by Lisa Freeman
Miss Dominator gave Nigel and me “the nod.” So did all the girls in her lineup. It was totally surreal. The chicks were saying hello to me before they said hello to Nigel. They looked so cool in their white Landlubber bell-bottoms, Bernardo sandals, and halter tops.
Rox broke the spell. She was standing behind me. Before I could spin around and say a word to her, she turned to Nigel and said, “Can we please borrow Nani?” in her best little girl voice.
“Just for a minute,” Nigel said, carving a path through the crowd.
The Lisas linked their arms around me. We weaved through what seemed like miles of saffron surfers with bare chests. They were scoping all their options, picking their date for the night. Of course the Lisas were getting the most attention from the wave-starved troops. They were wearing strapless tops and embroidered Levi shorts with moccasin boots. I don’t know why they decided to dress the same that night, but it was really working for them.
Mary Jo dragged herself out of the pool as we walked by. She looked like a wet mop in her jeans and ruined leather sandals. Suzie lugged her up the driveway, and they disappeared together.
“That’s weird,” Claire said, watching them leave. “When did they become best buds?”
I didn’t have a clue what was going on. Nigel, Shawn, and Jerry joined KC and a bunch of hard-core Redondo Beach types who were arm wrestling and drinking tequila after they lit it on fire. Those babies were called Flamers. They must have been very powerful because the fire seemed to suspend in midair in front of KC’s mouth as she kicked one back then slammed her elbow onto the bar to leverage herself into a position of total dominance. A guy grabbed her hand and their upper arms locked. It took her one second to break his grip. She was so focused, her opponent never had a chance. It looked like a trail of crystal blue light hung in front of her mouth.
“Do you see that?” I asked Rox.
“Yeah, KC’s got super strength. She doesn’t bleed,” Rox said, pushing me to the cabana.
In the dark, just for a moment, it looked like she was smiling, but just with her eyes.
“Thanks for saving my ass back there,” Rox said, nudging me forward as we cut the long line of girls waiting for the bathroom.
Claire, Jenni, and the Lisas followed. We were all jammed into the tiny bathroom. It had dark gray wallpaper with the words bonjour and je t’aime written in fancy white script. Sometimes it looked like the words were moving and the pink poodles on the wallpaper were wagging their tails. Everybody was too busy taking turns peeing and asking what happened with Nigel to notice the wallpaper was alive, breathing in and out.
I was not going to lose my mind at the McBrides’ in front of Rox and Claire. No way, José. I closed my eyes to focus, center my mind, and chill. No one in that powder room was going to know something was wrong unless I told them.
At that moment, I thought, there should be a rule:
No bong balls.
Rox kept asking, “Did you or didn’t you go all the way?”
She grilled me like Perry Mason. She was being awful and wouldn’t stop. I looked at her all innocent-like. Why not? I was innocent. I didn’t go all the way. I looked those goon girls in the eye and told every one of them the truth, “For the hundredth time,” I said. “We didn’t do it.”
The lineup watched my every move like some kind of girl jury. Claire was brushing the beer out of her hair and rubbing cinnamon potpourri in it to get rid of the smell. Rox tossed her cigarette in the sink and soaked the butt before she flicked it into the trash.
“What did you do with him?” She was fuming.
I didn’t know how to answer. Rox smiled when I hesitated. She knew she had me on that one.
“We had a major make-out session,” I told her.
Claire was beaming like I was a saint or something.
“Making out is okay,” she said hugging and kissing me.
“So you didn’t go all the way?” Rox asked just to be sure.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The poodles were dancing off the walls and onto Rox’s head. I told them, “Stop it.”
“No,” Rox said to me.
She was so pissed off, kind of like my mom was before I left tonight. Rox’s face was getting blotchy. She dug into the velvet shorts she had put on for evening wear. That was not easy considering they were so tight they looked like they had been painted on. Somehow she got her hand into the back pocket, pulled out a ten-dollar bill, and slapped it into Claire’s hand.
“Don’t gloat,” Rox said.
