I turned the ringer off my phone for the day, but when I check my call history around one o’clock, it’s clear the school put things together and called Mom and Dad a couple hours ago. They’ve been calling almost constantly since then, and I need to push down the burning guilt I feel with the knowledge they won’t remember any of this tomorrow.
My guilt dissolves into hunger, and my stomach growls as I walk along the row of restaurants that overlook the cityscape. The Vue 412 smells delicious but looks expensive, and while it would be easy enough to borrow a credit card off a table or to simply dine ‘n’ dash since I’m living a zero-consequences existence, I’m trying to keep my stealing down to a minimum.
I mean, aside from the neighbor’s red Ferrari, of course.
Instead, I grab a burger at the Coal Hill Steak House and then climb onto one of the amphibious vehicles to take a “Just Ducky” tour around the city. The view from the bus/boat shaped like a giant rubber ducky is amazing, but I wish it wasn’t so overcast today. I feel like the families and couples taking the tour together are all judging me as I sit alone, so I decide to listen to the library of messages my parents have left on my voice mail.
Which is a mistake. I can hear the suffering in their voices as they move from anger to concern to fear over my disappearance and nonresponse. This behavior is so very unlike me that I can trace the growing panic in their voices. Finally, I can’t take it anymore and delete the rest of their messages.
My plan shifts to staying in the city all night to avoid any consequences at home. I remind myself that all debts will be wiped free in the morning, and devise a plan to sneak my way into a motel room once it gets late. That is, if I can find a hotel willing to rent a room to a teenager.
I may be sleeping in the Ferrari, since after my tour and an exciting Steeler football game, I have a hard time just getting myself into one of the nightclubs with my underage ID. I manage to slip into one dark place down along the Strip while the oversized security guard is busy holding up a pair of handcuffs and threatening a small, bald man who is obviously intoxicated.
“If you handcuff me, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer,” he shouts to the bouncer who’s three times his size. “Wait, I am a lawyer!” The bald man’s tirade of outrage is interrupted as he stops to puke on his own shoes.
The bouncer looks disappointed that he didn’t get to use his handcuffs as he puts them away and instead pulls out a hankie to hand to the guy. I slip inside unnoticed.
My thrill at gaining entrance to the coveted indoor portion of the club is quickly squelched by the sight of the dreary interior. There are clusters of people gathered around small waist-level tables, and the bar seems noisy and lively, but the middle-aged woman up on stage singing a Billy Joel song is messing up the lyrics and slurring all the words she does get right.
Her obvious drunkenness is so unappealing, I make a quick note to self: if I ever do make it to middle age, no drinking while singing karaoke.
Deciding to make the best of things, I put my name on the list to sing. I figure I’ll have plenty of time to decide which song to pick, and maybe work up enough courage to actually get onstage. Instead, it’s a matter of moments before the drunk lady stumbles and has to catch herself by hanging onto the microphone stand.
The thin silver pole promptly collapses under her weight, sending her sprawling onto the floor. She sits up, looking dazed. “And for my next trick,” she calls out, “I’ll disappear.” And with that, she crawls gracelessly down off the stage and is gone.
The next thing I know, I’m standing center stage, in the middle of the most awkward karaoke moment of all time. In honor of Ferris, I’ve made the split-second decision to sing “Shake It Up, Baby.” Except I’m bringing zero percent of the fun and charisma Matthew Broderick showed off on the parade float in the movie. My voice is flat and I’m basically reading the words off the screen as if reciting everyone a bedtime story.
Suddenly, out of the depressingly dark and musty room, I hear someone practically scream, “Andie!”
I’d be relieved at having my performance cut short, if it wasn’t for the desperate tone of the voice. A voice that I instantly recognize.
Shading my eyes from the spotlight, I can see Mom and Dad barreling in between tables as they head toward the stage. Dad turns on a guy in a tight white tank top, who stands up and tries to slow their approach. I watch as my mild-mannered author-therapist-always-use-your-words father punches Tank Top Guy dead in the face.
