Crash and Burn

by Michael Hassan

  Yeah, hello to you too, Dad.

  OK, we were not at that chit-chat stage, as if I needed to be reminded. After all, he cut me off financially only to have Caroline Prescott force his hand to reinstate my access to my own money. My first instinct now was to fight back, but it would be pointless arguing with him. Instead I opted for my other strategy, which was to minimize my exposure. In other words, “yes” him to death, as in whatever he says, I’m OK with it.

  This strategy has proven effective in the past, and this being the first actual time that we’ve talked since the great TV interview fiasco, I wasn’t looking to engage in any further conflict.

  “I understand” is what I said.

  “I don’t think you understand.”

  “Oh, I understand.”

  “You will understand if you suddenly find yourself without a phone.”

  “I understand.”

  “I don’t need your mother calling me.”

  “I understand.”

  “You’re in hot water as it is. . . .”

  OK, that was freaky, hearing a phrase that I’d never heard before, now twice within the same hour. I had to wonder, were people saying that all the time and I had just missed it before?

  But then Jacob suddenly switched gears and was talking in a conversational tone. “Sally tells me that you’ve been stepping up lately, that she’s received quite a bit of the book.” This threw me off completely. I was about to say “I understand” again, but instead, I just listened. Was he trying to make conversation with me? Who could tell?

  “She says she has high expectations for the book,” he went on. “Actually I asked her if it was appropriate for me to read it, and she suggested that I wait until it’s done and edited.”

  That had me thinking about all the nasty shit I wrote about him. I never realized until that very minute that whenever he got around to reading it, I was probably looking at World War III between me and him. No way was he going to let Sally publish a book that contained anything critical of him. And no way was I going to change a word. I felt momentarily queasy, but then I realized that, at least for the time being, Jacob knew nothing about its contents.

  “Probably better that way,” I admitted.

  “She says she has been working with one of the top editors at the publishing house,” he said. “Very, very exciting, really.”

  Was that an actual compliment? If so, was he backing off the hostile-father impression that I was so familiar with?

  “So then why am I still in hot water?” I asked.

  “You know why you’re in hot water,” he said, returning to his full-on Jacob voice. I could tell from this that we were done, even though I wasn’t positive what he was referring to or why he called in the first place.

  Next, Christina. But first, I had to call Newman back in order to develop a foolproof alibi. Knowing my own mind, I would, on my own, create a story so full of holes that she would be able to see right through to the truth. Once again, I relied on Newman’s twisted brain to anticipate every possible angle.

  He immediately asked me why I thought that Christina would be suspicious that I was with someone else in the first place. He pointed out that she was probably just concerned about me and once she heard my voice, she would be relieved. And that would be it.

  “But, just in case, here’s what we do. . . .”

  I called, dreading the moment that she answered.

  Only it kept ringing.

  And went straight to voice mail. Which, in its own way, was perfect, because I could deliver my story without having to deal with any questions.

  “Hi, Christina. I got your message. Sorry for not calling. Right after I dropped you off, I got a call from my camp friend Nick, Nick Alamante, and he said that his parents were getting divorced and that he was going to have to live with his father in St. Louis and he was thinking of running away. So next thing I know, I’m driving to his house in New Jersey. And by the time I got there, he was messed up on acid, having a bad trip, so me and some of my camp friends had to talk him down and stay with him when he went to the hospital.”

  I inhaled. Amazed at the precision of the tale I had just spun, improvising by dropping a name in (there was actually no one in my camp named Nick and I never mentioned him before, so she couldn’t have remembered), and then having him live far away and then getting him to trip balls so we end up in the one place that we couldn’t call from.

  Newman would have been proud had he witnessed my performance. By the time I was done, I had even convinced myself that this was exactly what happened, almost forgetting that it was all a total and complete lie.

  And then I waited. I figured Christina was going to call back immediately and yell at me and call me a total liar and cheater.

  Only she didn’t call back.

  Not for hours, and then when my phone finally buzzed, it was a text message:

  Got your message. Glad to hear u r alive. I’m at the movies with my sister. lv

  Lv? Again, not the first time that this girl confused me. I tried to figure out if “lv” represented initials or some kind of French word, and finally guessed that it was short for “love,” which meant that she didn’t suspect anything.

  When I got home, even Lindsey was happy to see me. They were all apparently worried that I had died or something. Plus it had been, like, over a week since I had seen them. My mother yelled at me, which, of course, I totally expected, and threatened me, which, of course, didn’t surprise me, and then hugged me and forgave me after I convinced her I was sorry. I was quickly learning that “sorry” was a magic word, just like “please” and “thank you.” So thank you, Barney the purple dinosaur, for that.

  And soon enough, I was back in front of the TV with Jamie, just me and her, and she waited for a commercial to ask suspiciously, “Where’d you really go, Steven?”

  And then around ten, I yelled up to my mom’s bedroom that I was going to Evan’s house. And then, of course, beelined it over to Bedford and the rich girl’s mansion. She was whimpering happy to see me again, like I had been gone for weeks, not hours. And I left at two A.M. and got home at two-thirty and slept until noon.

