paint job.
Back upstairs, Ronnie Newport was sitting on a long velvet couch. His pompadour was perfectly slicked, and he wore brand-new jeans with the cuffs rolled about six inches. Newport looked at Dalton without even registering him. He was smoking a cigarette, holding it by the filter with two fingers, the butt facing straight upward, like he’d developed a whole new method of smoking and soon everyone else would be holding them that way too. And he was probably right. The big-hair girls sat on either side of him, nattering away.
Ask him now, straight out. Did you take pictures of Lee Harvies? Do you know who they are? And why did you lie to me about driving?
But there was something about Newport’s placid look that made Dalton hesitate. Not to mention Lu Lu Footer was standing over him insisting there was no smoking inside. He didn’t register her either, just kept puffing away. Soon the big hairs lit up as well, and the room was like a lungbox your cousin Ferdie was roasting marshmallows in.
“DALTON!”
Mole was in the room off the kitchen, hunkered with some other Euclidians. They had an elaborately engineered beer bong in the air, Mole pulling off it like a suckling while the rowdy Euclidians chanted “MOLE-LES-TER! MOLE-LES-TER! MOLE-LES-TER!” Despite all their high-fiving and sousy bravado, they scattered as soon as Dalton walked up.
“You think maybe you should slow it down a bit there?”
“The writer of proverbs!” Mole belched wetly. “The leader of cheers! The dozer of bulls! The jump-offer of high buildings and low bridges!”
“They make decaf now.”
“Funny, guy. Funny. You, guy, are a funny guy. Like, seriously.”
“Have you seen Macy?”
“No. No. No. No. And it’s, like, tragic, ’cause—”
“Have you seen Cassiopeia?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s in the pool.” Mole put his hands over his mouth like a ringmaster with a megaphone. “That Whiskey Lick’s taking a swim, boys, and she’s wetter than Madonna at a Kabbalah wristband store!”
Crowdarounds started to poke their heads in to see what the rumpus was. Most of them poked their heads back out, but the exceptionally bored stayed, vainly hoping someone might throw a punch.
“Doing laps,” Mole mused. “While half the guys in school pretend not to watch. It’s a parade of half-thumbed rodneys out there, I swear. Get it? It’s a parade, and she’s the float!”
Dalton didn’t see Cassiopeia in the pool. There were guys milling around, but mostly they seemed to be waiting for someone oblivious to shove in with all their clothes on.
“What do you need her for, anyway?” Mole asked. “Salt River’s got all kinds of girls. And you being you, tough and cool and all, you can have your pick. You walk down the hall and they practically start ovulating in unison. For a geek like me? It’s pretty much, hey, I got four years to find someone to let me kiss them once in a while. Four years and if I’m lucky, maybe sniff a random boob.”
“Mole—”
“But don’t get me wrong. I’m not greedy. That’s really all I need. A boob and a lip and maybe a friend who understands my movie references. A guy I can maybe quote some Stallone with. I got those three things, I’m golden.”
“At least until college.”
“No kidding.” Mole sighed. “Then it starts all over again. Then you’re stuck in a dorm room with some knob who wants to play 3-D Tetris and quote Charlie Sheen all night.”
“You were supposed to have my back.”
Mole chugged backwash from a can of beer. “Huh?”
“Remember? Outside Yearbook’s office? I got ambushed. Came out of the darkroom and you were gone.”
“Oh yeah, that. Hey, I’m sorry. I’m—I’m so…” Mole’s voice began to crack. His face fell, and he rubbed his eyes.
“You’re not crying, are you?”
Macy walked into the room, taking Mole by the hand. She led him to a couch in the back and laid three pool towels over him. Mole rolled over and immediately began to snore.
Say something suave. Not too interested, not too distant. Funny, but not trying too hard.
“I thought you weren’t here.”
“I wasn’t,” Macy said. “Now I am.”
Dalton pointed with his chin toward the deck and then walked to the farthest point along the railing. He stood for a moment, convinced she’d decided not to follow. Then she was standing next to him. Pinker Casket was finishing their sound check. The new bass player wore a NEIL YOUNG AND THE SHOCKING PINKS T-shirt. The pool was filled with Silverspoon and Face Boi showing off their bodies by pretending to reach for towels and lotion. A dozen Barefoots sat on a big woven Guatemalan blanket i
n the grass, passing around flutes and bongos, having been told they weren’t allowed in the pool unless they showered off the patchouli.
“What’s with Purple Rain?” Dalton asked, pointing to a bunch of kids in costumes standing around a makeshift stage. They were all wearing purple turtlenecks.
“Rotten in Denmark.”
“Something caught in your throat?”
“No, that’s their name. Rotten in Denmark.”
“That a racket?”
“It’s the theater clique.”
Dalton winced instinctively.
“Exactly. They’re doing Death of a Salesman in mime. Actually, it was Jeff’s idea.”
“You never said Chuff was an actor.”
“You never asked. Besides, that was a long time ago.”
Dalton wanted to grab her and shake her out of her weird reserve.
Or maybe kiss her out of it.
She gave him a shy look. “Dalton, why—”
“What a cute couple you guys make!” Cassiopeia Jones called brightly, walking over. “Oh, wait, my bad. Did I interrupt something?”
THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #37
Absolutely no way this ends well. Your only hope: Say nothing, appear humble.
Macy and Cassiopeia eyeballed each other, wearing dual frowns like they’d just shared a mayo smoothie.
“Don’t you have a show to do?”
“Soon. Kurt’s in the van warming up his vocal chords.”
“Warming up something.”
“Why, Dalton,” Cassiopeia said, “you’ve become a gossip.”
“Stop!” Macy said.
“Stop what, honey?”
“Stop talking to him like you’re in a Woody Allen movie. All witty and urbane. And meaningless. It’s so annoying.”
“Urbane? I was actually going for street sass. With maybe a dash of working-class righteousness.”
“See?” Macy said. “See that? It’s like some fat, lonely, junk food–eating former sitcom writer came up with that line and plopped it in your mouth. Except he’s the only one laughing.”
Cassiopeia put her hands on her hips and looked at Dalton. “You know what? I like her. Not afraid to speak that big Euclidian mind. We always have room over at Foxxes for a girl with some zest.”
You Killed Wesley Payne Page 15