The guy falls so hard and fast, I’m pretty sure Dad’s knocked him out cold. My first thought is that I never knew my father was capable of such violence, and my second thought is that it’s my fault he’s expressing so much anger in such a nonconstructive way.
It turns out that Mom and Dad have been tracking me down using the GPS in my phone, and Mom sobs uncontrollably as she hugs me in a death grip. The security guard grabs my dad and joyfully pulls out his handcuffs.
“You can just sit tight and cool off,” the guard tells Dad as he clicks the handcuffs on him. I’m pretty sure it’s the first time he’s gotten to cuff someone, because he takes a quick selfie with my father looking miserable.
Once Tank Top Guy regains consciousness and my father starts apologizing profusely to everyone, the security guard grudgingly sets my dad free. The guard looks disappointed that Dad and the guy didn’t attack each other as he puts his shiny cuffs away again.
Tank Top Guy accepts Dad’s apology for knocking him out, but I catch the short, bald, drunken lawyer slip a business card into the guy’s hand while whispering into his ear. The guy’s eyebrows go up as he listens, and he puts the card in his pocket.
The rest of the night is basically a blur of me trying to get my mom to stop crying so I can explain to everyone that I’m fine and won’t ever do anything like this again.
The panic and hurt on both of my parents’ faces is so devastating, I know I’ll never bring myself to take another big day off in Pittsburgh. They may both forget about my going off-script when they wake up in the morning, but I’ll never get Mom’s traumatized expression out of my head. Or the sight of my dad’s sweet pancake-making hands locked in handcuffs.
chapter 16
There are many things one can master when one has access to the Internet and lots and lots of free time. Once I’ve finished watching endless hours of otters holding hands while sleeping, puppies running in slow motion, and panda bears falling down, I start working my way through a long list of impractical skills, mastering one thing at a time.
I learn to create pancake art using a technique of layering batter to make dark and light shades. The learning curve is very steep since I start off not even knowing how to make regular old single-shade circle pancakes, but with time and practice, I get pretty good.
Finally, I surprise my dad one morning with a pancake shaped like a portrait of Sigmund Freud that looks too nice to even eat. He’s so happy, I’m almost able to forgive myself for nearly getting him arrested on my big day off.
Next, I teach myself how to decorate elaborate cakes with modeling icing, and present a series of movie-themed ones to my mother. There’s Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, featuring a red Ferrarishaped cake driving past a water tower that reads save Ferris.
Then I painfully construct a black-and-white-and-pink Pretty in Pink confection with the movie poster image stenciled on top.
Finally, I make a Sixteen Candles masterpiece with two handmade Claymation-looking characters sculpted with fondant icing, who sit cross-legged on a table as they lean over a cake to kiss. As a small ironic detail, I’ve added tiny kissing characters on top of the cake they’re leaning over, and then I use tweezers to create an even smaller version on top of that cake. I envision the characters repeating until they’re nearly microscopic, but don’t want to add to my issues by getting sucked into a cake-decorating vortex forever.
Mom is so impressed and delighted by my Sixteen Candles cake and its Droste effect that my burning remorse at taking
off and making her freak out is finally extinguished.
I watch every movie I can get my hands on, and even break into Mom’s glass case to watch the DVD special features from her classic film collection. Obviously, I leave Pretty in Pink alone, but there are lots of interesting interviews and commentaries on the others.
I find myself deliberately manipulating my days so that I’m able to discuss the movies I watch with Tom. He’s like a walking collection of cinema tidbits and trivia and behind-the-scenes stories. Whether it’s before school, outside the choir room, during lunch, or in the hallway beside Tom’s locker, I don’t feel like I’ve totally processed a movie until I’ve taken the time to discuss it with him.
I learn his movie favorites and storyline pet peeves, along with the exact way he twists his lips and squints when he’s thinking.
