I stared at the paper, taking a quick look around to make sure nobody was watching me. This was so goofy, but it was how I did things. It worked for me. I crossed out the word no and made my list of questions on the side. It was the same list I went through when editing a story for the paper. I wrote down the words who and why and circled them; those I knew the answer to already. The words where and when came next, each followed by a big question mark. I shook my head thinking about the Firebird, knowing that would not answer the where question. I sat for a minute, gently rocking back and forth in the uncomfortable government-standard-issue library chair; then I wrote the word how with an even bigger question mark next to it.
I closed the notebook. This wasn't getting me anyplace. I didn't need questions; I needed answers. I waited until one of the library's computers was free, then barricaded myself in front of the screen, making sure that no one was watching over my shoulder as I typed. I pulled my red editing pen out of my pocket and wrote down the numbers of the books on the back of my hand. I went over to the shelf, watching to make sure no one was following me. I searched but was frustrated to find none of the books that were supposed to be on the shelf were there.
"Are you finding what you need?" a voice politely asked me.
I must have jumped an inch out of my new black high-top Converse All Stars. I turned around to see one of the librarians standing there. "Urn, I was looking for some books."
"I see. Any particular subject?"
I walked over toward her, producing my hand like a suspect handing over evidence of a crime. "Urn, these numbers."
The librarian smiled at me. I didn't know this woman's name, but she was always very helpful. She motioned me to follow her. I kept a step behind her, all the time looking around me. I wasn't doing anything wrong, but I felt so guilty. Like I was going to get caught, although I don't know at doing what. We stopped, and she handed me a book out of the young adult section. "Is this the type of book you are looking for?"
As soon as I glanced at the title Changing Bodies, Changing Lives, I wanted to crawl into a hole. I could feel myself blushing, but once again my body overpowered my will, and I stood there with my red cheeks flashing like a stoplight. I didn't say anything; I just took the book and hurried back to the table wishing I could have done so by going underground. I pushed all those important schoolbooks out of the way and opened this one up. I don't know where the time went as I read page after page, learning all the things that the "smartest girl in school" didn't know. I might know how to solve a quadratic equation, but I was obviously such an idiot. I knew this was the right book because everything was changing. I realized my question had changed from "should we?" to "when and where can we?"
"Excuse me." The librarian tapped on the edge of the desk. "Didn't you hear the announcement? We are closing now."
"What?" I quickly closed the page I was looking at, with the big heading "Birth Control" in letters that seemed ten feet high.
"We close at six tonight."
"Okay." I must have sounded like Lynne or Jackie: a total airhead, but I can get like that when I am reading something—totally engrossed in the words.
"Do you need to call for a ride?" the librarian asked me.
"No, I'm good." I started to gather up my textbooks that had spent the past two hours doing nothing but gathering dust. "I have a ride coming. He was supposed to be here at 5:30."
"Well, he's awfully late," she said.
"Not for him," I said. She laughed as she reached out and picked up the book from the table. "Thanks again for your help."
She just nodded, then smiled. "It was my pleasure."
I zipped up the parka and walked out in front of the library to wait, yet again, for Paul, who seemed to operate almost in his own time zone. They had just started to turn off all the lights in the library when I heard the sounds of the music pounding out the open window of the Firebird. Paul pulled almost onto the sidewalk, then pushed the passenger door open for me.
"I'm sorry I'm late," he said as I climbed in to find a Baskin-Robbins bag on the seat.
"It's okay, I was studying." I was hoping he wouldn't notice I was blushing. I didn't tell him what I had been learning about. I had decided soon, very soon, I would be showing him.
No sooner had I climbed in the car than Paul reached over to stick his index finger in the middle of my chocolate-chip ice cream. He laughed, then licked the ice cream off his fingers. When we reached the light at the ramp to the interstate, Paul dug his fingers deep into the ice cream, depositing a heap of it on my nose. As he was speeding up the ramp he leaned over and licked the ice cream off.
"Paul, that's enough." It was funny, but he was getting reckless.
He just looked at me, not saying a word. He took more ice cream and put it on my chin. He then reached across me to roll down the window.
"Are you gonna take care of this?" I asked, pointing at my face.
He looked over his glasses, his bright green eyes sparkling. "I thought I would wait until it dripped down a little lower before I licked it off." He then laid the brow on me, which he had mastered in no time.
"Well, if you don't let me close this window, I think it's going to freeze in place."
"Here it comes, listen!" Paul shouted as he dramatically turned the volume up on the CD. He threw his hand in the air, punching the inside of the roof of his car after each word, which he sang at the top of his lungs: "It's a town full of losers, I’m pulling out of here to win!"
"What are you doing?" I asked, shouting over the music turned up to the max.
"I'm celebrating that in about nine months I am so out of this death trap, this suicide rap."
"Can I roll the window up?" I asked.
"The Boss says, 'roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair.'"
"Well, I'm sure he didn't mean that to be true for a November Michigan night." I pulled a napkin out of the Baskin-Robbins bag and cleaned the ice cream from my chin.
"Don't question the Boss!" he shouted, slapping the back of his hand off my leg.
