by Rick Detorie
“No,” I said, “because nothing they teach at school is funny or interesting.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” said Miss Sadie.
“My girlfriend Brooke is the same way, except she usually has to watch something a few times before she can remember it,” I said. “But she’s not my girlfriend anymore.”
“Not your girlfriend anymore?” said Miss Sadie. “Ah, kids nowadays. What are you, twelve? Thirteen? And already you have an ex? Go figure!”
Then I told her all about me and Brooke, how we played the rainbow in our third-grade class play, how I thought she was my girlfriend but she didn’t think so, and how she’s all hot now for Dalton Cooke, a guy I can’t stand.
“What’s this Dalton fellow got that you haven’t got?” asked Miss Sadie.
“I don’t know, except he’s rich and has big muscles and everything.”
“Ach! That’s all superficial nonsense,” said Miss Sadie. “It’s what’s inside that counts. If she’s a smart cookie, she’ll realize that you’re the real catch and come back to you.”
“Yeah, but what do I do in the meantime?”
“You live your life! Study, work hard, be kind to people, and good things will come your way.”
“I don’t know,” I sighed, “that Dalton Cooke…”
“Dalton Schmalton,” she said, waving her hand in the air like she was shooing a gnat. “Stop worrying about who you aren’t, and start worrying about who you are.
“I tell you what,” she said, “if you want to make the big muscles, maybe you should put down the sweatpants and pick up the boxes of tchotchkes in the hallway and carry then up to the attic. When you’re finished with that, there’ll be a big piece of apple crumb cake waiting for you in the kitchen.”
“Apple crumb cake?” I said.
“That’s right, bubeleh,” she said, “because it wouldn’t kill you to eat a little something.”
MEOW, MEOW, BOO!
Freddie and I were finally going to spend the night at his cousin Jason’s apartment to film the ghost cat.
But first, my mom had to get involved. She’s never met Jason, so she wasn’t about to let me spend the night there until she first called Freddie’s mom, then Jason, and asked him a lot of questions. Then, when she was finally convinced that Jason wasn’t a crazed serial killer, she told me I could spend the night at his place.
Add that to my list of Ten Things I Hate about Being 14: My mom has to know every place I’m going and every person who’s going to be there, like I’m a six-year-old going to my first sleepover.
Freddie and I rode the bus to Jason’s. We each took a sleeping bag and a backpack (not an “overnight bag,” which my mom called it), and I packed two cameras and plenty of extra batteries, a pair of clean socks, underwear, and a toothbrush.
During the ride, I asked Freddie what the ghost cat looked like.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “You said you’d already seen it.”
“I was there once when it appeared, but I didn’t really see it.”
“Well, how do you know it was there?”
“Because Jason and his girlfriend said it was there,” said Freddie.
“How did they know?” I asked.
“Because they saw it.”
“If they saw it,” I said, “then why didn’t you?”
“I think because I sort of fell asleep on the couch.”
I thought it over, then said, “All right, let’s make a deal. We’ll both stay awake all night if we have to. We won’t sleep until we’ve filmed the ghost. Deal?”
“Deal,” he said.
If I thought the building where Jason lives was creepy looking the day I visited it, it was nothing compared to the way it looked at night. The lobby was real dark, with long black shadows zigzagging across the walls, and the hallways were worse. They had these spooky little lights that made a buzzing sound, and the one way down at the end kept flickering like a miniature lightning storm or something.
Inside Jason’s apartment he had plenty of lights on, along with his TV and computer, so it wasn’t too bad.
Jason turned out to be a pretty good host. He gave us some left over pizza and a couple of grape sodas, and for dessert he nuked a bag of popcorn. Pretty decent meal, I’d say.
Jason and I played video games while Freddie sat on the couch and did nothing. Actually, he sat on the couch and sulked. Freddie doesn’t play video games. So when I play them, he gets all mad and pouts.
But that’s okay, I’m used to it.
At about ten o’clock, Jason said he was going to crash because he had to get up at six A.M. to go mountain biking. He told us that the ghost cat could show up at any time now, and that we should dim the lights and turn off the TV so we could see it better. Then he went to his bed, which is behind a screen in the back of the apartment.
Freddie and I rolled out our sleeping bags on the floor and sat there waiting for the ghost cat to appear. He was holding my mom’s camera, and I held mine.
We sat there for, like, a real long time.
“This is boring,” said Freddie, finally.
“It’s supposed to be boring,” I said. “That’s why it’s called ghost hunting.”
I must have been getting pretty sleepy, because that didn’t even make sense to me.
“That didn’t make any sense,” said Freddie.
“It did too,” I said, all irritated that he’d noticed. “Maybe if we tried talking for a while, we wouldn’t be so bored and sleepy.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
We sat there in silence for a little while longer, then I said, “What did your dad say when he got home after being locked up in that steamy foreign prison with all those pickpockets and murderers and whatnot?”
“He said, ‘Where did all this friggin’ patio furniture come from?’”
Then Freddie and I did something that we hardly ever do. We talked about stuff, lots of stuff. We even got into some arguments.
I told him something Mr. Bivic told our French class.