  And later in the day, Christina came over and I was Steven again, and we watched TV and talked, and when she was sure that no one was home, she followed me into my bedroom. And all the time I was with her, I couldn’t help thinking how terrible it would be if she found out about Claudia and promised myself that I would stop.

  And that night at ten, despite my promises, I dropped Christina off and kept driving to Bedford and the rich girl’s house and I was Crash again, and she was whimpering happy to see me again, you know the drill, left at two, two-thirty, slept until noon. And Christina came over. . . .

  It became easier every day. It got so that I could have gone on like that for the entire rest of summer, especially since I knew what was waiting for me the second I started writing again. So even though I was getting worn down, I wasn’t about to stop, despite the fact that I wasn’t writing and Sally was calling and even got Jacob to call asking for the rest.

  Still, I wasn’t about to stop. So it wasn’t me. And it wasn’t Claudia or Christina. Not on their own anyways.

  The reason it came to an end was all because of the “wall.”

  The wall, for those of you who still don’t own a computer, is the section in Facebook where you post things that you want to tell people and then they comment about it. The wall also allows people to post things that they want to tell you. Then, when you sign on, you see a list of the people who contacted you with one-liners, like “awesome pics,” if you posted new photos, or “r u coming to my party,” or whatever.

  Well, I hadn’t signed on for days, since I only use Facebook to find people or get info about what’s going down in my town. So being as I was otherwise occupied all those days and nights, I didn’t have any need to log on to see what else was happening.

  So Pete had to tell me. Actually, there was a text message from h
im on my phone when I woke up that afternoon, having passed out on my couch from too much partying with Claudia the night before. The text said:

  u r in hot water. Log onto Facebook.

  I flipped open my MacBook, clicked Safari, and there ten seconds later was a note from Claudia: “Had a great time last night. Can u get to my house earlier 2nite?”

  . . . followed by a note from Christina:

  “Why don’t you go now, because I’m not coming over today or ever again.”

  Fuckme.

  So I immediately called her, as in Christina, not Claudia.

  She picked up the phone and said, “How could you, Steven?”

  And I said that I was sorry, that I never meant to hurt her.

  And she said that “sorry” was totally meaningless in this situation.

  And I asked to see her, because I still had feelings for her, and I didn’t want to lose her, and OK, I screwed up, but we couldn’t let that come between us, given our connection and all.

  And she said that connection or not, she wasn’t going to see me.

  And I said please and she said:

  “I need time to process this. I thought you were better than that.”

  Now, I distinctly remembered that when I was in Woodstock, and Felicia used those very words on me, I was supercareful not to repeat them to Christina, because, tell you the truth, I felt completely ashamed about the fact that I had disappointed Felicia. And also, I remembered how it really hurt hearing those words. So I was positive, beyond positive in fact, that I never mentioned them to Christina or even said them out loud. Which of course meant that Christina had to have come to a completely independent determination that I was not who she thought I was, and that I was not better than that.

  What were the odds of hearing a phrase like that twice in a summer? Unless of course, it was true? So I had to pretty much accept the fact that I wasn’t better than that, whatever “that” was. This time, however, the effect on me was totally different: It was a totally freeing revelation. After all, if I wasn’t better than that, I didn’t have to pretend to be.

  Except that something from my time with Roxanne jolted me, as in, when she explained her special talent and it had to do with Andrew Jackson and how she was able to understand exactly how he was feeling when they called him a jackass. She was trying to teach me something, which I didn’t completely appreciate until that very second, not really.

  I finally got what it felt like to be Felicia when I fucked her over. I finally got what it felt like to be Christina. OK, I sucked, I’ll admit it.

  And knowing this, I was not willing to give up on Christina, so I called her back.

  Went straight to voice mail. I tried her home phone number and no one answered, even though I knew she was home.

  I knew she knew I was calling.

  I would need Newman on this. And he wasn’t around.

  So I called Claudia.

  “You told me I was your only girlfriend,” she said, clearly hurt. Obviously, I didn’t expect that. I could hear her whimpering slightly on the phone, only this was a totally different kind of whimpering sound she was making, more like a cry-whimper than a happy-whimper. It made me instantly sad.

  “I never said that” is what I said, and instantly I knew how stupid that sounded. “I never said ‘only.’” Which, of course, as soon as I said it, sounded even stupider.

  “You said you had feelings for me.”

  And of course, I did tell her that, having echoed a line to Claudia that I previously used with Christina. In fact, come to think of it, there were a lot of things that either I said to Christina, or Christina said to me, that I used on Claudia. They just seemed equally appropriate is all. Plus, at the time, it made her superhappy and got her to laugh, which she wasn’t doing now at all.

  “I did,” I answered. “I do.”

  “But you have them for someone else, don’t you?”

  Me, thinking, Help me, Alex. What do I do now? What I did was not answer at all.

  “Well, do you?”

  “I guess” is what I said. “Not exactly” is what I said next. “They’re different, is all,” I told her.

  “Different how?”