“I knew you were a good girl,” Claire whispered in my ear.
She was still hugging me as Jenni and the Lisas patted me on the back approvingly and squeezed their way out of the bathroom. There was a bet? That sucked.
Claire was so happy, admiring us in the mirror, comparing our Saint Christopher necklaces. The words protect us circled the image of Saint Christopher dodging lightning bolts on both our medals but my casing was deeper than hers. It made mine more special.
“Now we’re like sisters-in-law,” she said and hugged me goodbye.
In the mirror I could see Rox leaning against the towel rack, glaring at me. No more smiles. She bent over the sink. I shrugged my shoulders and stepped over the little pink poodles on the floor. Rox pounced forward and blocked the door with her arm.
“You stay right there,” she demanded. Her face was right in mine, and the back of my head bumped into the light switch. The room went dark and wouldn’t you know it, the poodles on the wallpaper glowed. How could the lineup just leave me with this Scorpio? That sign hated to lose or feel one-upped. I had to do something. Rox was moving in for the kill.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to Rox’s chin. Even in the dark I could see her head drop, looking down.
Before she could answer, I flipped up my finger and tweaked the tip of her nose. A soft orange light trailed behind my hand. I ducked under her arm and said, “Later gator.”
I made a mad dash, turned the corner into the dressing room, and slammed into an enormous woman. She looked like a Bavarian elk hunter I had seen in National Geographic. Her braided blonde hair was piled high on her head. She had painted brown eyebrows, round, rosy cheeks, and glasses perched on the bridge of her turned-up nose. Her chin jiggled when she moved and her beady blue eyes matched a vest with giant brass buttons protruding over her breasts, which shot forward like two cannons. She wobbled in bedroom slippers with fur on them, holding a brandy snifter and cigarette in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other.
Rox tapped my shoulder and politely moved me to one side as she said, “Hello, Mrs. McBride.”
Mrs. McBride asked Rox, “How are your parents, dear?” It sounded like one word the way she slurred it.
I thought everyone knew Rox’s folks were dead. How could Mrs. McBride ask such a question? Didn’t she know who Rox was?
I looked at Rox. She looked at me. Then we both looked back at Mrs. McBride.
“They’re fine, thank you,” Rox said.
“Well, give them my best,” said Mrs. McBride, opening the cabana’s sliding glass door.
I stuck my tongue in the space between my front teeth and waited. Rox was resealing her invisible armor. I couldn’t tell if she was going to laugh or cry. Mrs. McBride made her way through the crowd outside, turning on the pool light as she left.
Rox jostled her boobs into a more perfect alignment. Then she pointed at my chest and said, “Are you cold?”
I thought to myself, I’m always cold. I had to get my jacket. It had my lucky rabbit foot in it and I needed its mojo fast. I remembered I left it in the fort.
“Now what?” she asked.
“I’ve got to jam to the fort.”
“Well, you won’t get in.” Rox told me. “It’s always locked.”
“It’s okay, I know the combo.”
“You know the combo?”
It looked like a flashbulb went off in Rox’s face, temporarily blinding her. I could almost hear the si
zzle and pop. She stood motionless, waxy and overexposed, her chestnut hair blowing off her face and her mouth pursed tight. She was stunned.
Right then, I could have died happy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Saved
I wasn’t exactly sure how I got there, but I was on a patio table dancing a very nasty hula. The music roared out of giant speakers right into my back. Rod Stewart was singing, “I’m Losing You.” Bright lights shone under the thick glass of the table, illuminating every move I made. The whole party was cheering except Rox. She was clapping her hands, but she wasn’t into the music. Nigel swung his shirt over his head like a cowboy about to rope a steer while Shawn and Jerry jumped up and down to the long drum solo. I concentrated on staying in the groove and tried to figure out how long I had been dancing.
The music was getting faster and faster. The guys went wild every time I made a motion with my hips. They hollered like they were getting tubed in the biggest wave ever. I arched my back and pushed my hips out toward the crowd but I kept an eye on Nigel. That was law now that I was wearing his Saint Christopher.