"What's so special about this song?" I asked, ignoring the bruise forming under my jeans.
"Did you know Bruce got the title 'Thunder Road' from a film of the same name, starring Robert Mitchum?" Paul was almost encyclopedic in his knowledge about stuff he cared for. I never understood why he didn't do better in school. I'd offered to help him with homework, but he'd always turn me down. Telling me, in words that never failed to get to me, that he wanted me for my body, not my brain. The few times we'd study together always ended up as a hands-on course in human anatomy.
"That line I was yelling, that's what matters. That's me giving the finger to Pontiac."
"I know it's not the best place in the world, Paul, but—"
"It's a suicide rap. You got to get out when you're young. I've survived here for seventeen years, so I'm pulling out of here to win." His words were racing almost as fast as the Bird was driving. "Only suits, like your folks, win this rigged game. It's the guys at the bottom that lose their jobs, lose their wives, lose their lives. I'm not going to be one of those losers!"
"Why are you so angry?" I asked, knowing I wouldn't get an answer. Paul gets like this sometimes, and you just can't reach him. The entire time he was ranting, he was slamming the steering wheel, like a doctor trying to start someone's heart.
"Brad and I got it all planned out. It's like running out of a burning building; there is no shame in it." He slapped my leg again, then pointed out the window at one of the closed auto plants we were driving past. "When I come back here from California, Pontiac won't even be here. There will just be a big For Sale sign stretching the length of the city."
I touched his arm gently, trying to calm him. "Paul, I wish you wouldn't talk this way."
"How else am I supposed to feel, Joha?"
I pulled his arm tight against me, trying to squeeze some of the anger out.
"You think I want to stay here? You think I want to be a trash b
ag all of my life? You think I want to live my father's life? You think—"
He stopped in mid-sentence. It was like a magic word for him: Whenever Paul would mention his father, he would shut down. It was like his heart pulled an off switch in his brain.
"No, I know you want more than that," I told him.
"Goddamn, Joha, don't you get it? I don't want more; I want it all!"
"You don't have to work in a factory," I countered weakly.
"This whole city is one big factory. Everyone just moves down the assembly line, surrounded by nothing but white noise and black shadows." Paul was getting wound up again. I tried to give his arm another squeeze, but he knocked my hands away. "More layoffs, it was in the paper today. The day before Thanksgiving. But do you know how many people in my class are hoping things will change? You take the honors classes, so you don't know people like this, but the school is loaded with them. They are hanging on to some dream of how life used to be here, believing the stories their parents and grandparents tell them about the glory days. You circle May 25 on your calendar. That is the day I graduate and leave all of this behind."
The breath went out of my body. I rolled the window up, then slumped against the side of the car. "Do you think on your way out of town that you'll have time to stop and say good-bye to me?"
He didn't even look at me. He ejected the Born to Run CD, and we sat there the rest of the way home in silence, the silence of white noise and black shadows.
FIFTEEN
Dear Dead Dad:
The past few days have been crazy. I had a big fight with Johanna the night before Thanksgiving. It was one of those we just ignored the next time we saw each other. For a smart girl she's pretty good at playing dumb sometimes. She's good at rationalizing-which is good, since I can be so irrational. Then I had a huge blowup with Mom on Thanksgiving. I'm still a little shook up by it all, but that is what you're here for. You and the Stroh Brewing Company can bring me down when I get too high and start me up when I get too low. Sometimes I wish I could just get stuck in neutral.
Before I met Johanna, Brad and me had made all these plans, all these promises to each other and to ourselves. I'm afraid of losing Johanna. I'm afraid of losing all of my dreams because of her. She had never been in the picture before, but now she is smack in the middle and impossible to ignore. I know everything we have shared has been true; those feelings are strong. But I know everything about my plans to leave here are just as true and just as strong. No wonder I sometimes drive in circles; I am trapped in a round maze, my dreams chasing my dreams. But sometimes I don't feel like a race-car driver; instead, I'm more like the guy walking the tightrope in the circus. Each day the tension in the rope is increasing, the winds of change are blowing harder, and my sense of balance is failing. Finally Mom pushed me over the edge.
We were celebrating Thanksgiving. I don't really know if that is the word you could use to describe our sad little dinner. Mom spent all morning working with folks from her church down at the homeless shelter, so she didn't have time to make us much of anything.
When Mom told me she wanted to talk, I knew it was trouble. We had worked out a good arrangement since you bolted. She prayed, and I stayed away. She loved Jesus and preached her sermons, while I threw fits and ranted. Quite the happy little household you left behind. But then, you didn't really think everything was going to be okay, did you? Who am I kidding? You couldn't have cared less.
"What do you want to talk about?" I asked.
"We need to talk about college." I looked up at her, but was searching for a hole to suddenly open up in that crappy little trailer that I could disappear into.
"What about it?" I mumbled through my food.
"I know that you have your heart set on attending Stanford." She wasn't looking at me; it wasn't a good sign. "I have told you many times that I would prefer that you attend Bethel or another Christian college."
I spit a piece of turkey onto my plate. "I don't think so."
"I know you don't want to attend those schools. This is a very hard decision for me."