  “It’s . . . complicated.”

  “Are you doing her too?” she asked. And then in a voice that sounded so totally hurt and desperate, she added, “Pleeeeeeeeeeese, Crash, don’t lie to me.”

  And so I didn’t. And she said, “Maybe you better not call me until you work things out with your real girlfriend.”

  As they say in baseball: two away.

  I waited a few hours to let her get over the initial hurt, then called her again, but now she wasn’t picking up her phone either. When I told Newman, he suggested that I give her more time, that she would come around.

  He was not so optimistic about Christina.

  Which is why I started spending more time with my boys, going back to my early-summer routine of pregaming at the nature preserve and seeking out the party of the night, or ending up at Pinky’s, passing the bong around in the back of Evan’s SUV, or going to the movies, or getting blazed and playing video games until practically dawn.

  And I called Christina every day and she didn’t call me back. And I called Claudia every day and she didn’t call me back. And I wasn’t sure who I missed more, but it took me back to the fact that I had completely stopped writing (it wasn’t only that, as Sally was calling, like, every day, demanding the next chapter).

  And the truth was, I had completely stopped writing not because of my days with Christina or my nights with Claudia, or my exhaustion at keeping them separate, or my adrenaline kicking in because I was in high gear all the time. Not because of those things, but because of the chapter that I was avoiding writing.

  And now I had no excuse.

  So on a Saturday night, around midnight, I started a chapter called “How Crash Landed.” The title made no sense but seemed consistent with the format I set up with Newman back when I first started writing, so I left it alone, figuring something would come to me as I wrote.

  And then I waited.

  But nothing happened. So I waited some more. But not a word. So I figured that maybe the chapter title wasn’t right, so I spent some time thinking of other chapter titles and came up with like ten different versions, and came back to “How Crash Landed.”

  Two A.M.

  And my mom called into my room.

  “Is Jamie home yet?”

  Jamie had gone out earlier that night with a group of juniors, which I didn’t like since I didn’t trust them, as I knew either them or their brothers and sisters. But I was sure that she had come home early, and now I ran down to the family room to check.

  The television wasn’t on.

  I had a bad feeling, that twisty ache I get in my stomach when I think something is wrong.

  I called her friend Jackie. Jackie didn’t pick up. I didn’t know who else to call.

  I went for the school directory, looking down the list of names.

  My mom came down. “She’s not here?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, sounding very worried. Still scrounging around for the names. No one I recognized. Then a call back from Jackie. I picked up.

  “They’re taking Jamie to the hospital.”

  “Why?”

  “Alcohol poisoning.”

  “Who?” I demanded. “Who’s taking her to the hospital?”

  “My parents. The ambulance is here right now.”

  At the same time, the house phone rang. Jackie’s mom.

  I was driving seventy in a forty-five zone, trying to get to my little sister. My mom was in a separate car with Lindsey somewhere behind me. I couldn’t wait for them; I had to get to Jamie right away.

  I hit seventy-five when I heard the siren and then saw the flash of spinning lights in my rearview mirror.

  “Pull over now” from a police bullhorn.

  I almost didn’t but decided I had to.

  I sat quie
tly in the driver’s seat, on the side of the road, filled with anger, determined to control my temper, so I kept my hands pinned to the steering wheel at all times.

  A flashlight in my eyes. A tap on my driver’s side window.

  I thought about Jamie, and whether she was OK, and I was sure she was OK, she had to be OK, so I made myself not think about her. Instead, I thought about what I needed to write, and it suddenly came to me how I should start the next chapter.

  Which I would do the second that I knew that Jamie was all right.

  “License and registration,” as I rolled down the window. “You’re in hot water, son. Really, really hot water.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  How Crash Landed

  Summer 2007.

  For me, it was the almost-perfect summer.

  Done with junior year, by the skin of my teeth. Not too worried about senior year even though my SAT scores sucked so bad a chimp could have taken the test and done better. Seriously. Thankfully, my ACT scores were not as painful. Still, while my mom was stressing about what schools I should apply to, I was more interested in partying.

  Plus, there was always September.

  It was the summer of driving, as we were all legal at that point.

  It was the summer of concerts for the Club Crew, because now that we could drive, we traveled wherever the music was—down to Jones Beach, up to Albany, across to Jersey and the Meadowlands, over to Hartford—and at each concert, of course, we had the perfect music weed.

  It was the summer of big-time experimentation, and we found new and more adventurous ways to get to high, like salvia, DMT, robotripping, morning glory seeds, cocaine, bombs (X), and shrooms. Oh yeah, and acid. As in LSD. This will fuck you up, kiddies. Fuck you up big-time.

  It was a summer of parties, and we always managed to find one, somewhere to go almost every night.

  It was the summer of movies, like The Order of the Phoenix, The Simpsons Movie, and Superbad.

  It was the summer of relationships. Bobby discovered that he was totally into Ashley, Kenny was into an about-to-be junior girl named Britney, Evan started seeing a girl from his summer camp, and then there was me and Diana and me and Kelly and me and April Walker.