He told me about the time his dad took the family to Europe, to visit Octavia, the country.
I told him about the time my dad drove us in a rented RV to the Grand Canyon.
He told me why he always likes to watch the Home Shopping Channel.
I corrected his grammar.
He told me a secret about his sleeping bag.
It was after midnight when Jason came out and said we were making too much noise, and he couldn’t sleep. “I’m going to crash at Lisa’s pad down the hall,” he said. “You can call me on my cell phone if you need me. Freddie knows the number.”
Then he left.
“Is Jason some kind of a hippie?” I asked. “I mean, with that ‘I’m going to crash at Lisa’s pad’ talk, and all?”
“I don’t think so,” said Freddie. “As far as I know, he doesn’t burn incense or wear tie-dyed stuff.”
There we sat silently, just the two of us, in the haunted apartment.
“Do you hear that?” I asked.
“What?” said Freddie.
“That music, it’s kind of like The Shining,” I said. “Remember that movie? The creepy twin girls? The elevator full of blood? The band playing in the ballroom? I can hear the band, can’t you?”
We listened.
“It doesn’t sound like a band in the ballroom,” said Freddie. “It sounds more like hip-hop in the next apartment.”
“Oh,” I said.
After a while, the music stopped. I looked at Freddie, and his chin was resting on his chest. His eyes were closed.
“Freddie.” I nudged him. “Wake up. Keep your camera aimed and ready to shoot. Look alive!”
After that I don’t remember much, because I fell asleep.
At about two A.M., there was a loud thud, and we both woke up.
“What? What happened?” I said. “Wha
t was that?”
“Th-Th-There’s s-s-something in here,” said Freddie, “and it’s b-b-behind the TV.”
I heard something moving back there.
Suddenly, a big black shadow sprang across the wall and landed with a thud in the corner.
We craned our necks forward to see what it was. My heart was bumping around in my chest like shoes in a dryer. I switched on my camera and slowly got to my feet. I crept closer, closer, towards the corner. It was dark, so I reached over and clicked on the lamp next to the TV.
I aimed my camera at the corner where it had gone and began filming. I looked at the monitor. There was nothing there.
I glanced over at Freddie. He’d pulled his shirt over his head. “Freddie,” I said, “there’s nothing in that corner!”
“It jumped there and then it vanished!” he said.
“It was the ghost!” I yelled. “Get up!”
Freddie jumped up and ran around behind the couch, and I was right behind him.
“It’s real! We saw it! What do we do? What do we do?” We were yelling at each other.
“Call Jason,” I said.
“You have to call him,” said Freddie. “I don’t have a cell phone.”
“Oh, right,” I said, “I forgot.” I leaned over the couch and took my cell phone out of my backpack. “What’s his number?” I asked.
He said the number slowly, and I carefully punched each of the keys. We were both breathing hard. My hands were real cold, and so was the back of my neck. The whole room seemed to have chilled. I pressed the last number, a nine, and held the phone up so we could both hear Jason answer.
Suddenly, a shrill sound pierced the silence. We both dove over the couch and tumbled onto the floor.
The sound was music. It was a song. It was “La Cucaracha,” and it was coming from Jason’s cell phone on the kitchen counter.
“Now what?” I said.
“Hmmm, maybe we should answer it,” said Freddie.
“Are you crazy?” I hollered at him. “IT’S US CALLING!”
I ran for the door, opened it, and poked my head into the hallway. Freddie was at my back. The hall looked even scarier than it had earlier that evening, and that one flickering lightbulb didn’t help matters much.
We closed the door and decided we’d be better off inside the apartment, as long as we didn’t go anywhere near the TV, the corner next to the TV, or near anything the ghost cat may have touched.
We decided to lock ourselves in the bathroom and remain there until Jason returned in the morning.
And that’s exactly what we did. We didn’t waste our time in there, though. We took the cameras and filmed each other talking about the experience, sort of like The Blair Witch Project or Paranormal Activity, but on a much smaller budget.
And in a bathroom that wasn’t the cleanest bathroom in the world, if you know what I mean.
THE ANY GIRL AT ALL PROJECT
I was all set for the freshman dance.
Lifting heavy boxes of collectables and eating Miss Sadie’s apple crumb cake didn’t do a whole lot to build up my muscles. So I came up with another way to make myself look big.
I read someplace that in order to make themselves look a lot bigger on camera, a lot of young Hollywood actors used to wear lots of T-shirts under their regular shirt. And I figured if it worked for Warren Beatty, maybe it’ll work for me.
There was a good chance that Brooke would be at the dance with Dalton, but I had a feeling that once she saw me looking all big and buff and dancing with a bunch of other girls, she’d get totally jealous and be all sorry I wasn’t her boyfriend.
I paid for my ticket at the door, and Mrs. Pugh gave me a sheet of paper with rules. There was to be no freak dancing, dirty dancing, or grinding. Boys were to leave their shirts on at all times, and the outside doors would be locked at 8:30 and remain locked until 11:00.
“Excuse me,” I said to Mrs. Pugh, “but why are the doors going to be locked?”
“That’s so no older kids or non-students can crash the party and cause trouble.”