"What is there to decide? I'm going to Stanford."
"Paul, there is just no money. When that man left, he left me with nothing but debts. That man just left, no note, no money, and no insurance when he finally died."
"Get over it! Dad's gone; get a new life." I threw my hands in the air. "This is bullshit!"
"You will not use that language in my house," she scolded me.
"Your house! Don't you mean your goddamned trailer!" I shouted back at her.
"How I pray for you, Paul."
"Don't waste your breath!" I stood up from the table.
"Please, Paul, sit down while we finish this meal."
I grabbed the tablecloth and pulled everything onto the floor. "There, it's finished!"
"You pick this up right now!" she shouted.
I just looked at her. "And if not? What are you going to do? What do you think you are going to do? You've already ruined my life!"
"I did not ruin your life. I love you, Paul." She bent down and started picking up the broken dishes. "There is just no money for you to go away to college."
I slammed my fist hard into the table, although I wanted it to be her face. "What am I going to tell Brad?"
"Paul, I love you. I am sorry. You should pray for guidance," she said.
"How do I face him? How do I face myself?" I knocked my chair onto the floor.
"You are just like that man," Mom said as she cleaned up the mess I left behind.
I ran right into my room and grabbed the phone. I punched in Brad's number so I could smash our plans. "Brad, listen—"
"Hello, bro," Brad answered. "Happy Thanksgiving!"
"Look, I got to tell you something," I was squeezing the phone so hard, I don't know how it didn't break in half.
"What's up, bro? Wedding bells? Shotgun shells?"
"No, it's something else. I'm serious." I was too angry to cry, too sad to scream.
"What's wrong?" Brad countered, realizing, for once, our conversation was not a laughing matter.
"I can't go to Stanford with you. I don't have the money. I let you down."
"Wait, we can figure something out I'm sure. A scholarship 55 or—I didn't let him finish. "I don't want to talk about it. Look, don't tell this to anyone, especially Johanna, okay?"
"No problem," Brad replied.
"I'll tell her when the time is right, just not now. I can trust you, right?" I asked Brad, even though I knew the answer.
"Of course you can, Paul. I am always with you, right or wrong," Brad said.
"That's good, because everything is going wrong." I said it without an ounce of emotion in my voice; all my energy had drained from my throat to my hands forming fists. I slammed the phone down, but that wasn't good enough. I grabbed the phone and hurled it against the wall.
I turned my bed over and started running into the wall. Slamming over and over and over again, until my shoulder was bleeding. I heard Mom banging on the door, but I didn't care. I unlocked the door, almost knocking Mom over as I ran out to the Firebird. I gunned it, hitting the interstate in record time, the pedal pushing the floor and the car shaking like it was ready to explode. I kept pushing down the pedal, but there was only so far and so fast I could go. I drove until I saw that city-limit sign out on Telegraph Road. I rolled down the window; the snow-filled air chilled me down to my Chucks. When I passed the city-limit sign, I didn't cue up "Thunder Road" or scream out in defiance like before; instead, I hurled my Bom to Run CD out the window and watched it smash against the pavement in this town for losers.
Did you do the same thing, Dad, the day you left town? Did you leave because your dreams didn't come true, either? Did you leave here because it became too much of a nightmare? I wish you would have taken me with you because I don't think I can do this on my own.
SIXTEEN
I twirled the key around my finger as I walked around my grandparents' house. As I looked th
rough the mail they had asked me to pick up while they were in Florida over the Christmas holidays, I couldn't stop staring at the phone. I sat down at the kitchen table and took off my glasses, trying to think whom I could turn to for help.
Pam and I were acting like some old married couple. We acknowledged each other's presence, still shared the same locker, but our friendship was over. She was angry at me, and that was another thing we had in common: I was angry at me, too. It wasn't right to cut her out of my life like I did, but I knew that Paul didn't want me to share my time with anyone but him.
I thought about Kara. I didn't understand anything about Kara's life, but I thought she would understand what I was going through. She had probably gone through something like this a couple of years ago with Brad, but I knew I had nothing else in common with her. I remember Pam's put-down when she saw Kara and me standing together, saying to me: "Johanna, you are great books; Kara is great looks." I didn't think it was funny, mainly because I knew it was all too true. I liked hanging out with her and Brad; they were a lot of fun, even if sitting next to Kara made me feel like a troll. But even though I got to know Kara a little during those nights out, she rarely talked to me at school. I realized she probably wasn't stupid, although sometimes I felt she and her friends played that part a little too well. But I knew that Kara was very good at getting what she wanted, which seemed to be either getting back in Brad's good graces or driving him crazy with jealousy.
Once I asked her what she was taking in high school, and she replied, "Mostly other people's makeup." She was a senior, but I never heard her talk about following Brad to Stanford, or even going to college. My guess is that Kara planned to hang around Pontiac with her best friends Jackie and Lynne, selling clothes at the mall and waiting for the next best thing. She was confident enough to know that she would always land on her feet.
I dumped my book bag contents on the kitchen table. I had her phone number in one of my notebooks, the result of some lame early attempt on my part to become her friend. With each ring I was half hoping that she wouldn't answer.
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