In Hawaii, I was not very good at hula. I remembered how my teacher Miss Kekahuna used to watch me through thick glasses and click her tongue at how stiff I was. I wasn’t stiff now. Miss Kekahuna used her big arms to demonstrate, but I could never get my hands and feet moving together at the same time. I’d chant, pray for purification, and wear shapeless red linen dresses to honor Pele, but I couldn’t hula. Miss Kekahuna would remind me, “Roll back on your feet, keep the shoulders leveled, elbows bent, and never slide. Always keep your steps tiny and close to the ground.”
Now, on top of the table at Nigel’s party, I could hula big time—left and right. If Miss Kekahuna could have seen me I probably would’ve won a trophy or something.
The drum solo was coming to an end. Rod Stewart’s voice crackled in the warm night air. The Lisas were dancing hard, lunging forward and dipping back. Nag Champa incense was burning. That meant the Topanga Girls and more pot had arrived. But at that moment, standing on that table, I was the center of the universe. Like Anita Pallenberg in the Secret Chamber of Dreams, smoking a giant hookah and tasting the essence of man, I understood everything.
Nigel grabbed me by the thighs and lifted me up. It reminded me of tandem surfing with my father in Waikiki when I was still small enough to be carried. I was sailing through the air like I used to, up in the sky, safe and happy again. Nigel hoisted me over his shoulder as if I were a cavewoman. My hair touched his ankles as he scooted me away behind the tennis courts. I could hear the ocean in front of us and the party behind us. I imagined his Neanderthal knuckles dragging on the ground and the smell of bones around his neck. Strands of hair flew in and out of my mouth, and my stomach started to growl again. I wished I had eaten some of that ham Jean cooked.
My stomach was so close to his ear there was no way I could hide it this time. It sounded like the Titanic sinking.
“Tummy.” Nigel said, looking directly at my belly button.
I was getting used to him talking to my stomach like it was a two-year-old.
“Don’t you ever eat?”
Before I could answer, he put me down on the lawn and ran off, yelling back to me, “I’m going to get you something really tasty. Wait right there.”
It was pitch black in front of me. The tennis court floodlights started to spin around like when I did too many cartwheels in a circle. I tried to walk but my knees were too rubbery. I decided to lie down and look up at the sky, searching through the stars and trying to remember which zodiac sign went where.
When I opened them again, Nigel was on top of me. It felt like all bets were off. We were kissing in the middle of the lawn and my funny bone had slammed into a sprinkler head. My elbow hurt so much. I thought about poor old Tinkerbell slipping and plowing her elbow into the cement the day World War III almost broke out at State.
“Where’s my jacket?” I asked. I needed my lucky rabbit foot. Things were getting weird.
Nigel’s tongue went deep in my ear and his hand went up my shirt. He suddenly stopped what he was doing.
“I don’t know where your jacket is,” he said.
He stared at me for a second, smiled, and flipped my hair side to side.
“I always wanted to do that,” he said without taking a breath.
I didn’t know what time it was. Nothing made any sense. If I wasn’t home by midnight, Jean would go crazy. And where the hell was my jacket?
“The fort,” I exclaimed. That’s where I was going.
Nigel looked puzzled, but I guess he was just really stoned, too. He lay in the middle of the lawn with his hands behind his head, staring at the stars. When I tried to get up, he pulled me down and started to kiss me again. It was too rough. Then a sharp metal wire pricked my tongue. I jerked away when I tasted blood in my mouth.
Nigel said, “You wanna see my retainer?” He flicked it out of his mouth. There was a front tooth attached.
That’s when it hit me.
“Shawn!” I shouted.
Shawn put a finger to my lips and broke out laughing. He laughed so hard he snorted and kind of spit. It was like Rox said: Shawn and Claire were the perfect couple. Neither one of them had all their teeth. I didn’t think it was funny. I was in big trouble all around. If Claire or Nigel found out about this make-out session, my ass would be grass. I’d be labeled a slut, a flirt, or worse, people would start calling me Suzie.