Because I can only do so much with the day I’m given, it feels like my friendship with Tom is somewhat one-sided. I’m careful not to reference our past conversations, but it grows increasingly more difficult.
“I thought you had an issue with Johnny’s attitude toward women in Dirty Dancing,” I say during a movie discussion we’re having one afternoon at the mall.
“When did I say that?” His lips give that twist, and he leans forward on the bench we’re sharing.
I think fast. “Maybe you never actually said that . . .”
He is watching me, which distracts me from coming up with a good explanation of how I somehow know his opinions.
Finally, I mumble, “I guess I just assumed?”
Thankfully, he says, “Well, obviously there’s an inherent predatory vibe when a guy with his kind of experience hits on a girl who is so much younger than him.”
I breathe a sigh of relief as he goes on about the innocence of Jennifer Grey’s character. He has many thoughts on this particular topic, and I love how protective he is of her.
These conversations are great, but I’m constantly reminded that there’s no way I’ll ever undo a whole summer of pursuing another guy right in front of him.
It hits me every time we laugh too loud over something one of us has shared, or when I show agreement by shoving him in the chest just a little bit too hard, or when our gaze catches and holds for a wide-stretching moment too long.
Again and again, I watch him pull a mask down over whatever feelings might be stirring in him. It’s as if I can almost hear his thoughts turn to the way I’ve brazenly flirted with Colton over and over by the light of the popcorn maker. That’s the point when Tom will either clear his throat, or cross his arms, or adjust his fedora if it happens to occur during lunch. The sting of him pulling back from me is always punctuated by the sharp knowledge that I fully deserve it.
I can accept the fact I’ve screwed up, but it doesn’t mean I don’t need a way to release my frustration. Loud music seems to help drown out the regret that rings in my ears, and once I teach myself how to truly play the bass guitar, I work on learning the song the Mad D Batteries girls like to play. Finally, I’m able to shred the bass so expertly, in a good way, that nobody will dare question me again.
Once I’m ready, I loop through with Petra, hanging out at the mall, taking pictures and laughing together after school. I’m hit by the fact that Petra would make a truly great best friend, if only I could figure out how to become best friends with someone who always just met me.
This time when we show up at Katy’s basement with our sacks of Spudz World spudz and sporks, I head directly for the bass leaning against the amp.
Picking up the axe, I play the song the girls are about to practice so perfectly that when the final note dramatically rings out, Petra runs over to give me a tackle hug. The rest of the band freaks out, and even Anna can’t help but show me her pure approval.
“That was incredible,” Petra says, beaming. “We are going to kill it at Battle of the Bands this year.”
My smile goes plastic, because unless Battle of the Bands is later tonight, I’m pretty sure I’m never getting the chance to do it. Petra starts handing out spudz and sporks and the girls all gather around, settling into the same comfortable small talk they’ve recited before.
My ears are still ringing from my guitar playing as I sit, eating my spudz and trying not to zone out over the repetitive chatter. But the spudz tastes extra dry this loop around.
Anna pulls out her camera to share the photos she scored of the perspiring cheerleaders, and shows us the shot of Tammy with sweat streaming off her squinched face as she kicks one leg high in the air.
“Wow,” Anna says. “I can practically smell her body odor from here.”
“I hope they grabbed showers right away,” Katy adds. “That level of perspiration can turn toxic fast.”
“The cheerleaders are actually at a house party tonight,” I say, trying to humanize them. “Some girl named Maya. Do you guys know her?”
“Wait, what?” Anna looks irritated. “How do you know where they are?”
“Oh, I just overheard that girl Tammy talking about heading to Maya’s house tonight.”
“Maya?” Petra starts typing into her phone. After a moment she says, “According to the yearbook database, nobody from our school is named Maya.”
“Oh, I’d just assumed she went to Punx High. Maybe the girl goes to a private school or something.” I shrug.
Anna says, “Wait, are you talking about Maya’s House?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said; Maya’s house. They’re joining a dance party there or something.”