I looked into the auditorium and saw Dalton Cooke by the refreshments table.
“Mrs. Pugh,” I said, “speaking of older kids and troublemakers, did you know that Dalton Cooke is in there? He’s way old, almost seventeen, and I thought only freshmen were allowed at the freshman dance.”
“Oh, dear,” she said, and she leaned over and said something to the lady seated next to her. They kept their voices real low and talked back and forth for a while. Then Mrs. Pugh said to me, “Well, it seems that regardless of his age, Dalton Cooke is registered as a freshman.”
“Oh, right,” I said, “I forgot that he’s making a career out of being a high-school freshman.”
I entered the auditorium and mingled around a bit. I said hey to a few guys I know, and Bethany Weaver came up to me and said, all squinty, “Larkin, you look different.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I’ve been working out a little.”
I saw Brooke with a group of girls. I caught her eye and nodded, then walked away, too cool to linger.
Mrs. Pugh got onstage with a microphone and welcomed us to the dance, reminded us of the rules, and made some other announcements that nobody listened to. Then she left and the music started.
I went over to a girl I didn’t know, but who looked kind of familiar, and asked her to dance. She said okay, and we went at it. She swayed side to side acting all bored like girls do when they’re dancing. I was finding it difficult to move my arms and upper body very much, so I just jumped around until I got tired.
Three songs and three girls later, I was hot, sweaty, and my legs hurt.
My next dance was with a real good-looking girl named Nina. She was taller than me, but I didn’t care. I spotted Brooke with Dalton, so I pulled Nina over to where they were dancing. I wanted to make sure that Brooke got a good look at me with Nina.
When we were right alongside Brooke, I said to Nina, “You’re a good dancer.” Nina nodded, looking like she wanted to be someplace else.
“A revolution without dancing,” I said to Nina, “is a revolution not worth having.”
“What?” said Nina. “I can’t hear you over the music.”
I repeated the line, this time shouting as loudly as I could, “A revolution without dancing is a revolution not worth having!”
“What are you talking about?” said Nina, who sounded very annoyed.
“It’s from V for Vendetta!” I yelled.
“What?!” yelled Nina.
I put my fingers in my ears to block out the music, and yelled at full force, “The movie, V FOR VENDETTA…”
It’s too bad I hadn’t noticed that the music had ended abruptly, because if I had, I would have been aware that the only sound echoing through that huge auditorium at that moment was the sound of me shrieking at the top of my lungs, “VENDETTA! VENDETTA! VENDETTA!”
When I did realize what had happened, I could feel my face getting red. Everyone was looking at me. Nina took a few steps back, then turned and walked away, shaking her head as if to say, “Nuh-uh, I’m not with this fool.”
Then everyone started to laugh: Brooke, Dalton, Bethany, every girl I’d danced with, everyone. It occurred to me that the entire freshman class was laughing at me.
I forced a fake smile and headed over to the refreshments table. Sweat was pouring out of every part of my body. The DJ cranked up the next song, a slow number, and couples went back to dancing again.
I found a chair and downed three bottles of water. I was hot, so hot, but not in a good way, so I decided to take off some of those shirts.
I staggered down the hall to the men’s room. As soon as I opened the door, the first guy who saw me said, “Hey, Vendetta!” Soon every guy in the place was chanting, “Vendetta! Vendetta! Vendetta!” with their fists raised. It was like some kind of a lavatory lynch mob.
I went back into the corridor and tried to open the door to the quad, but of course, it was locke
d. I needed someplace cool where I could lie down.
I finally found it under the staircase and stayed there until long after the dance had ended.
IT’S “TAKE YOUR KID TO WORK ON YOUR DAY OFF” DAY
I was glad it was spring break. I needed time away from school and all the people who’d been at the freshman dance and would right now be reminding me of it.
I was hoping that a whole week would give everybody enough time to forget about it and move on to the next stupid thing done, I hoped, by somebody else.
I was just happy that nobody at the dance had filmed my performance and posted it on the Web. Or if they did, they hadn’t posted it yet.
The other good thing is that most of my friends are not the type of guys who dance anyway. It’s not that they’re losers; they’re just not dance-y types. And from now on, neither am I.
My dad asked me if I wanted to take a ride with him over to the college, and I said sure. It had been raining for the past three days, and I was looking to get out of the house.
On the way, we talked about movies we’d seen recently, and about the Oscars and who should have and shouldn’t have won.
He asked me what was going on with me at school, and I said, “Nothing.” I didn’t tell him about the freshman dance, but I did tell him about this notebook blog I’m writing. He said he’d like to read it sometime, and I said, “No way, I’ll probably never be able to show it to my family, or anybody I’ve written about, including myself.” I told him I was going to put it in a time capsule and not let it be opened for a hundred years.
At the college, there were only two other cars in the parking lot, and the building was, like, totally deserted. When we walked to his office, our footsteps echoed down the corridor. “This would make a great location for a slasher movie,” I said. “You could have a big mutant-type guy with yellow eyes and nasty-looking teeth like he’d eaten too many blueberry tarts, carrying a bloody sword and stalking a beautiful cheerleader.”