Shawn was the playboy, not Nigel. Who knew how many girls he had snagged by pretending to be his brother? He was the one giving Nigel the stud reputation. It was diabolical and there was no way I could confront him because it was taboo to come between the brother bond. And if I told Claire I would be busting myself. Shawn had this totally wired. Then it dawned on me. Poor Suzie, she actually did it with him.
“Shawn, swear to God you won’t tell,” I demanded.
Shawn looked bowled over. He flattened his hair with both hands and tugged at his trunks, straightening himself out. He was thinking again, and I knew this could take a while. Trying hard to maintain balance, I waited for his answer. Finally, he stood up and said, “As Jesus is my Lord and Savior …” he crossed his heart and said, “I swear.”
I had forgotten the Christian thing. What a stroke of luck. I put him right back in church and nailed him with the God card. For once, I had actually nipped something in the bud.
I had to find a way to let him off the hook before he left. Guys couldn’t lose face and if they did, they hated you for it. If I didn’t say something nice, he’d think I was a bitch. Girls always had to be nice. What a royal pain in the ass. It was a rule:
Be nice, no matter what.
“Shawn,” I said, as he walked away.
My mind was empty and I needed to think fast. I tried not to freak out when the grass started marching out of the lawn in a double row. “Oh Christ,” I said. It just popped out.
Shawn stopped and turned back to look at me. I remembered what happened to Tinkerbell when she used the name of the Lord in vain in front of Nigel. Obviously, Shawn felt the same. By the way his lips curled, I could tell he was about to say something really mean. I saw it coming.
“Oh Christ, thank you.” I blurted out before he could say a word, then I added, “Let’s pray.”
I took Shawn’s hands into mine and performed the best imitation of my mother I could muster up. I remembered the way she talked to Jesus when she stood over my father’s coffin. Her pleading voice softened as she said his name.
“Jesus,” I said, looking down at Shawn’s bare feet. “Thank you for giving Shawn McBride the courage and faith to honor you and not his earthly desires. May I return his strength with respect and kindness. Thank you, Lord. Amen.”
“Amen,” Shawn said while gently squeezing my hands.
What a cheeto jerk I was. That little act would probably send me to hell. But for the moment, in Shawn’s eyes, I was a righteous, Jesus-loving girl who had been s
aved by the Lord like all Hawaiian savages ought to be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Ambushed
Thirty miles wasn’t that far to walk. That’s what I told myself as I looked for the way out of the estate. I wasn’t going to get any crazier around Nigel or his jerk brother. Girlfriend or not, I was taking matters into my own hands.
The cars on the long, sloping driveway were parked fender to fender like at a drive-in movie. I followed the dense planting, hoping it would take me to the highway. There was a strong smell of exhaust and rubber. The moon was almost full in the highest part of the sky.
“Midnight,” I shouted.
“Tick-tock,” Lord Ricky chimed in. “Got to be somewhere, Cinderella?”
Lord Ricky sat in his station wagon parked next to Nigel’s van. Both cars were blocking the main gate. On PCH, crowds of people huddled together, sneaking in one at a time.
“Aren’t you supposed to be watching the entrance?”
Lord Ricky said nothing. Instead he blew smoke rings up into my face. Two girls sitting in the front seat giggled. They looked about eleven. Lord Ricky gave me a sidelong glance. He looked like a troll trying to twist his head with his neck brace on and kiss one of the girls. He couldn’t quite get into position. He was gross. Totally gross.
I zigzagged off the path. It was hard to walk with only one clog on and easy to trip. I fell over a thick garden hose into a shrub. My knee slammed into its wood base. Perfect. It was like being tangled in a giant anaconda snake, the cold copper nozzle hissing from the pressure of water left on. The ground was cold and muddy. The grass was mushy.
When I struggled to stand, someone running bumped me from behind, and I fell forward again. What was going on? People were all over the place. Boys with hooded sweatshirts and girls in white tshirts fanned out onto the property. A bunch of them were grabbing at something. Tall trees blocked the moonlight. I dug in, alert, very Vietnam.