“I doubt it.” Anna laughs. “Maya’s House is the town’s retirement home.”
“Retirement home?” I say. “Why would there be a dance party in a retirement home?” I picture the cheerleaders table-dancing at some old persons’ place and laugh. “Guess I had that worked out all wrong.”
“Maybe they’re performing there,” Petra says. “Like, as some sort of public service to make up for getting caught breaking the law. Or for brownie points on their college applications.”
“So, wait,” Katy says. “You think the cheerleaders are going to Maya’s House as some sort of charity?”
“That doesn’t sound like them,” Anna says.
“Maybe they’re just going to visit someone’s grandma,” Katy says.
Petra says, “Half the town is related to somebody who lives in that home. And the other half at least knows someone there.”
I say, “It sounds sweet if they’re going to cheer up all those old people with their dancing.”
“Too bad we didn’t know about this earlier,” says Anna. “We could’ve tried to get a few shots of the cheerleaders making spectacles of themselves.”
But I can barely hear her, since I’m already heading up the stairs to go home and hit the restart button again.
I’d love to see what happens when cheerleaders and brainiac girls go head to head at a retirement home. And now I know exactly how to make such a thing happen.
The next day, when Anna, Petra, and I walk through the front doors and into the lobby of Maya’s House, Punxsutawney’s retirement home, the cheerleaders aren’t anywhere in sight. Looking around at the spacious entrance hall, I lean over to ask Petra, “Was this an old hospital or something?”
She shrugs. “It’s just always been here. The place where everyone from town ends up if they aren’t living with family.”
Anna makes a wide berth for a nurse pushing a wheelchair that carries an elderly woman hunched underneath a knitted shawl.
We make our way over to the main desk, where we’re greeted by a strikingly attractive woman wearing nurse scrubs. She introduces herself as Dawn and asks if she can help us.
Anna holds up her camera. “We’re from the Punxsutawney High yearbook committee, and we were hoping to get some shots of the cheerleaders performing for your, er, clients.”
Dawn says, “You mean the girls who come in here to dance with the residents once a week?”
Petra looks at me, and Anna says, “I guess that must be
them. Are they high school students?”
“Oh, yes. And they’re so patient with the residents, we all love them here.” Dawn gestures toward the hallway across from the main entrance doors. “Everyone’s already in the recreation room with the music playing, just waiting for the girls to arrive.”
She takes our school ID cards and directs us to follow the yellow-carpeted corridor. “Follow the yellow brick road, and don’t get lost on your way to Oz,” she jokes. Petra and I give her a smile and turn to make our way in the direction she’s pointing.
Hanging on the walls on both sides of the hall are vintage photos of movie stars from the mid nineteen hundreds. Back when the residents were young. The images make me indescribably sad.
We pass a swinging door that’s propped open, and inside I can see theater-style built-in seating with a big white screen across the front wall. Surprised, I say, “They show movies here?”
Petra points to the classic poster of the movie Casablanca hanging on the wall outside the theater. “Yeah, but it looks like they only play old stuff.”
The poster is in a light-up frame that proclaims the film is “Now Showing.” Beside that poster is one of Breakfast at Tiffany’s that’s labeled “Coming Soon.”
I look up at the image of an ultra-glamorous Audrey Hepburn covered in diamonds and holding an extra-long cigarette holder.
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s is pretty good,” I say. “I’d love to see it on an actual movie screen.”
“Maybe you should come back here and watch it with the old folks.” Anna continues down the hallway.
“Maybe I will.” I pause a moment before following behind her and the rest of the group. If only “Coming Soon” didn’t mean “Coming Never” for me. But I can come and watch Casablanca any night I want.
Finally, we reach big, heavy double doors with a silver plaque on one side that reads “Recreation Room.” When Petra and I open the doors and walk through, we’re greeted by a sea of bald and cottony heads turning to watch us enter.
Pretty in Punxsutawney Page 18